Returned home from work today to find a pair of soiled underpants in the hallway and Ray asleep on the toilet. I wanted to turn on my heel and walk back out but my conscience couldn't cope with it. What if he choked on his own vomit? Not only would there be a dead friend in my flat but I doubt if the agents would renew my contract (last year they were grumbling about a small crack on the washing powder dispenser drawer so lord only knows how they would feel about a messy death in the lavatory). With that in mind I woke Ray up. Cleaned him up, I'll spare you the details, and sat him down in the kitchen with a hot sweet tea and a fresh change of clothes. He kept muttering about how thankful he was but all I could think about was how much I enjoy my own company these days. I wish he would leave.
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