Home

As a runner and living on a measly wage, it generally means you have no choice but to house share with as many people as possible. I'm currently sharing with 8 people; a mixed bunch, and we're all crammed into a spooky old Victorian house on the wrong side of the tracks.

The kitchen is the social hub of the place (we don't have a front room as the landlord wants as much rent out of the place as possible, I'll come to her later), so you generally only ever see the other inmates when they cook, otherwise they just hole themselves up in their rooms. First theres Aron, or as I like to call him 'The Man With The Red Face". Aron's a big lad and carries a lot of weight. He works on the underground and his cheeks look like he lives on a permenant diet of game birds - its as red as a smacked ass. He spends the majority of his time talking guff about the internet to me; I really couldn't care less about his avatar in Second Life. With all this time spent in front of the computer, Aron likes to spend as little time as possible cooking. Hes the only person I've ever known to buy pre-sliced mushrooms. His fingers look like chipolata sausages as well, just in case you wandered.

Then we have Kate. Kate has lived in this house since time began, and therefore thinks she has 'squatters rights' and first dibs on all the best cupboards and the most freezer space. She hordes shit in every corner of the house - like Mr.Trebus from life of grime. I've taken to calling her 'Bakery Squirrel', as when shes not alphabetically storing tupperware boxes full of her own faeces, she bakes cakes (a lot of fucking cakes) for her friends at work. I think shes probably got the ice man buried in the garden as well.

Steffan is a city high-flyer from Germany with a penchant for lap dancing. He has a membership at Spearmint Rhino, and Peter Stringfellows personal phone number. The rest of the week he spends his evenings traveling across London to various Salsa classes, as he swears this is the best place to pick up Women; apparently they love the rhythm in his hips. I think its probably because they're all quite ugly and gagging for it, but he doesn't seem to really give a shit.

Every now and again while cooking my cheap pasta meal I bump into Glynn; a crazy welsh lad who seems to be permanently fucked in one sense or another. Hes the kind of person who is able to juggle a impossible intake of drugs and hold down a utterly amazing job - hes my favourite of the bunch. The only part of his personality I can't take is that when we run out of toilet paper he will use what ever is to hand - mainly the Yellow Pages - if we ever need a plumber we're fucked.

There's three more house mates, but I'll come back to them in the future. So that just leaves me with my landlord.

Gabriella looks like a Brazilian prostitute. She struts around in mini skirts and skimpy vests, and is often accompanied by her boyfriend who looks like a club owner from Phoenix nights (he actually wears a sequiened jacket). She aspires to be a actress, and has dreams of going to RADA. I haven't the heart to tell her she'd be about as useful as a chocolate teapot on stage at the National. Fortunately for her, she has her singing to fall back on. She entered the X-Factor last year, and was featured in the show - during the montage of the shittest auditions of the series.

So thats my home life - expensive, cramped and cold but home all the same. At least it gives me a break from the toils of the facility.

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