I am in love with my flatmate. Even as first-world problems go, I appreciate that this is not exactly catastrophic. My situation is up there with “Oh dear, Uber has got a surge on,” or “I’m in the mood for a Polynesian tonight, but my favourite one isn’t open.” Still, I am in love. And I need to move out.
I should have seen it coming. I’d been nursing a crush on T for years. I fancied him from the moment we met, although at first it was only in the same low-level way I fancy all slightly odd, blond men. Then T had a room going, and I needed a place, so me and my two suitcases moved in. (Because all my stuff is still in storage, while I pretend that one day, I might actually buy a flat.)
We celebrated by going out dancing at a Japanese bar, falling home, collapsing into my bed, then waking up spooning platonically.
After that, the tension was gone. So now, we wander around the flat in our underwear, nursing problems and hangovers, talking about his girlfriends while I epilate my legs.
Because we’re both at home all day, we invent games. We see who can grab the most cappuccinos from Waitrose. We take mini-breaks funded by Airbnb-ing the flat, spending weekends in the country, drinking romantic, fireside G&Ts
Read the full column here: http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/Magazine/article1534455.ece?CMP%3DOTH-gnws-standard-2015_03_21