London, The Cleaners pt. 1

During my junior year of college I lived abroad in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, South Kensington, London. Sounds fancy and it was, sort of. Princess Diana, lived at the end of my street, but we also had an elderly, semi-homeless drunk couple, who drank tall boys from brown paper bags on the steps of the neighborhood church. We never knew what their names were, but their terrier was named Tommy. The man screamed Tommeee, Tommey, Tommey in between swigs of beer. His wife was a sad woman, who often had black eyes.

Our section of South Kensington was also the foreign student ghetto. The block was full of townhouses converted into hostels, budget hotels and dorms. There were a few actual homes dotted in between. Lycee Francais Charles de Gaulle was down the street. Lourdes Leon was a student while we were there. We were hoping for a Madonna sighting, but all we got was Hugh Grant. Hugh Grant was a big deal then. He was the talk of the town. We heard rumors of him being nasty to fans, so we didn’t approach. We just whispered behind his back in the corner store, while he bought skittles.

My dorm was filled with the United Nations. The majority of the students were from Japan, but there were also students from Hong Kong, Bangladesh, Nigeria, Belarus, Russia, Jordan, Pakistan and us, the Americans. By the second month, it didn’t matter where we were from, we were all partying together.

Our second night in the dorm, the school hosted a meet and greet boozer. The Americans, Zohair and Maen went as a group to the party. I hadn’t been in London that long, but I was drunk for most of it.  This night was no exception. The alcohol flowed freely at the school sponsored function and we all got a bit rowdy, including the Dean.

The party ended at 9, but our crew wanted to continue the celebration so we walked back home with the addition of a straggler named Muhammed. Zohair had promised to let him sleep in his dorm room.  When we got home I went to my bedroom, which was right off the front hall. Muhammed followed me talking non-stop. Everyone else dispersed to their bedrooms to drop off their stuff, before we continued the party in my room. Let’s just say I got played. No one came back and Zohair conveniently locked Muhammad out of his room. Muhammed and I banged on Zohair and Maen’s door, but no one answered.  Which is how I ended up with a leather panted overnight guest, whom I barely knew.

Muhammed continued to talk non-stop. While he was rambling on, I laid my duvet on the floor, so he would have somewhere to sleep. Apparently, the threat of sleeping on the floor is the only thing that could get his attention. He immediately started complaining about his back and how he couldn’t sleep on the floor. His back would be a nightmare the next day… blah blah blah. I being the naïve girl said fine, you can share my bed.

In addition to his leather pants, Muhammed was also wearing a silk shirt and square toed boots. He was decked out in his 90’s finest.  It was a little too much, even for back then.

I made some ground rules for sleeping in my bed.  They are as follows.

1.  He had to take off the weird leather pants.

2. He had to sleep over the sheet, but could sleep under the duvet.

3. There would be no touching of any kind.

Muhammed took off his leather pants and his silk shirt, to reveal his tighty whities and wife beater undershirt. He turned out the lights, got into bed and almost immediately fell asleep. Muhammed snored so loud, the bed vibrated.  He was also not a restful sleeper, so I spent the night being shoved up against the wall. He rolled on top of me a couple times and I thought I was going to suffocate from the weight. He was a hefty kid. Frustrated, I kicked him hard in the back a couple of times, but he didn’t budge or skip a note of snoring.  I finally fell asleep as the sun was rising. About twenty minutes later, I awoke to a commotion in the hallway. There was a lot of screaming and banging and I didn’t recognize the voices. I also didn’t really care, I was exhausted. Muhammed was still snoring.  Suddenly, a tiny English woman who looked like she belonged on the cast of East Enders came bursting through the door screaming “Time to change your sheets.”  She had a cigarette hanging from her lips and a polyester dayglow smock over her clothes.  I kicked Muhammed in his back, trying to rouse him from his snoring slumber. He finally woke up startled and jumped out of the bed in his tighty whities.  She screamed “Cheeky Monkey” and wagged her arthritic veiny hand at me. Muhammed was trying to get his leather pants back on, but leather is not something you just jump into. It’s more of a grinding motion.  She continued with “I know what you were doing last night.”  I denied it, which only made her laugh harder. This was the beginning of my relationship with the cleaners at 86 Queensgate.