I made a solemn vow to myself when I was at uni, that I swore I would keep. It would be a vow which would aid my own mental wellbeing as well as the physical wellbeing of those around me. It would be a special vow to save my sanity. That vow was that I would never house-share again.

In my young and slightly naive brain, I believed as soon as I finished, I would land an impressive job and have the money to get my own place. It would be a shiny monument to cleanliness and hygiene and everything would have its own place. Oh, how wonderful it would be. I would no longer have the constant ordeal of unwashed plates, mouldy pans, hair clogged showers or have food disappear through the vortex in the fridge. Guests would be my guests and I could wander around in my pants if I wanted at anytime. I would choose what is on the TV and decide when the heating goes off and on. I would be the king, queen rather, of my only little country, and I would bloody love it. I probably would wear a crown and everything when no one was there, just to feel important. I would be, after all, the ruler of the land and what an amazing land it would be.

Four years later, I have broken that rule and am longing after those naive days again. When I moved into my house, sharing with three other girls, they were all adamant that it was a professional house, as we are all young and working, and that it wouldn’t succumb to such student levels of squalor. They lied and lied big time. Within the first couple of weeks, I was presented with enough muck and filth to keep Kim and Aggy busy for weeks. Night and day work, non-stop busy.

Although the house isn’t amazing by a long shot; we have an underground river permeating our basement which means the house is forever cold and have evidence of mice, although, thankfully, we have never seen them; the thing that really annoys me is the mess. I blame the neat-freakery that I’ve been brought up with which makes me such a horrible person to share a house with. I get tetchy when things aren’t a certain way and after I’ve made efforts to tidy, to have someone desecrate all my hard work is completely soul destroying. I get angry, never to their face, but wish I could rub faces in drops of gravy left on the work top or make them eat the chips they drop on the floor. It would be like dog training when you have to rub a dog’s face in its own shit to stop it dumping on the carpet. I probably would enjoy that. I’m probably a pyscho nutjob waiting to happen.

Coming back after Christmas, from a home which is perpetually warm and sparkles with a clean sheen, to a horribly messy house was distressing. I walked through the door, assessed the damage and contemplated driving 250 miles back down the M1, to get back to some state of cleanliness.

Sharing a house is pretty bloody hard work. When you are the only one who remembers when the bin has to be out and when the bills have to be paid, it can get frustrating. I am the only person in the house who seems to understand how to wash plates and no one else ever buys washing up liquid, bleach or any cleaning material. Although I don’t mind coughing up for these house essentials, I just wish that someone else would take the reigns for a bit. To be fair, whenever housemates in the past have tried to tidy, I’ve always gone back over their handiwork. The amount of times that I’ve re-washed plates and cups and re-wiped work surfaces to get all the crumbs of the surface (I’m trying not to encourage the mice to breed further) doesn’t bear thinking about.

But the worst thing by far has been listening to my housemate go at it hammer and tongs with her boyfriend. Her room is above mine and everything in my entire room shakes whilst they’re at it is just awful. I had to physically hold my lap top down the other day as it was vibrating off the table with the rhythm of their thrusting. I was half tempted to write an Olympic style score down and present it to them after their furious fuck session. I didn’t, but I really wanted to. One thing worse than going through man drought is listening to other people rutting.

Constantly brow beaten by muck, and the lack of sleep induced from my housemate’s mindless sex sessions has made me come to realise that, not only do I need a man to return the favour, but I need my own place, and that is a vow.