Exeposé Lifestyle online (28 October 2014)
At first glance I’m probably the least likely person to write a “housemate horrors” story. In our all-girl crib, the past few weeks have been jammed full of cosy Bake-Off sessions, solidarity over the slugs in the kitchen, and blissfully few arguments or niggles. But something’s been happening in the kitchen after night falls. Something far more terrifying than the slugs. Oh yes – we’ve got a sleep eater.
It started with the biscuit spread. You know the stuff. This food is orgasmic. Which was why I’d been saving it for that super special lunchtime. So imagine my horror when, after a lengthy run one morning, I cracked open the Biscoff to discovered that roughly three quarters of the tub had vanished.
Immediately, self-doubt flooded my mind. The guilt threatened to overwhelm me. Surely I hadn’t eaten this? I must have done. But how? And when? Rational thoughts followed, as I realised that – uncharacteristically, I’ll admit – I’d not actually returned home in a drunk enough state to do something like this. Not in the past fortnight, anyway.
Immediately the housemates were gathered, and questions fired, in the hope that somebody would own up – but to no avail. Biscoffgate continued to dominate thoughts and conversation for the rest of the evening. We were in shock. Who would do this? Who could do this, without being violently sick from sugar intake? With no answers reached by bedtime, it seemed the mystery would remain just that.
The morning after, the house was still reeling. However, we had to move on. As they say, there’s more to life than biscuit spread. Begrudgingly, I picked up the jar of cashew nut butter I’d started last week (I challenge anyone to have a more Exetaah sandwich filling in their cupboard). You can probably predict where this is going. My beloved butter had been (you’ve guessed it) cruelly spooned away by some mysterious presence.
This was getting terrifying. I’ve yet to find another living soul who likes cashew nut butter – so of course all fingers were now pointing at me. But I knew I was innocent. I was at least 97% sure of it, anyway. The plot thickened when my housemate set out to enjoy her chocolate orange fruit nibbles. Finding the packet torn open and the contents half gone, she quickly discovered how it felt to be on the receiving end of this atrocity.
So there you have it. A week on and we’re still no closer to finding answers.
I’m hereby appealing to anyone out there who’s gone through something similar – where do we go from here? Marking cupboard door handles? Setting booby traps? It seems cruel, but we simply can’t go on living like this. We need answers. Biscoffgate is tearing us apart.
One thing’s certain – whoever’s scoffing in their sleep here has expensive taste. But aside from that… well, only the slugs can know for sure.
Image: Wikimedia Commons