The Parent Trap

When my housemates and I first looked around the house we now call home, we couldn't believe our luck. For a large 4 double bedroom end-of-terrace house in London's Zone 2, with a garden, patio and not one but two reception rooms, the rent is cheap (for London, that is). Sure, it has creaky floorboards and the decor was pretty basic, but for just £85 each per week, we were mad not to snap it up. So snap it up we did and after the inevitable wranglings with the incompetent estate agency staff, we eventually moved in, took a trip to Ikea and spruced the place up lovely. Dreaming of happily ever after, we promptly set about planning the housewarming party...

Then we met our landlord, Mr. N, for the first time. On the face of it, he seemed nice enough, if a bit slick. Sharp suit, Craig David-like trimmed facial hair, an Audi with a personalised numberplate. Cool. "Hi girls, nice to meet you, here's my number if you need to call me and here's my bank details so you can transfer your rent into my account". Straight to the money talk, but that was to be expected, I guess. "By the way, my parents live next door and the garden out the back belongs to them. You can use the patio though".

Er, what?!

Number one: Mr. N's parents live next door. This was bad news. Were they going to spy on us? Would they complain about noise? Would they rat out on us if our boyfriends stayed longer than a couple of nights or if we didn't put our bins out on time?

Number two: that's our garden! The estate agent used it as one of the many selling points of the house and, more importantly, we had grand plans for a vegetable patch! Patio schmatio!

The housewarming was off.

What could we do? It's unusual ethics but Mr. N owns both houses so I guess he can allocate the outside space however he likes. I suppose until the summer arrived (just a mere week or so ago) we didn't really miss the large green space to the rear of our property anyway, but now BBQ season is here, all we want is a nice sit down on the lawn and perhaps a spot of croquet. No fair.

So imagine our surprise when, last Monday, we returned home from work to find a big white marquee covering not only the lawn-which-is-but-isn't-ours, but also our beloved, sacred patio! Not just a tent, but two of those enormous catering marquees they use for weddings and the like, not just on our patio, but completely blocking off our back door exit as well as covering the window to my housemate's downstairs room. On the hottest day of the year so far, she'd probably miss the ability to open the window for some air, not to mention the total lack of privacy.

Now, it turns out that the marquee was being used for a funeral wake (so I felt a bit bad. But only a bit), and it was only up for a couple of days, but the fact that we were not asked if it was ok to put it there, nor even warned that it would be there and for how long, and for what use, is just downright rude. My housemate summed it up perfectly when she phoned Mr. N to complain and he replied with a very unconvincing "Oh I'm sorry, I told them not to put it there...". In her words, "Yeah right, he was probably beating his chest and crying tears of blood in lament for our lost living space".

Ugh.