I just moved in with my boyfriend and he’s stealing my socks.
He’s stealing my socks (despite having a ‘Sock Drawer’, said the manner of mums everywhere) and he’s not putting the veg in the Vegetable Drawer and I, Sock Provider, am getting irrationally angry about it.
I had plenty of warnings before we took the plunge with our new flat two weeks ago. I was told that I would end up doing all of the housework, which I laughed off smugly in belief that we are a Super Modern Feminist Couple who don’t *do *gender roles, babes, and anyway I’m not that great at it and someone will have to do it, and that post-sex cuddling would definitely go out the window, which I didn’t really mind because I’m not really that into it anyway.
And since we’ve been together for three years - and were best mates for years before that - I knew about his bad habits. Like that he leaves his wet towel on the bed (standard) and, inexplicably, sometimes likes to challenge himself to carry a full spoon of sugar across the kitchen without spilling one grain when he’s making a cuppa. He hasn’t won yet.
Nobody said anything about illogical sock dilemmas. Nor did they tell me that you might have a full blown argument about washing powder (I SWEAR I don’t even care) or that you might have a little surprise cry when they use your hairbrush without telling you forcing you to go to work with unwanted product in your hair.
But aside from the minor set-backs, there have been some perks. Like the fact that I never have to hear the question ‘Zoe, why is there a bra on your desk?’ asked by an editor when I’ve mistakenly emptied too much out of the suitcase handbag I used to carry around when we were living between two places. Also we split the cost of wine which is magical and there’s always cheese in the fridge. And by far the greatest accomplishment so far is that now, I own one half of a proper, working, snazzy toasting machine with five settings and an emergency eject button, just in case. Could be worse.