There is a simple rule common to most student households (and for that matter, any household inhabited entirely by recent ex-students or stoners). This rule is simple in its interpretation and often extremely harsh in its execution. It is based in roots of practicality and common sense, and yet still some people choose to debate it. There is no debate. The rule is this:
IF YOU GET UP, YOU LOSE YOUR SEAT
What’s to debate?
This rule, at least in our student house in the second year, originated in the fact that there were six people sitting around listening to music and sharing a drink or a smoke in the evening, but only two comfortable seats. One armchair, which allowed the user to curl up foetally and nod off, and one large beanbag, which was uncomfortable and troublesome until the user learned the zen secret of beanbag mastery - to recline into it at 45degrees rather than pretending it was actually a chair. Sneaky.
Other seating arrangements in our living room ranged from the vaguely acceptable (institution-like leatherette bank chair) to the not-very-pleasant-at-all (floor), and so competition was fierce for the two prized pleasant places. But the rule was simple. If you got up from your seat, whether you were esconced in armchair heaven or getting a numb bum on the floor, you lost your seat - you lost the right to park your behind there, especially if someone else covetted the spot more. And that was that. Didn’t matter if you were going to the loo, to answer the door, to reach for the remote, to make a brew for everyone, to the off-license - if your arse vacated that seat for more than a few seconds, it was fair game, and someone could pounce on it. Harsh, maybe, but fair - and common practice in student households up and down the country.
One night at the beginning of second year, a bunch of us were sitting round chatting and doing basically nothing. I think there must have been seven of us there - the six usual housemates, and Lara, the slightly kooky girlfriend of one of the lads I lived with. Lara scared me, because she had man-hands and a terrifyingly earnest and penetrating glare. Since I mostly only met her at the end of an evening, when I was slightly the worse for wear, she inspired unrational paranoia and worry in me, and so I tended not to spend much time in her company, though I was sure she was a very nice girl really.
She was curled up in the armchair and I was on the prized beanbag, with everyone else on the floor or other seats, glowering at us with jealousy. There may have been a film on the telly - I can’t remember, because what happened next occupied my attention entirely, in a traumatic fashion. Suddenly, Lara piped up.
“If I go to the loo now, will somebody steal my seat?” Everyone nodded and grunted affirmatively. Absolutely. Those were the rules.
“But I really need the loo. Really really really.” We shrugged and pointed out the key seating rule again.
“But I’ve had a really hard day at uni,” she continued, “and I’m really really comfy in this chair…” No sympathy was forthcoming. Sam, her boyfriend, pointed out kindly that if we hadn’t been about to steal her seat before, we most certainly would do so now.
She pouted. She pleaded for a bit. She asked again. Nothing doing. We were utterly unsympathetic and all equally ready to pounce the moment her bum left the chair, especially now she’d made a fuss about it.
She glared at us, reached for her pint glass of water, which she drained while fixing us with her cold eyes. We looked on, unmoved.
And then, unthinkably, she crouched on the chair, unzipped her jeans, pulled them down and proceeded to pee in the pint glass, right there, perching on the armchair, with all of us watching incredulously, a defiant gleam in her eyes.
My jaw dropped in astonishment. Sam turned bright red. Mike muttered “bloody ‘ell” and the rest of the room was silent, save for the ongoing noise of liquid tinkling into a pint glass, which seemed to last for an unnaturally long time.
When she finished, she zipped herself up and placed the brimming glass on the mantelpiece beside her chair, settling down again to watch the film, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
We looked at one another with raised eyebrows. What. The. Fuck?
A moment later, Sam got up, shaking his head. Lara grabbed the glass, and profferred it towards him - “Sweetie, could you empty this for me?” - he gagged, visibly, and shook his head before he left the room.
One by one, we followed him, drifting off to our individual rooms, no longer interested in the film or the stealing of seats, still vaguely shaking our heads, trying to dislodge the mental image which remained of a girl, clearly barking mad, relieving herself in our glassware.
I still find it difficult to drink out of pint glasses at home.
