Flatmates, Foxes & Fire Alarms

London, Jamie was beginning to realize, was many things: ancient, beautiful, impossible to cross by bus in less than an hour, and—most dangerously—home to the oddest collection of housemates known to urban anthropology. The first clue had been Raj’s bookshelf: split evenly between encyclopedias of minor Tube stations, a vegan cookbook published in 1978 (“Minus the sexism, mostly”), and, most disturbing, a coffee-table book entitled "Taxidermy Without Tears." The second clue was, of course, Doris Appleby—who, that first Sunday morning, had appeared outside Jamie’s bedroom wearing five cardigans, balancing a tray of teacups, and hissing, “There’s someone doing downward dog on the landing. Shouldn’t think the Queen would stand for it.”

The flat, battered by centuries and a spectacular lack of insulation, had a rhythm all its own. The pipes rattled like bones in a biscuit tin. Somewhere in the walls (Doris swore it was a poltergeist, Raj insisted it was next door’s tumble dryer), wailing would start up when anyone ran a tap. The kitchen was roughly the size of a broom cupboard, painted a shade of green best described as “compost-adjacent.” It housed an impressive collection of communal mugs, not one of which matched, and at least seven different varieties of tea bags—though only one, Doris explained in a low, scandalized voice, was "fit for human consumption."

Flatmates, Jamie quickly discovered, operated on a spectrum.

Raj was nocturnal. He did his best thinking, yoga, and Airfix modeling between midnight and three a.m. He also kept an adoptive collection of dust bunnies under his bed, whom he insisted were 'emotionally attached.' His lentil curry was famous in the building, mostly for reasons best left unexplored.

Doris, on the other hand, seemed to know when anyone so much as thought about a change in routine. She appeared at odd hours in the corridor, sometimes humming wartime songs, sometimes declaring someone in the building had ‘trouble with their wiring, poor love.’ Jamie couldn’t tell if this was physical, emotional, or electrical. It was always true.

The flat’s other wonders included Megan from two floors up (who never locked her door and was forever losing her cat) and Gavin, who communicated exclusively in post-it notes about the hot water timer. The initials on the notes, it later turned out, did not match anyone in the building.

But the real introduction to London shared housing came on a Thursday evening—the night of The First Dinner Party.

It began innocently: Jamie, emboldened by a week of not setting tea towels aflame, announced they’d cook dinner. “A proper meal. Like, from a recipe.”

Raj grinned, dangerous. “I’ll get my emergency cayenne.”

Doris looked hopeful, eyes glittering behind her bifocals. “If there’s mash, I’ll do you a reading with the potato skins.”

Dinner, as it turned out, would be both a social experiment and a test of the building’s suitability for human life.

Jamie had a plan: roasted veg, a lentil bake (“Hearty but not tragic,” said the food blog), and, for dessert, a pre-made crumble stolen from the reduced section at Tesco. In the hour before dinner, they discovered the oven had moods.

“Might come on strong at first,” Raj warned, sip of ale in hand, “but don’t worry, she settles after about twenty minutes. Unless you call her names.”

The oven retaliated by first refusing to heat up, then launching into an unholy roar. Meanwhile, two orange shapes began circling outside the back window. “Foxes,” Raj grunted, peering out. “They run the bins round here.”

No sooner had Jamie slid the baking tray onto a slightly tilted rack than the first true drama of the evening exploded onto the scene.

Crash! Bang! An unearthly yowl, precisely halfway between banshee and indigestion, echoed from the yard below. Jamie, lured by curiosity (and the haunting stench of urban wildlife), opened the back door. Four foxes—bold, ruffed-up, shifty as pickpockets—stood arrayed around the bins. One bared its teeth, snarling through somebody’s leftover kebab.

The foxes, unperturbed by human presence, carried on their assault. Doris, soup ladle brandished like a broadsword, appeared over Jamie’s shoulder. “They had my knickers last week! Saw ‘em gallivanting near the postbox. I’ll not have it again.”

More lights flicked on in flats up and down the street. The foxes, recognizing their cue, put on a show: scattering bin bags, tossing apple cores, and—Jamie could swear—synchronizing their entrance into the neighboring garden with a remarkable sense of comedy timing.

Raj wanted to film it for Instagram. Doris threw a potato at the ring-leader and missed, starting a chorus of half-asleep applause from Number 45.

The opera of bin chaos reached its climax as the largest fox, sleek and scarred, paused at the garden gate, looked Jamie straight in the eye, and sneezed. With a final, disdainful twitch, the troupe trotted off, leaving behind only destruction and the mournful squeal of a hundred split bin bags.

The neighborhood, twitching from windows like actors at a dystopian panto, began shouting wild advice. Someone screamed, “Get a dog!” Someone else, “Have you tried garlic spray?” and a mysterious third voice wailed, “They’re council property, you can’t destroy them!”

Doris, shaker of fists and much of the neighborhood discourse, herded Jamie and Raj back inside, muttering about the glory days of proper fox hunts (on telly, with David Attenborough, not in her actual back garden).

Jamie returned to the kitchen, the oven now producing heat somewhere between ‘glacial tundra’ and ‘surface of Mercury.’ The lentil bake protested its treatment by bubbling over in slow, sticky waves, and the room began to fill with what could only be described as ‘vegetarian defeat.’

Undeterred, they plated up.

Dinner was… a journey. Raj chewed with exaggerated consideration, declared, “Nutritious! Maybe… challenging?” Doris mashed, grinned, and started telling a tale about her cousin’s run-ins with a gang of South London chickens.

Halfway through, a low, urgent beeping began. The fire alarm.

At first, Jamie assumed it was a phone, or perhaps a new and creative delivery notification. But the beep quickened, volume rising. Within seconds, klaxons joined in—a proper, full-scale building evacuation symphony.

Raj leapt up—"It’s the oven! She does this. She’s vengeful!"

Within moments, the corridor erupted in a sea of people. Megan in fluffy slippers. Gavin with a toaster under his arm. Doris, triumphant, bundled her handbag, three cardigans, and a reluctant Jamie into a tide of neighbors flowing into the cold London night.

On the street, chaos bloomed. Residents in pajamas and coats, clutching cats, cowering under umbrellas. The foxes, defeated by bin larceny but clearly winning at mischief, watched proceedings from a safe distance.

Firefighters arrived—a heroic trio in high-vis jackets, led by a woman with a soothing Northern accent. “Someone been experimenting with late-night cooking?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

Raj pointed at Jamie, who looked mortified. “First week in London. It’s a test.”

The fire brigade inspected ovens, opened windows, declared no lasting damage, and agreed that anyone cooking lentils deserved both sympathy and, perhaps, pizza.

Back inside, the flat was smoky but intact. Cheers broke out as the alarm was silenced, and Doris handed everyone a mug of her very strongest tea—a mysterious concoction that tasted of comfort and possibly aniseed. Megan found her cat, Gavin lost his toaster, and the bins (briefly) regained their composure.

Later, in the battered front room, smoke hanging delicately among the pigeons-in-drag mural, Jamie apologized again. “I swear, next time—I’ll just order takeaway.”

Raj raised his mug. “To nightly chaos, and to the new chef. Fox-tested, fireman-approved.”

Doris, sliding a plate of mismatched biscuits across the table, clapped Jamie on the back. “You’re one of us now. Everyone has a fire alarm their first year. Even the foxes.”

The laughter rose, wild and tumbling, as outside in the garden, the shadows of foxes danced and the city—magnificent, damaged, and altogether human—hummed on into night.