Last week, we heard the nightmares of living with a party animal housemate, but let me assure you living with a hermit is no fun either. Because here's the other side of the debate.
Every morning, as I pad nervously around our creaky Victorian flat, I feel so unbelievably tense it makes me nauseous. Because I that know that any minute you will appear as if from nowhere in a doorway holding one of my possessions far away from you like it is contaminated.
Our flat might have charming period features, but it also a cacophonous creaky box that you seem to creep around like a spy. That’s why when you do a late-night wee and I hear your farts trumpet into the toilet bowl I don’t feel grossed out, I feel relieved that you’ve made a noise. That you are a fallible, farting human being.
I am pretty sure you’ve not always been like this. When we met six months ago, you were sot of fun. The day we moved in, you came down to the pub and we got inappropriately pissed for a Sunday. We felt relaxed and happy and carefree as we giggled up the stairs together. Why? Because there was no YOU towering at the top of them wearing an awful Snoopy nightie.
I don’t know how it came to this, but it all started to happen when you met The Mute. It was then that you scaled down your entire social life to your bedroom. I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but you’re not talking. Maybe you’re staring blankly at the wall listening to Olly Murs ballads. Cor, you two really like James Blake. You must have the most incredible sex in the world, because I cannot see how you could fancy him. Although, I’ve never actually heard you have sex. Oh GOD, maybe you are having sex to Olly Murs ballads.
When we do occasionally have conversations in the week, you furrow your brow at me like I am a recovering alcoholic. My friends all have better jobs than you, but you talk to them like they’re Lindsay Lohan’s crack dealer. When you did once have your own friend round, it was so awkward I thought my eyes were bleeding. You set up your M&S meal for two and it was obvious you’d been bitching about me. When I walked in, she literally gasped like she was meeting Courtney Love in the flesh for the very first time.
The thing, is I'm not Courtney Love. I am a slightly messy girl in her twenties who goes out four times a week. I like booze and fags (outside the house) and laughing and, yes, I do like banana bread very much, but I wouldn’t bake it every night of the week. I tell you what I like less than your lovely banana bread, the passive aggressive notes you leave in shouty sharpie capitals on the butter. And that weird hovering your boyfriend does in the doorway.
I am sure The Mute is really fun. I am sure you have a great time together, although I wouldn’t know because he's never actually ever said hello to me, so why don't you give up the ghost? Cut your losses. Get down to Per Una, buy yourself a wrap dress and purchase that semi in Godalming you are clearly itching to buy. If living in a big city, with all it entails, is for you is merely a torturous stop gap between buying a Jamie Oliver Tagine dish and a Ford Focus, then just get on with it. The Mute will be SURELY be keen, given how far he’s punching.
We live in one of the most exciting cities in the world. We three blow quarters of our salary a month to stay up all night and live in the buzzing dodgy outskirts of it, but if you have chosen to spend your twenties watching Mrs Brown's Boys on iPlayer while the whole city passes you by, more fool you. This town will always be too noisy for you.
If you want to read the article that sparked this defence, it's here: An open letter to my housemate the party animal
Follow Lucy on Twitter @lucyannhancock
Picture: Rory DCS
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.