The Landlady & the language mix up

It has been a busy weekend at Landlady Towers. On Friday evening, a new student arrived from Kuwait. I was mildly alarmed when the bus-sized taxi deposited a bus-sized man and three storage-container-sized suitcases outside my house. He looked rather like Matt Lucas in a black wig and is probably about 50 years old. He was virtually waxen when he’d climbed the five flights of stairs to his bedroom. Although it was hard-going, I managed to single-handedly haul his luggage up the five flights before he’d managed to summon up the breath to protest.

Once my new lodger was installed, I went to see Miss T in Lewes and spent Friday night drinking wine, eating kebabs and dancing to Blondie in Miss T’s Kitchen. As Saturday morning dawned, we felt in need of a Bloody Mary and the day proceeded in a slippery-slope-like fashion, ending with me on the 7.30pm bus back to Brighton. It would have been fine, had The Big Daughter not been holding a farewell party starting at 8pm, of which I was an integral part. She’s off on a round the world trip, so we won’t see her for a few months. By the time the first guests were arriving, I was still in the shower. Moreover, a huge amount of Taj carrier-bags bursting with fruit and veg had mysteriously appeared on the kitchen table. Even worse, all the booze had been taken out of the fridge, to be replaced by a huge bag of Halal chicken.

“He filled a bowl with the fruit he’d bought ‘for me’ and took it to his room”

I suspected that the shopping was the work of my new lodger and, being as he was nowhere to be found, dispatched The Small Daughter to deposit the fruit and veg under the kitchen table where it would not be trampled by the party guests.

In the middle of the party, another of my lodgers moved out, as he had an early morning flight back to Saudi. Unfortunately, as he was carrying large bags, some of the more drunken party guests thought he was a burglar and tried to waylay him on the stairs. This was rather embarrassing as he’d just given me a bottle of whiskey and some Quality Street as a farewell gift.

The following day, as I was clearing-up after the party, my Kuwaiti lodger ambled into the kitchen. Using sign-language, as he appears to speak no English, he asked where his fruit and veg were. I gestured under the table. He took a couple of the bags and gestured that he had bought them for me. He opened the fridge and indicated that the chicken was also for me. After an awkward conversation, where I spoke pidgin Arabic and he did sign language, he filled a bowl with the fruit he’d bought ‘for me’ and took it to his room. So now I’m in a dilemma as to whether to cook the chicken or not…