The Time of Our Lives. Portia MacIntosh

our third year of uni, we decided that it would make more sense for our friendship group to rent one big house together, and not only has it worked out cheaper, but we’ve got this massive house, with loads of space for hanging out together and throwing parties. We only finished moving in four days ago, and thought it might be fun to take it in turns cooking for the house.

      ‘Just try it,’ Clarky insists.

      Mark ‘Clarky’ Clarkson has been on the same course as me for two years now, and while I might have lots in common with the others, Clarky isn’t really someone I’m overly taken with. He’s one of those ‘lad lad lad’ types, always ogling girls, making sexist comments, thinking he’s way smarter than everyone else when really, he’s only getting through his BA by the skin of his teeth. Clarky is from Liverpool, and has a strong Scouse accent that can almost always be heard yelling at some video game or other. He isn’t very tall, but what he lacks in height, he more than makes up for in self-confidence.

      ‘Just because you say it’s a dish, doesn’t mean it is,’ Matt points out.

      Before Clarky has a chance to reply, Ed arrives home.

      Ed is the only housemate who isn’t studying media; he’s studying to be a doctor, and while we might all be around the same age, Ed feels like a real adult. He’s old beyond his years – he even looks older, but I think that’s because he dresses like a middle-aged man in addition to acting like one.

      ‘How’s the grind at the board game shop?’ Matt asks Ed the second he walks through the door.

      ‘Boring?’ Clarky suggests, cracking up at his own joke.

      Ed works tirelessly to pay his way through uni. One day, when he’s a rich doctor, it will all have been worth it, and no one will be making fun of him because he spent a summer selling board games.

      ‘I’m starving,’ he says, sitting down. ‘You guys didn’t have to wait for me.’

      ‘We weren’t waiting for you,’ Matt laughs. ‘We were waiting for Clarky to explain what it is.’

      Ed, who thinks he’s somewhat of a culinary expert, finally looks down at what we’re having. He just laughs.

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry we didn’t all bring cookbooks to uni with us,’ Clarky claps back.

      I have to admit, I did find it a little bizarre that Ed moved in with no less than four cookbooks, but that’s just Ed.

      ‘I made a leg of lamb with all the trimmings,’ Ed reminds him.

      He did, the night after I cooked, and it made my efforts seem as amateur as they were.

      ‘So … is it a salad?’ Fiona asks.

      Fiona ‘Fifi’ Rees is our resident Welsh lady, and the only other girl living here. We made friends on the first day of uni and we’ve stayed friends ever since. We shared a flat together last year, before we decided to get somewhere bigger with the boys this year. I love Fifi because she’s just this bubbly, blonde, bright light that’s a real pleasure to be around. She’s the optimist that I need in my life, to stop me acting like everything is all doom and gloom. She’s got a will-they-won’t-they thing going on with Zach. I think we all wish they’d hurry up and get together, but Fifi isn’t convinced he’s all that into her, and Zach seems to have an aversion to girlfriends for some reason.

      ‘It’s a sort of salad,’ Clarky replies.

      ‘I was going to make salad,’ Fifi says, sounding a little annoyed that Clarky has beaten her to it.

      ‘Your salad will be better than this,’ Zach assures her.

      Her salad might actually be salad, this is not a salad.

      ‘Ergh, get a room,’ Clarky says. He doesn’t have much patience when it comes to Fifi and Zach’s flirting. ‘It’s surf and turf.’

      Everyone burst out laughing.

      ‘Bollocks,’ Ed replies.

      ‘Why is it so spicy?’ Matt asks, coughing and spluttering after bravely taking a bite.

      ‘I put chilli in it,’ Clarky explains.

      ‘Amazing, that it’s killing my taste buds and yet still tastes awful,’ Ed muses.

      Clarky repeats his words back to him, mocking his Cambridgeshire accent.

      ‘I’m not good with spicy stuff,’ I say politely. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Well, Luca, you have blue hair,’ he tells me. ‘So I don’t trust your taste anyway.’

      I push my plate away a little, to emphasise that I’m not eating it. What on earth is he thinking, serving us fish fingers and beans with sausages, laced with copious amounts of chilli, on a bed of salad. Baked beans on salad!

      ‘My mum used to make it for me,’ Clarky tells us.

      ‘Well, you should have been taken into care,’ Zach tells him.

      With the general consensus being that we’re absolutely not eating it, it isn’t long before we decide to order pizzas. Clarky, adamant that he is a cordon bleu chef, eats not only his own plate of food, but makes a start on someone else’s too.

      We abandon the formality of the kitchen table to eat pizza and watch Anchorman in our massive living room. After initially refusing to watch it with us because we wouldn’t eat his mum’s recipe, Clarky has had a change of heart and sat down with us after all.

      ‘That’s your culinary career down the pan,’ Matt tells him, persisting with the teasing after most of us have let it go.

      Clarky bats his hand.

      ‘As if that’s what I’d want to do,’ he insists. ‘I want a job that impresses women.’

      ‘Like?’ Matt asks him.

      ‘I dunno, like a pilot or an astronaut or something.’

      ‘You won’t meet many chicks in space,’ Ed points out.

      ‘You shouldn’t be studying media then, that’s not gonna get you far,’ Zach tells him.

      ‘So, Clarky reckons he’ll be a pilot, Ed is gonna be a doctor,’ Matt says. ‘What about the rest of us? Personally, not to set my sights too high, but I’m gonna be the next Steve Jobs.’

      ‘I wanna work in film,’ Zach says.

      ‘Me too!’ Fifi squeaks. I notice Clarky roll his eyes. ‘What about you, Luca?’

      ‘Erm,’ I start, wracking my brains. The truth is that I’m not entirely sure yet. ‘Maybe advertising.’

      ‘Boring,’ Clarky heckles.

      ‘Who do we think will be the first to get married?’ Fifi asks.

      ‘Ed,’ we all reply, pretty much in unison.

      ‘And the last?’ she says.

      Everyone says Clarky’s name, apart from Clarky who simply points at himself with both fingers.

      ‘It’s hard to imagine us as real adults,’ Fifi muses. ‘Some of us more than others.’

      ‘Stop talking over the film,’ Clarky insists.

      ‘Sorry,’ she snaps. ‘I didn’t realise Will Ferrell was so important.’

      ‘Do you really think we’ll grow up?’ Matt laughs, glancing between this slice of pizza that’s sitting on his lap and the dumb movie on the TV. ‘Well, I mean the rest of us – Ed is already grown up.’

      ‘We’ll know Ed has properly grown up when he has kids,’ I point out.

      ‘And we’ll know you’ve grown up when you get over your daft punk phase and stop dying your hair stupid colours,’ Clarky tells me.

      ‘I