My current housemate moved into my flat with a single, cabin-sized holdall. That was it. That was the entirety of his belongings.
It estimated by the Office of National Statistics that over 855,000 UK households are made up of two or more unrelated adults. And, frankly, they can’t all be banging each other. Which means that, unlike the 3.3 million UK adults between the age of 20 and 34 who were living with their parents in 2013, or the 4.1 million women living on their own in 2012, quite a few young British women today must be living with a male friend. And not – I repeat, not – banging. So, what’s in it for them?
Well, living with a man is brilliant, for more reasons than minutes it takes the microwave a Rustlers burger, but their lack of belongings is high on the list. Now, I know what you’re thinking – ‘Stop being so heteronormative!’ Stop making such fatuous distinctions based on gender which is, after all, just a social construct!’ ‘Men have hampers full of ugly soft furnishings and unread books too!’ Guys, it’s fine. I know. I know that. But this is just an opinion piece, based on my opinion, formed from my own experience. And if that rings true with you then great. If it doesn’t then that’s great too.
Right, now we’ve got the housekeeping out of the way, let’s get down to housekeeping. I am not a terribly tidy woman. By which I mean, when I lived on my own, I would put my dirty dishes in the oven instead of cleaning up and hid my dirty knickers in a coat pocket because I didn’t have a washing machine. But every time I have lived with a man they have been brilliant at putting things away. Putting things in other things. Maybe it’s Freudian. Maybe it’s just useful. But it certainly makes my kitchen look a lot less like a car boot sale than it used to.
Talking of car boot sales, every woman I have ever lived with (and there have been quite a few) has been a straight up sucker for a second hand bargain. As a result, my flats and houses have often looked like the back end of a charity shop. Which is a delight of course, but it’s quite nice as I hit my third decade to be in slightly less hectic surroundings. Gone are the occasional tables, gone are the stacks of coats, gone are the faux antiques, the tablecloths, the scatter cushions, the unwatched films and the unlistened-to records. Don’t get me wrong – it’s hardly an ascetic monastery. We have a piano. We have towels. We even have (after just a few weeks of sitting on the floor) a table. But it is decidedly Spartan by comparison; strangely calm.
One of the other great benefits I have found from living with a man who’s not my main lay is that you have a 24-hour, on-site male perspective. This is useful if you happen to be straight and need someone to explain what an ‘I’m busy’ text actually means (a question that has garnered more confusion and speculation over the years than the existence of an afterlife). But it is also useful, whatever your sexuality, to have a man around just to run things by. To get an opinion that may inform, challenge, or contradict your own; to get an insight into a different brain chemistry; to ask someone if your make up makes you look like Noel Edmonds; to learn about things the women in your life may ignore and to expose yourself to a culture that is not your own. Last night, for instance, my male housemate sat me down and explained the time signatures of various mid-90s fairground pop hits. A previous male housemate used to explain to me in quite obscene detail how different producers achieved certain drum sounds. I’ve also lived with men who took the time to draw diagrams of how sound is transmitted through record players, how guns work and how the invasion of Poland was advanced. No woman I’ve ever lived with has done this. It’s not that women can’t do this, of course. Many of them probably do. I just don’t happen to know any.
My male housemate also – and sorry if this comes as a shock – doesn’t menstruate. Unlike my own hormone-swayed mood, his feelings are, largely, predictable. He is also tall enough (and kind enough) to get rid of the cobwebs, change the lightbulbs and hang the odd picture without scraping a stool around the flat. He doesn’t steal my clothes (that I’ve noticed) or break my handbags by filling them with shampoo and ornaments he’s stolen from hotel bathrooms. He doesn’t clog the drain with enormous amounts of long hair and I don’t have to worry all that often that the people I fancy will fancy him more than me. I mean they might – he’s a babe – but we don’t look all that alike.
Oh, and finally, at least now my incredibly nosy neighbour probably thinks I’m in a happy relationship. Albeit one with separate bedrooms and at least one major instance of infidelity. But hey, you can’t have it all.
Like this? You may be interested in:
Things You Only Know If You Live With Your Sister In Your Twenties
Follow Nell on Twitter: @NellFrizzell
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.