How my palace caretaker became my nemesis

My earliest fantasies as a teenager did not involve Li Shang Mulan, and not even that good bad Phoebus, Esmeralda’s boyfriend, but really… a lock. This dark object of desire that allowed us to do whatever we wanted in our bedroom without our parents so much as a glance.

Intense masturbation, reading after midnight or just indecently messing up the room: the lock made everything possible, especially privacy.

At Castorama or Bricolex, sometimes, at 12 years old, I dared to cast a languid glance in their direction, without either my mother or father ever giving in to my cooing. So it was that people entered my room like a mill, obviously ignoring my profound suffering: that of never having FUCKING PEACE.

Luckily the years passed and one day I had my own apartment. Then I was given a set of keys that contained enough to lock not one, not two, but THREE locks.

The equivalent, in fantasy terms, of a gang bang with the crème de la crème of contortionists. I was living a dream.

Unfortunately, I learned the hard way that intimacy is not a common concept for everyone, and especially not for everyone my babysitter, who has a duplicate of my keys…

I thought I was finally at peace, I was wrong

It’s been just over a year since I lived alone in a luxury apartment north of Paris, on a small hill in 18^And arrondissement — a bohemian neighborhood where no one eats gluten and where everyone queues in front of the temporary shop on rue Montcalm, when it is rented by a seller of cheap succulents, to buy a human-sized cactus.

Montmartre is neighborhood life, and it’s not uncommon to say hello to the local bookseller’s bartender when Covid allows us free movement.

Happy to pay too much rent to be among the elected representatives of the cool corners of Paris, I spend delightful weeks on my cobbled street, living well beyond my means.

My daily life is even more enjoyable as I live alone for the first time.

The feeling of being the sole owner of my space (even though I was a tenant) was initially so orgasmic that I sometimes spent the evenings alone simply drinking a large glass of red wine sitting on my parquet floor, looking at my rugged old door, satisfied knowing that no one would disturb my peace.

But life, like cinema, always puts a nemesis in our path, which will be eager to intertwine our ovaries well.

Mine has white hair pulled back into a skimpy bun, half-moon glasses and an otherworldly voice.

My guardian, my nemesis

I have never been afraid of snakes or serial killers, but I am afraid of Madame Claudel to the point of developing more elaborate plans than in the past. Ocean’s 8 throw away my garbage without crossing it.

And for good reason: as soon as he sees me, he screams a torrent of accusations, opening his mouth so wide that, I’m sure, he could swallow me all at once, in one fell swoop!

Here are the charges against me:

• I would stay up with friends until 10.30pm (ouhlala) according to the magnetizer on the third floor, door on the left.
• The Berber carpet resting peacefully on my balcony is in “bad taste” according to the lady in the building opposite (true).
• I would have slammed the front door once, in February 2020.

In short, I am the enemy to be defeated, not only for my guardian but for the magnetizer, the lady in the building opposite and the police who slam the door.

Today, when I go down to the grocery store, I put one ear to the floor of my entryway to make sure no one is in the entryway, and I go out in socks, only putting my shoes on once outside so as not to make any noise. my guardian leaves his tavern.

I live in fear. I feel like Mesrine.

At first I stood my ground and most importantly resisted my oppressors. But now that the confinement has made us even more hostile towards each other, I have become a real vicos. Those who suffer organ raids as soon as they knock on their door.

And I’m not exaggerating.

My babysitter comes home without telling me

You’re probably telling yourself that these little conflicts between neighbors are commonplace, and you’re right: in big cities where no one tolerates the noise but does it more than others, it’s almost fashionable to complain about the tenants around you. we.

Of course, but… there are “scrupulous neighbors” and “scrupulous neighbors”. Those who don’t say hello in the elevator, and then those who aren’t afraid of anything.

This is the case of Madame Claudel, who does not shy away from any eccentric solution to establish her kingdom. Yes, because one thing you need to know about our bespectacled guardian is that she is convinced that the entire building is her habitat!

This is how, during a nice lunch break in November, I found Mrs. Claudel IN MY LIVING ROOM where she had entered without warning me using duplicate keys.

While I was trying to take a nap, I even heard a stentorian voice commenting on the terrible state of my window. The person had simply gone home, thinking I was away, with the guy who fixes all the building’s problems, to examine my window. Naked, shocked, I shouted:

— I’m in my room and in my underwear!

To which my guardian simply replied, without the slightest shame: ” Ok, I’ll close the door! » After a few comments about my questionable way of cleaning, she left as she came: noisily.

Mute, in my underwear and rather shaken by this unexpected intrusion, I hesitated between going down to face my nemesis or thanking the heavens for having a person on my way who would take care of the repair work for me.

Because let’s be honest, I would NEVER take the initiative to call a guy to tinker with my window. I already don’t have a Navigo Pass…

My babysitter washes my panties

A few weeks later, after spending pleasant birth days at my mother’s house, I returned home to pick up the mail. Mrs. Claudel, who could clearly see her nose pressed against her living room window, opened the door as soon as she saw me enter.

“Miss, I brought your packages to your house. And since it was a mess, I took the opportunity to do some cleaning and started a car. »

Stunned, I hesitated between two contradictory thoughts:

• She had come home AGAIN without telling me, violating my privacy (and the law).
• It was still nice of him to wash my clothes, especially since I hate laundry.

Then I stammered a thank you, I told her that she didn’t have to do that, that it was up to me to take care of my insides, but she replied proudly:

“Go and see, it’s never been so clean!” »

Once home, I noticed that the apartment was really spotless and that my panties had been meticulously hung on the tancarville using clothespins.

This time I felt less animosity towards my guardian. Sure, that person had entered my house without warning me about sticking his nose in my dried love juice… but at the same time, it was the first time my apartment smelled like Mr. Clean’s skull.

And honestly, who likes building cars?

I began to find a whole new charm in my nemesis: the charm of people doing things for you. Who knows, maybe he even knew how to do accounting? Maybe he could have also ordered me a Navigo Pass, since I’m afraid of RATP meters…

The time has come for comparison

Recently, Mrs. Claudel has faced some other fools of the same taste, like telling me to make dozens of donuts for an obscure street party he’ll throw as soon as lockdown is over.

I understood then that I was experiencing what strongly resembled a barter.

Ten pairs of lavender-scented panties for about thirty sugar donuts. A process as old as time, which should suit each of us.

Yes, but lo and behold, I’ve weighed the pros and cons and the mess doesn’t seem 100% right! Especially because running the donut stand means hitting the street party, with the police banging the doors, the ministry of tasteful carpets and the Sunday DIY union.

A perspective that enchants me on average.

Even though my legendary laziness and animosity for Soupline have almost gotten the better of my common sense, it’s time for me to restore balance to the universe by rethinking the concept of intimacy with my guardian.

Barter, in any case, is so -6000 BC!

It is forbidden to enter people’s homes without their consent.

It is also appropriate to relocate the church to the center of the town: the law firmly prohibits anyone (without our consent of course) from entering our home.

According to article 226-4 of the penal code:

« The introduction into another’s home to help with maneuvers, menaces, actions or deeds, in cases where the law allows them, is punishable by one year of emprisonnement and 15,000 euros fine. Staying in someone else’s home following the entry referred to in the first paragraph, except in cases where the law allows it, is punished with the same penalties. »

However, the law allows, in some cases, according to the Justice.ooreka website, some people to enter your home: the owner (in very specific cases), bailiffs (with executive title), mandated workers, forces law enforcement, firefighters or administrative agents.

In other words, Ms. Claudel cannot enter my house without my consent. Too bad for my pants and for the inhabitants of my street: I won’t be running the donut stand this year!

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