Alternative title, "No news on the Kiwi."
I achieved a milestone at work recently, and Miss Q, one of my beloved flatmates, celebrated by bringing home 2 bottles of champagne for me. I was extra happy, because my boss also gave me a special bottle of champagne, which I proudly put in the fridge for a quieter moment.
Miss Q and I went out that night, and drank the 2 bottles between us. She carried on long after I was in bed. The next morning I was having breakfast with Miss P, when we heard quiet (and multiple) footsteps creeping down the stairs. A sleepy Miss Q was trying to sneak a dishevelled boy out the front door, and they were sprung.
With a blush and a rush, she said, "Girls, this is Doggie. Doggie, these are the girls. Ok bye." And the front door clicked behind the hastily retreating Doggie.
Q came into the kitchen sheepishly, where P and I were doubled over in a fit of giggles. "Um..." she said. "I think we drank someone's bottle last night."
Of all the bottles of wine we have in the house, inevitably she had chosen the special one from my boss. I would not have cared if they drank the house dry, but that one meant something to me. It wasn't the value of the bottle that bothered me, it was the value of the sentiment.
It was awful. She felt guilty and sorry, and I felt guilty and sorry for making her feel guilty and sorry.
In the end, it was easily fixed. Bottle replaced, apologies made, and cuddles enjoyed. It was one of those situations that I wish never happened, but when I think about it, it seems obvious, and I shouldn't have been surprised. If there is one thing in the house you shouldn't touch, of course that is going to be the only thing you want. The forbidden item has an undetectable yet irresistible attraction.