Most of our relationship consisted of arguments that would erupt suddenly, viciously. Generally over fairly minor things (i.e.
Me: (picking up phone) Hello?
Kittie: Hey, what's the name of that noodle place that cooks things in those over-sized woks on Bridge Road? Was it Noodle Box?
Me: Noodle World.
Kittie: I'm pretty sure it's Noodle Box.
Me: It's Noodle World.
Kittie: Noodle Box!
Me: It's called Noodle World goddamn it!
Kittie: You're an idiot!
Me: YOU'RE the idiot!
Kittie: Grrrr (hangs up phone).
Me: (to no one) Noodle World!*) which would make waiters duck for cover, taxi drivers to head into direct traffic, ushers to raise the fire alarm- depending on where we were at the time.
So why would she even think to invite me to live with her despite the fact that the wounds from our relationship was still fairly fresh and that my very existence annoys her? You bet her friends asked that very same question. They never liked me. Even my friends questioned her sanity at this decision. For her, the fact that I was sleeping on friends' couches or in flea-bitten Backpackers was too much to bear. Even though I can truly be a son-of-a-bitch some times. And she didn't want me to spend months going to house interviews conducted by an endless succession of losers or serial killers or vegetarians.
For me it seemed like the makings of a trite sitcom, the kind of lacklustre show pitched at a lowbrow audience during non-rating season. The sheer monotony of the script (slobbish ex-boyfriend lives with a clean-freak ex-girlfriend. Hilarious! Watch as he spills Coke down her favourite top! Gasp as she reacts by clubbing him to death with a frozen leg of lamb!) would be peppered with a liberal amount ofcanned laughter so the viewers will know how to react.
*Turned out that we were both right. There is a Noodle World and a Noodle Box on Bridge Road.