“I’m a grown woman. I don’t have to justify how often I want to clean my sheets to anyone, do I?”
“I’m sorry, other customers are waiting. Do you need a carrier bag?”
And so ends a rant to whoever will listen about my housemate Claire.
It started with a fish supper I’d postponed for a colleague’s leaving drinks, instead inviting Claire along.
“What about the fish?” she asked, an hour in.
“We’ll do it another day,” I said. “It’d be rude to leave. Anyway, I own the fish, the fish doesn’t own me.”
And there it was, her expression: disappointed-with-a-hint-of-repulsion. Soon it filled our home; anything or anyone that was not as she would have it would suffer the shame-inducing face.
“Claire, do we really need a rota for fortnightly window washing?”
That face.
“Coco, I wash my sheets every Saturday if you wanna put yours in.”
“I don’t do my sheets every week.”
That face.
Imagine living without uptight housemates. Owning a London studio is a fantasy, but that won’t stop me fawning over a microapartment from Pocket Living. These tiny homes the size of a tube carriage are cheaper than a regular one-bed (£256,000 in Kingston) and aim to make up for their footage with plenty of natural light and storage, in desirable neighbourhoods. But their size does mean you can never have a flatmate. You won’t see me complaining.