Amuse bouche... Flat food

Scott watched Ailish for a few minutes before he said anything. He wasn’t long in the door of the shared house, and he was having his pre-dinner cereal.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked.

“Putting away my messages,” said Ailish. Her tone implied that this was obvious and sure of course it was. Scott knew she was putting away her messages, but it was both easy and mildly entertaining to annoy Ailish.

It had become a house hobby since Scott, Ailish and three others he’d half known in the student halls last year, moved in.

“But what are you writing?” asked Scott.

“I’m writing a note to all of you,” Ailish said. “I’ve done some of my Christmas shopping, like, a box of Celebrations, and you’re to keep out.”

Ailish had been the one to put each of their names on the doors of their individual food cupboards, and she was completely paranoid that the others were all secretly dipping into hers.

To be fair, Ailish’s paranoia was justified. She had the best food, after all. Like, if she went home for the weekend, she came back with proper dinners. In plastic tubs, so she could freeze some of them and have lovely mammy dinners for at least a week.

It was Ailish’s mammy’s handwriting on the tub labels. ‘Ailish’s spag bol — keep out!’

Ailish hadn’t licked it up off the road, but the labels and stickers had got a bit out of hand.

Ailish had stickers on everything, and they were getting more elaborate.

There were ‘put me back in the fridge’ Post-its on the milk.

She had her own separate giant plastic tub in the fridge and had her name in black marker on her cheese, butter, yoghurts, even individual eggs.

Scott had drawn faces on her eggs last week. Sad faces. Ailish hadn’t been impressed, but, god help her, she’d tried to laugh.

She’d been grand when they first moved in, a bit uptight, but grand. She’d got very upitty since the night Scott and one of the other lads came in half-cut and ate her chilli.

Not that they’d owned up to it, or ever planned to. It had been lovely. They’d been glad the chipper was closed.

They’d tipped her over the edge. The running joke was that they were going to get her new Post-its for Christmas.

Scott lifted his bowl to drink the last of the milk. Ailish was still writing.

“You’re taking a while to write ‘keep out,’” Scott said.

“I’m writing that I’ve counted the sweets,” said Ailish.

“Good idea,” said Scott, who had already been plotting how to get the tape off and the tub resealed without her noticing.