In our flat we have a disgrace jar. Each time we 'disgrace', we have to pay a pound. The current money inside is from the following:
Jack, on the first night in the flat, cut his penis open on his girlfriend's frayed coil and dripped blood all through the flat. It went everywhere.
First drunk night in the flat, Milli and I got through lots of wine. And then played Arrogance. And then I vommited all the stir-fry and noodles into the bathtub. And blocked the bath. And flooded the bathroom.
Luke slept with Amy. Three times. And with Charlotte, once.
I slept with Dukie, and Henry. (On separate nights)
So there should be eight pounds in there now.
Today, my mother and father disgusted me. They swore SO MUCH about nothing. It was dust that they swore about. Then mother swore about father swearing about dust. It was ridiculous. And following my horrific realisation that I'm too much like my father, I've decided to act upon this: I'm stopping swearing, and every 'slip up' costs me 50p into the disgrace jar.
Jack's happy, because he plans on buying something 'nice' when its time to empty it. It won't be full until there is about £300 in there, I reckon, so I don't know what would make us open it early. Maybe when Jack moves out...
Either way, the Disgrace Jar is the metaphor for forgiveness in this flat. Pay the premium, and all will be forgotten... supposedly.