When I told my sister I’m moving her first comment was “oh my god, not again, how many addresses have you had now? I can’t fit them all in”. To which my answer was the same answer I always give; “write my address in pencil!”. She then asked exactly how many places I’ve lived in since leaving home almost 13 years ago. I couldn’t give her a number off the top of my head, but now that I’ve had a think, here it is: 18. This number encompasses over 55 flatmates.
Highlights include: the house with 2.5 bedrooms and a changing cast of 12 flatmates, the house on Kings Road with the mental resident caretaker who offered to slice me up, the one in which I met the man I lived with for 5 years, several pubs (where I acquired a temporary case of landlord’s disease) and the one which I had to move out of when the ‘landlord’ got out of jail and required his flat back.
Is it any wonder I’m now paying a fortune for the privilege of living alone? I think not.
