Hellooo? Flatmate?

Here's the thing. You were supposed to be back by last weekend. I'm sure of it, because I wrote it down in my diary when you told me. After all, I'm a bit of a flake with dates. I'm pretty sure you also told me that your new contract started on Monday, as in "the Monday after the New Year weekend Monday". But you're not here. I mean, some of your stuff is here, but you, yourself aren't. You aren't answering emails, or your phone and none of your friends I've bumped into have heard from you. So I'm a bit concerned.

I'm also worried because your on-and-off again Czech boyfriend with limited English appears to have dropped by expecting you to be around. At least, I think it's your boyfriend. Otherwise I'm going to get nervous about strange men slipping notes under the front door that say, "Hi you want pub tonight? I am home here now. I am missing crazy hair." By the way he didn't put this in an envelope, fold it or even address it, so please don't think it's an invasion of privacy.

Anyhow, I am worried about your safety and health in general. I'd love some reassurance. Because I have a very vivid imagination. And putting on my slum landlord hat, here's the other thing. You owe me rent. I mean, I was cool (really, I was) about you paying me when you got back from your holiday. I understand the banking issues - I've been there myself. But that was when I thought you had a flight and a reason to come back by a certain day in January, and you're now at least 5 days later than that and it's just deathly silence from your end.

The thing is, I'm not your parent or your older sister, and I don't want to play the heavy. I mean, you seemed pretty straightforward, albeit somewhat vague about the practicalities of life. But not everyone knows which way of a saucepan is up, and why you shouldn't open the washing machine door mid-cycle, even if you just wanted to quickly add the Top You Absolutely Must Wear Tomorrow. I appreciate there is a learning curve with these things. And you only did it three times, and you mopped the floor and everything. So I appreciate that it could be that events have just taken over and you've ended up in the remote jungles of Brazil up a tree house with no mobile reception, internet or telephone.

But I think you owe me some contact at this point, even if it's a postcard delivered by carrier pigeon. Because let's face it, in the dark of night, when thoughts of budgets and such begin to dance in my head, I'm also starting to wonder at what point I can justifiably turf your room out, stick up a new "for rent" sign and flog all your stuff on eBay.