Moving on up

It’s been just over a year since I started my latest social experiment and it’s soon to come to an end and a new phase will begin. Last May, after 15 years of living in London, I moved to Brighton, started a new job and most importantly, lived on my own for the first time in my life. For various reasons, in just over a month, I’ll be entering the world of the flat share again.

From the last 13 months I've learned a few valuable lessons and realise that there will be some adjustments to make.

I’ve discovered that it’s not a good idea to leave my keys at home.

I’ve also discovered how easy it is to force my front door open and have dead bolted it ever since, which doubles as a handy way of remembering my keys.

I’ve learned that toilet roll seems to last an amazingly long time with the absence of flatmates and, more importantly, their girlfriends. I still believe that half the girls I know must eat the stuff as part of a super model type diet to stay waif-like.

Apparently neighbours don’t appreciate impromptu social gatherings at 5am, especially when the walls are so thin that you can hear them snoring in the flat above.

Washing up left for over 2 weeks in water smells bad. Real bad. On the plus side you develop some interesting cultures for experimentation.

You only need to dress when leaving the flat. Any other time you’re free to wear whatever you want, if anything at all. Obviously those days are coming to an end. Unless I end up sleepwalking naked into my flatmate’s room at 3am, as I did at my last flat. Jon, you’ve been warned.

The TV remote is my domain and mine alone. It’s going to be tough to relinquish such awesome powers and I suspect there will be some power struggles before remote control harmony is achieved in the new house, albeit a slightly bitter and resentful harmony.

You can leave clothes, dirty or otherwise anywhere you like. No need to go through the tedium of pairing socks and sticking them in the drawer when there are radiators, clothes horses or the floor to supply handy, alfresco storage space.

I’ve proven I can survive. I’ve managed to cook meals, pay the bills and even keep the place relatively tidy. Ok, we’ll ignore that too much of my diet still consists of ready meals at my work desk, the occasional court summons and that at its worse the flat resembled an explosion at a jumble sale and chalk it down as mostly a success.

I’ve loved the freedom but I’ve also discovered that it can be a lonely and isolated experience, particularly now I’m working at a new company outside of Brighton and don’t have as much time to meet up with friends during the week.

Now, of course, I can look forward to evenings of vintage port and Cuban cigars, myself and Jon sat in our smoking jackets, surround by lithe, young ladies in cocktail dresses laughing, gasping and applauding at our witty exchanges, our searing intellect and illuminating insights. With dim lighting, Dvorak or Berlioz on the stereo, Jon will prepare a gastronomic delight in the kitchen while I recite self-penned poetry of loves won and lost. There won’t be a dry seat in the house.

Obviously, I realise that it won’t be like this every night. Such eligible young bachelors as us have a hectic social life to attend to and prose capable of removing lingerie at 20 paces doesn’t just write itself. I’m also aware that given both our personalities and work demands, there will be times when my new flatmate and I won’t see each other for days on end, either entering into a reclusive stupor that only a duvet and hardcore EastEnders can cure or working towards yet another deadline.

So, given that Jon is probably the only person that will read this blog, it might just prove to be a useful way to find out what we’re actually doing and that we are still very much alive and well. It might just prove useful in other ways too.

Jon, if you’re reading this, the money for the gas bill is on the kitchen counter.

Oh, and we’re out of tea bags…