This Is Not A Fetish Story

When you live with six other people there is bound to be some unpleasantness in the bathrooms — the multi-coloured magical pube carpet that forms if one is not vigilant about sweeping; the girl downstairs that doesn't wait around if her handiwork needs a second flush.

Earlier this year civil war broke out when a flatmate insisted on blowing her nose while in the shower. Every morning at 6.45 on the dot I'd be awoken by the godawful sound of crusty things being prised loose from nostril walls then propelled into the public domain by a torrent o' snot, no doubt hitting the tiles and annointing the shower curtains. It was so loud you could hear it downstairs in laundry with the washing machine on.

My sister is a woman of action, and following the Multiple Occupancy Code of Practice, she took the appropriate form of action: she wrote a note.

In an ideal world, seven people living together would communicate. Perhaps there'd be a monthly meeting in which to air petty grievances before they escalated. But no, if you're not happy with the state of the kitchen, you bang a lot of pots and pans around at midnight and slam some doors then dash off a quick letter.

There's been notes about the back door being left open, the bin not being emptied, and Ancient Relics of the Refrigerator. I have noticed that the following items have been in the fridge for some time and are taking up valuable space. One tub of Utterly Butterly, one jar kalamata olives (half empty), three Laughing Cow cheese triangles, one bottle of Corona beer… [and so on for twelve paragraphs] You have until September 18 to identify these items as your own by simply initialling on the list below

September 18 arrived and noone had laid claim to the mould-encrusted delights. Instead of chucking out the offending items, the UN Chief Weapons Inspector edited her note: I have extended the deadline for one (1) week but if I see no evidence of ownership I will take further action. 

Rhi and I resisted the urge to write SWEET FLAMING CHRIST ON A BIKE, JUST THROW IT ALL OUT, YOU DICKHEAD! Instead, we removed the stuff ourselves, pointedly banged some pots and pans about whilst yelling, "SWEET FLAMING CHRIST ON A BIKE, WITNESS HOW EASY IT IS TO THROW IT ALL OUT, YOU DICKHEAD!" Then I nicked the bottle of Corona.

Anyway, Rhi's note on the bathroom door was a masterpiece. She wasn't about to publically shame the culprit, she gave them opportunity to quietly cease their disgusting behaviour. But in response we found the note shredded in the bottom of the bin and (perhaps not uncoincidentally) they moved out a couple of weeks later.

Being a lover of quality souvenirs, I retrieved the document and on cold rainy days it amuses me no end to reassemble it over and over like a jigsaw.

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The replacement flatmate does not blow her nose in the shower, however often communicates in strange hi-pitched mumbles. This mimics the tone of real speech but sounds like the incomprehensible babble of those claymation shows on the ABC in the 1980s. You know, balls of plasticine that roll around and their eyes fall out and stuff. Thus conversations with the flatmate, let's call her Morph, go like this

SHAUNA:  Good morning!

MORPH:  Gmmf Mrrifmrrf!

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So very early this morning my thimble-sized bladder was calling out for relief, as it does of a morning, so I shuffled sleepily into the bathroom. I knew what I had to do and there was enough sunrise leaking through the frosted glass door not to need the light on – I have inherited The Mothership's loathing of wasted electricity. Once finished and flushed I was about to totter back to the cot when I noticed there seemed to be something in the toilet. I reluctantly switched the light on and peered into the bowl. Wedged on the bottom, all limp and pink and lifeless, was a BRA.

I ran screaming back to my room.

SHAUNA:  I just peed on a bra!

GARETH:  You kinky bitch!

After discussing the breasts of my assorted flatmates, we concluded that due to the daintiness of the garment that it must belong to Morph. Anyone else's and the plumbing would have choked on the hefty underwires.

How and why the bra got there remains a mystery. At first I thought as the pee-er that it was my responsibility to fish it out, but Gareth convinced me that if you're stupid enough to use a toilet as an underwear drawer then you take certain risks.

Hours later as I lay awake groaning, "I peed on a bra!" and mentally composing a politely worded note, I heard some scuffling and splashing in the bathroom and next time I checked it was gone.

About Shauna Reid

Ahoy there! I’m Shauna, an author, copywriter and content mentor. I love telling stories about life and helping others to tell theirs.

Find out more about me and how we can work together – I’m now booking for August 2020.

28 thoughts on “This Is Not A Fetish Story

  1. Hmmm… “Pussy”, “Peed”, “Bra”, “Breasts”, “Shower”…

    Yep, it’s official… Google’s gonna have a heyday with this one!

    Awesome writing, as usual Shauny!

  2. Ohh, Rhi has pretty handwriting!

    I think, re the bra-peeing incident, what a person doesn’t know won’t hurt them. And besides, if they’re going to fish a bra out of the toilet bowl, and proceed to NOT wash it before wearing again, it’s their own fault, right?

  3. Very funny shauny :o)

    After sharing a big house with 6 others whilst living in London – I still gag thinking about the big nasty clumps of hair & gunk that would be stuck in the drain at bottom of the shower. Ewwww

    I hope she turfed that bra! who would want to keep a bra that had toilet gizz on it??

  4. In Soviet Russia, *bra* pees on *you*!


    The last time I had a roommate — which was overseas — he was actually very good about things, as was I, and we would routinely check and doublecheck with each other to make sure that our individual habits were not getting on each other’s nerves. After all, we shared a room that was about 12′ x 12 at the most.

    Mind you there was the one time when I came up to the room just as he, clad only in boxers, was disappearing into the washroom down the hall — and our inside doorknob was *sticky*. I was all “what the?!” and closer inspection made me certain that it was just what I feared. I charged into the washroom after him where he was occupying one of the stalls: “You! You were jerking off, weren’t you!” I shouted at his feet, which was all I could see of him.

    “No, what are you talking about?”

    “You were! You were jerking off and you got your SPUNK on the DOORKNOB, and I got it on my HAND, and you’re in there right now cleaning yourself off!”

    “Um, no I’m not, no–”

    “YES yes you are! And I’m not gonna tell everyone, but that IS your jizz on the fucking doorknob, you tool! AND my hand!”

    His denials got feebler until they had basically stopped, and I washed my hands for awhile. After that day it became an in-joke between us — I didn’t give him any more grief about it because I knew that one day he might catch me in a similar way; and, any road, the doorknob was never sticky again… possibly because he was lucky enough to hook up with a few girls in town, stewardesses mostly.

  5. ah! the joys of roommate-dom, which i have recently escaped. nobody says it better than you! a note is the quintessential form of communication between roommates. i took note that these notes only ever appeared after WEEKS of banging around in the kitchen; loud sighs of annoyance, and slamming doors. of course the notes were all too polite for the situation, and always included a cleverly underlined word that was meant to convey all the hurt and anger.
    i remember my reply to one note left above the kitchen sink, “are these YOUR dishes?” the reply: “NO” (boldly underlined).
    what a world i have escaped from, but i do miss it from time to time.

  6. This has to be one of the funniest and well written blogs I’ve come across in a while.

    I love the way you deal with everyday thing we all have to deal with.Your writing brings them alive.

    I’m so grateful kimbofo referred me. Count me in as a regular.

  7. why was that bra there? am I stupid, am I missing something? did it just fall off the shower rail? did another flatmate dump it there?

    you’ve got to find out for me, Shauny, or it will contribute to my inability to comprehend the weird world around me…

  8. Ugh the bush hanky must exist in every country!! Wonder what it’s called there??? (Apart from gross!!) The Highland snort?

  9. hey there shauny! its been a looong time since ive checked out your journal (not since you first went over to scotland!).. i still remember our icq conversation about the couple who lived across from you ‘going at it’

    speaking of ‘going at it’, hanita, i believe thats what the roommate in question was doing in the bathroom to lose her bra in that manner. the toilet is a reasonably private place when you’re drunk and cant wait. especially on holidays.

  10. Funny stuff, as usual, thanks Shauny.

    On a side note of ‘blog ettiquette, is it good manners to comment when I visit? Or does that assume a false level of familiarity?

  11. God

    I just wrote THE funniest, most cutely amusing comment that this site has ever seen. Then previewed it. Then closed the window. Poof. It has now dissapeared forever. I’m going to try to recreate it, but keep in mind, that like any sequel, it could bear little relation to the original, and may not be as good. (this, by the way, is a fun game to play, Sequels that were Better Than the Original. Not too hard, but then try to play Third Movie better than the Second. Much more challenging / film geek)


    here goes:

    I’m with Hanita. Not entirely, but sort of. You see my question revolves not so much around HOW said brassiere ended up in the urine receptacle, but on what thought process Morph went through in order to be moved to retrieve it.

    I know, personally, that I lose/misplace stuff all the time. I know also that I have been known to play the game of “damn, maybe i put it ‘somewhere safe’, i’d best check in some highly statistically unlikely locations” and end up looking for my car keys in, say, the fridge.

    I have NEVER, however, in all my puff (notice the TOPICAL scottish slang there, stolen with aplomb from trainspotting), thought to myself “damn, where are my car keys, maybe they’re in the dunny”. I HAVE dropped my mobile phone in the toilet, but that’s a whole nother story.

    So what happened? Did Morph know that she was sans over the shoulder boulder holder? Did she have a flash of inspiration “damn, my boobs feel free! Why’s that? Oh! I don’t have a bra on! Where did my bra go? Oh! Maybe it’s in the WC!”

    Or is something more sinister going on?

    Only time will tell.

    On a lighter note, I’m hoping it’s ok to pimp my site here. I don’t think anyone reads these comments anyway. Read my site, it’s about my wife and I having a baby. It’s well cute, and I’m trying like a bastard to get a book deal, so come and visit, or condemn my child to a life of poverty.

  12. There are several things that are nice about flatmates (referred to as “roommates” across the pond). For one thing, if the passive homebody hooks up with slightly more active (and perverse) flatmates, there’s always the possibility of sex — in the most extreme cases, there is of course the unexpected (sex with other flatmates, wearing of underwear, crisply ironed or urinated upon, water sports and cavity exploration with the flat mascot, and so forth); in lesser cases, there’s the social networking advantage that the flatmate offers. For example, Flatmate Bob knows Friend of Bob Carol who in turn knows Carol’s Flatmate Rhonda, who is jonesing for a cherub-cheeked 26 year old who likes walks in the park, movies starring Matthew Broderick and regular massages followed by gingerbread men nibbled off a belly operating as a surrogate desert plate (no hands permitted).

    In other words, the flatmate’s advantage has been frequently overlooked by sociologists and the commonweal alike. Much of this has to do with “moralistic” inhibitions (in name only) that are frequently unleashed in this, the most frightening and puritanical of epochs. To which the scientist must reply, “If only more people asked around….”

  13. I thought the flatmate thing was all behind me but then I went and had a baby and am now realizing it can happen again only now you’re related and can’t ask him to leave ‘cos he’s only one years old and it will go on like this for …….twenty years!!!!!!!!!!!!

  14. I’ve come off relatively lightly, flatmate-wise, though I did have one who used to make tuna and sweetcorn pasta as a snack every day, eat exactly half, and leave the rest sitting around to harden. Not a major sin, but if it happens every day… Why didn’t she just make half as much? Of course I never asked her. Never even wrote her a note.

    I think flatmates’ significant others are worse than the flatmates themselves… and I’m pretty sure my boyfriend’s flatmates would have agreed. (I managed to burn a saucepan that didn’t belong to me on two separate occasions. Oops.)

  15. I used to have a flatmate who over used tuna and all fish products.

    She used to make wierd dishes like Mackerel Satay. (Very wrong). Used fish in every dish. (Not an exageration). And also used to open a tins of tuna and use half and then put the tin back in the cupboard.

    Very disturbing.

  16. Oh my gosh… you have brought back all kinds of fun roommate memories!

    Bottom line: people are very weird.

    I would also love to know how the bra got in the toilet. haha

  17. Mackerel satay? Yeurch.

    Smelly food choices are definitely not the way to a flatmate’s heart… the smell of burned garlic has just come to mind. I thought I’d buried that one for good… (The memory of the smell, not the flatmate, with whom I’m still on speaking terms.)

  18. Oh my GOD. Her note was SO polite! I have to admit to having a torrid past in which I was a writer of evil notes. In the end I even wrote a note to say I was moving out. Now, when I get wistful for my sharehouse days, I just think of all the suppressed angst, and how all my cosmetic-y bits and pieces used to disappear far more quickly….I never peed on a bra though.

  19. Ah thankx Shauna I just had the best laugh at this.
    You really are a cracker at this writing lark.

    Me scottish (glasgow though) and spent the last bloody long time living in Melbourne where I met billyjoe noodle bob, who I think is one of your fans too.

    ta for raising a smile on a very dreech day.

    Pol x

  20. reminds me of the days that i lived in the ‘house from hell’ during my final year of uni. Notes were left all over the place. We never confronted each other. We tried it once and it wasn’t pretty – yelling, screaming, hair, etc.

    My fave was left over the kitchen sink by the skanky ex-coke addict/stripper/hooker.

    It said…

    “Rinse and stack or I’ll twist and snap!”

    It was written in bold red letters.

    It was only up on the kitchen wall long enough for the rest of us to have a giggle at, and then it was promptly moved to the garbage. 🙂

  21. This reminds me of the year I spent living in London in the late 80’s. 7 of us were renting a house in Slough from a cheap Pakastani bastard who rarely if ever fixed things when they were broken.

    The kitchen floor actually had carpet in it, and unbeknown to us, there was a small hole in the wooden floor underneath the carpet.

    In the warmer weather of summer, several thousand maggots decided to crawl up said hole and raise an entire suburb of maggot families underneath the carpet in our kitchen.

    They must have been there for weeks before a few of them decided to venture out of their world in to our world “above the surface”.

    I’m so glad I lived with boys, because they had to pull up the carpet and kill the thousands of maggots that were living under there. If they’d just stayed where they belonged, we wouldn’t have been the wiser and they all could have lived.

    Instead, we murdered the township of Little Maggot Slough and I can’t see a maggot now without almost vomiting (and now you won’t be able to either!!).

    If you haven’t shared a feral house with a few strangers in your lifetime, you really should do it. It’s way more entertaining than Big Brother.


    Girl, Please, please, PuhLEEEEZE tell me you’re a gonna write a book !!! Yes, DO IT!!!!!

    Think about it, you could be famous and appear on CNN with Greta Sustern and like, come to NY and go drinkin’ with me and the girl and sign a first edition all for me.

    do IT!

    This is by far the funniest stuff I have read in my many months of coming herer. Remember how I found this blog? I googled “Strange creatures” or something like that.


  23. HAHAHA

    I like your blog! Can i “link you up”?

    I’m gonna go to school next year and will most probably be sharing a flat with 4 other people.. i hope no one pees on my bra! 😀

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