First year is a whirlwind; no sooner have you packed up and moved out of home, you’re out scrambling to find a university house for second year with a group of people who you’ve been thrust with in halls or befriended in your induction lecture. I fell into the first category. On the first day I couldn’t work my printer. I fussed and fiddled until I had no choice but to summon up the courage and knock on the door down the corridor pleading for help. Luckily I was met by two male engineers whom, after awkward introductions, I charmed into fixing my menacing printer.
It became clear over sniggering that my understanding of wireless printer was not the same as the manufacturer’s; I had not plugged the printer in. Suffice it to say this was the start of a blossoming friendship which ultimately led to today, where I type away to a background drone of FIFA. The commentary drags with the odd jolt into reality by an elated cheer. Living with six boys (I stress boys; there is still a long way to manhood), I am forced to get up and inspect whether this is in fact them playing FIFA or an actual football match. The fact that I do not know is shameful; this could after all be the match that determines their moods for the next week.
Football and FIFA aside, I want to dispel three major myths I face when I tell of my cohabiting with six lads. Firstly, the house is a tip. How is this banishing your prejudgment? Well, when I’m in need of an oestrogen booster I visit my friend’s ‘ladies only lodging’ just around the corner. Honestly, (and she’d admit it too) her house is messier. Ask around, girl’s houses are chiefly as bad if not worse, than my ‘bachelor pad’.
Secondly, and I get quizzed on this the most, I am not compelled to get up an hour before my male ‘roomies’ to assemble myself into half attractive girl. The truth is, I unhook my bra as soon as I stroll in from uni, put my hair in a messy bun and then consider making conversation. If you asked them, they don’t notice, and if they do, they don’t care. Call me a martyr but I am acclimatising them to the reality of one day living with a significant other; no female, not even Megan Fox herself looks like FHM’s sexiest woman 99% of the time – just ask her husband.
Finally, there really is no drama, ever. I am all for sisterhood, however, girls love the theatricals, myself included. In another friend’s female flat, she nipped to the loo after a fellow housemate and, as if the devil himself had stolen it, there was no loo roll. The house was icy, dagger looks were being thrown about and all over someone not replacing the toilet roll.
In my house there never is any. I purchase my own (or nab some from uni) and have become disciplined in carrying some in my pocket at all times. Drama averted.
By all means, socks stuffed into the sofa, a fat steeped George Forman grill (which shouldn’t be cleaned because the old fat really adds something to your bacon) and my favourite, the first year girl drinking from my mug in the morning, are things I could live without.
All in all, however, living with guys is idyllic: if nothing else they change my lightbulbs, put out the rubbish and can even be trained to paint nails.