My friend has been finding it hard to find a place to live over the last few weeks. He emailed today to inform me he has moved into a new place with two gay men. His house mates are in their mid to late thirties. Far be it for me to consider mid-thirties old, but my friend is more than ten years younger than his co-habitants. My mate is the type of guy that likes to head out on the piss on a Saturday night, bring back a gang of friends (and sometimes “randommers”) to share a can of Heineken over loud music. I cannot see this going to too well with settled professionals. I thought I should share my opinion:
“I don’t think you will be having too many people back to the house after a night out,” I wrote to him in an email.
“They seem OK. They said they have a fair few sessions themselves,” was his reply.
“You mean a cherry before bed counts as a session?”
“What do you mean by cherry?”
“I mean a glass of cherry. I don’t even want to think of what you misconstrued that for …”
“Do you mean a glass of sherry?”
“No, I mean a glass of cherry.”
“It’s spelt S-H-E-R-R-Y,” he responded within seconds.
I was confused. I Googled “glass of cherry”. I got some obscure matches. It was bloody obvious I’ve been spelling it wrong all my life. I cannot believe I always thought the fortified wine was spelt C-H-E-R-R-Y.
It’s moments like this one feels a little inadequate for the world.