**Diary Entry The Quiet and the Persistent**
I almost laughed when I saw the listing: *Room to let. No dogs. Includes grandmother.* I nudged my husband, James. “Lookits near your office. Fancy a viewing?”
“Sounds dodgy,” he muttered, glancing up from his laptop. But we went anyway.
The flat was in one of those old conversionshigh ceilings, cracked sills. Vera Thompson answered the door. Pin-straight posture, silver curls, sharp eyes. “Come in,” she said. “Move-in today, if you like, but mind the rules: no noise after nine, kettle off by eight, hot water only on Fridays. And buy your own slippers. I wont have strangers creaking about.”
“What if we need to cook?” I asked.
“Breakfast seven to eight. Lunch after three. Dinner by seven. No midnight snacks! And dont lock the bathroomsafety first.”
James nearly turned on his heel, but I smiled. “Well take it.”
So began life with Vera.
At first, it was almost charming. Mornings were Bach and cocoa, her vintage photos lining the hallVera in uniform, Vera at a ball, Vera in Africa with her late husband, Vera with her cat, Mittens. (Dead since 99, but her bowl stayed.) “So refined,” I whispered.
James scoffed. “Refined? She banged the wall when I used the hairdryer. Called it bourgeois racket.”
Then came the new rules. A loo schedule. Wednesday “sanitary closures.” Mandatory evening check-ins. “Youre under my roof,” shed say. “Ill know what air you breathe!”
By month three, James rebelledkettle at half eight, sausages sizzling. Vera stormed in. “Dinners by seven!”
“We pay rent! Well eat when we like!”
“Verbal contract, young man. Break it, and out you go!” A wooden spoon flew.
“Were leaving!” James snapped, stuffing his rucksack.
But that night, I found itthe same ad: *Room to let. No dogs. Includes grandmother.* Same photos.
A call came next morning. “Hello, Im enquiring about Veras room. Have you moved out? Whats she like?”
Turns out, we werent the first. Tenants lasted three months maxpaid first and last months rent, then “breached the rules.” No refunds.
“Its a scam!” James groaned.
“Did we even have a contract?” I realised. Our transfers were labelled *grandmas help*.
That evening, we confronted her. “We know your game. You swindle people!”
“You ruined it! Why touch Mittens dish? Why ignore my rules?”
“No contract, but weve got receipts. Well take you to court.”
“Court? Against a granny?” She clutched her pearls. “Shame on you!”
“Play stupid games” James smiled. “Refund us, or we staykettle on all night.”
Silence. Thena first. She bargained.
“Fine. Buy my share. Clear the debts. The flats yours.”
Three months later, papers were signed. Vera moved next door. “Youll visit?” she asked. “Ill bake scones.”
“Only if we lock the bathroom,” James winked.
So we got our homeand a grandmother on retainer. Scones arrived weekly. The kettle boiled at midnight. Peace.
Until the knock.
A lanky lad with a guitar, pink cap, grin. “Im Archie. Veras grandson. Here to crash a bit.”
Vera beamed. “My Archie! A musician! Hell *brighten* the place!”
Brighten? Try *blare*. Midnight strumming. Shower concerts. Zoom calls at full volume. Vera cooed: “Youth must be free!”
“Free in a *communal flat*?” James fumed, shoving in earplugs.
Day three, I snapped. “Vera, we work. We need quiet.”
“Art cant be caged!”
“Then cage it elsewhere,” James muttered.
Archie scoffed. “This place has no *vibe*. Youre stifling creativity!”
War recommenced. Towels stolen. Kitchen hijacked. A note appeared: *Owners not human*.
Finally, a “house meeting” was calledjust us, Vera, Archie, and Mrs. Higgins cat.
“Youre suffocating this home!” Archie raged.
“We pay bills. We clean. We *respect*. If thats suffocating, tough,” I said.
The cat meowed. No resolution.
Next morningArchie vanished. No note.
Vera looked small. “I just didnt want to be alone. Archie never stays. But here its almost family.”
“Familys fine. Chaos isnt,” I said.
She nodded. Produced scones. “Cherry today. No strings.”
And just like thatpeace. Kitchen shared. Noise curfew at eleven. Scones on Sundays.
Now when folks ask, “You *live* with some old biddy?” We grin: “Yeah. *Our* biddy. Give her timeshell stop testing you.”
“And pay the leccy bill,” James adds.
But its love, really. Even the midnight kettleno wooden spoons flung.
