Living in Sin

Returned home last night to find Suburban Teacher ushering a very tall, very young, very gorgeous-looking male person round the flat. Totally my type - especially the young bit.

Suburban Teacher is moving out next month as she is getting married to her widowed-with-three-children boyfriend, and moving into his new 7-bedroomed house (she claims he is "in his early forties", which clearly means 46). As her departure will leave me with Vile Horrible Flatmate (more of whom in a minute), I am awarding myself first refusal of young attractive male applicants.

Vile Horrible Flatmate is vile and horrible. His offensive attributes include speaking too slowly and using too many words (sorry, but that's one thing I have no patience for), having standards of cleanliness and personal hygiene that make Male Model seem like a 1950s housewife, and being incapable of changing a lightbulb (I mean seriously), despite being a lawyer at one of the world's top law firms.

The young gorgeous one looked impressed at the amount of alcohol still on display in the lounge following my New Year party, and slightly amused by the amount of alcohol on my bedside table (Suburban Teacher was horrified; it's not a regular occurrence - I just didn't want Vile Horrible Flatmate touching my whisky, about which I am v precious). In return, I am endeared by his scruffiness and homelessness, which in my experience bodes well for his general sanity. The more functional a life men seem to have on the outside, the higher the liklihood of fuckwittage, indecisiveness and non-confrontation on the inside.

So let's see. I am dying for some quality young testosterone around the home. Or around anywhere, really.