TITLE: Tales from the War Table
No one was quite sure how the War Table began, it was lost long ago in a miasma of half smoked cigarettes, early morning regret, and head crushing hangovers; although everyone remembered the exact moment it ended.
Several housemates lay claim to naming the War Table and had accompanying stories of varying believability to back it up. Some were apocryphal, one was an outright lie and one would only be possible with a Winston Churchill impersonator.
The end came crashing down on the housemates two months into my tenancy at Argyle Street. The day started, as always, around the kitchen/War Table. It ended with tears, incrimination and --- parked between the fridge with the dodgy door and the ironing board that no one could ever unfold --- a bulldozer. This came as a great surprise to everyone, except the bulldozer. It seemed indifferent to the whole debacle.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Before the ‘dozer, the War Table, the walks of shame, the drug binges, the stolen police car and before the infamous vomit punch, there was Claire. Claire was everything I ever wanted in a woman, except for the cheating. We shared eight years of what I thought was a happy, if not brilliant, relationship. It’s a pity she slept with my dentist. She didn’t even have the common decency to sleep with her dentist. I had to move out, start over and find a new dentist. As a protest I didn’t floss for a week. F*** him.