Losing a Housemate, Gaining Maracas

Some of my dear readers will have, by now, gathered that I enjoy communal living. I have lived in house shares since my University days and particularly enjoy living with girls (soz boys!) who enjoy drinking copious amounts of tea, wine and wearing onesies for most of Sunday. My new living situation is no different, and as I enjoy more wine-fuelled evenings out with the little one (housemate no.1) I knew my decision to live in another house share was a good one.

Surprisingly, my new landlord is a very amiable, laid-back sort of fellow; rent’s very reasonable and the house is lovely! He insists boys do not rent rooms, (possibly slightly illegal!) and in return lets us live here until we decide we want no more, asking of us only to fill the room amongst ourselves. Win-win! We get to live here for as short or long amount of time as possible, and decide among us girls who we have move in. This however has its downfalls too, as we recently discovered when a 6-monther moved her stuff in- and out again- in a matter of days!

Picture the scene: Its a Monday evening and pj’s are my outfit of choice. I am happily scoffing some ice cream whilst watching Don’t Tell The Bride (secret single behaviour ALL over this evening!) when a sobbing, shiny new housemate who, I feel it is important to add, was over 6ft tall, comes bursting into the living room in hysterics. What on earth!? Through actual tears, the kind that make your face look JUST like this-

kim-kardashian-crying-face-2-zap2it                                                                                                      Soz Kim, but you look ridiculous!

Housemate started to tell me that she had now found the third spider in her room and she could not possibly put up with this anymore- despite only having lived with us for five minutes. She then proceeded to take a picture of the, now shrivled carcas of the spider for evidence, before insisting she stay in a hotel that very evening. It was 10pm and I had not had enough sugar to be dealing with this.

Now, I am also not the biggest fan of the 8-legged squatters that insist on dwelling in our houses like tiny nijas, showing up when you least expect it. Heck- I even tried to overcome my own phobia of the hideous things (apologies to any spider fans- if there are any!) when I moved out at 18, knowing my dad would no longer be able to rescue me from the said monsters. My own therapy failed, of course, but I am grown up enough to swat them with slippers, or locate a hoover quickly. This was not good enough for my new German friend and she insisted we had too many of the things for her to cope with. After half an hour of consoling her and calling every hotel within a 10 mile radius, she agreed to sleep in another of our housemates room for a night, before packing up her room and moving out the very next day. Due to a couple of spiders. Spiders, I ask you!!

Anyway, after spider-gate, we have found a shiny newer replacement in a housemate. One that promises more nights out in which we gain maracas and morning-after feasts in the cafe, lots of tea drinking and general house fun. Of course, we warned her about the so-called ‘Spider issue’ we apparently have as a house, to which she simply scoffed at. I like her already.

In other news: I have been trialing out being a WAG over the last few weekends and have rather enjoyed watching the Bear play rugby of a Saturday. Its all fun and games until someone asks me to write a review of the match, which of course I did, from a girls perspective and entirely not based on the game itself (at all.) If rugby isn’t your thing, why not read it anyway- its mainly a report on what other WAGS wore, how big the players thighs (and bellies!) were and my overall opinion on the shade of pink the ref wore. Enjoy!

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