F
or the majority of my adult life I have lived with
mostly women. Our flatshares have been loud
and intimate and claustrophobic — egging each
other on to be unbearable show-offs, cackling
too much, knowing too much about each other.
But for the past year I have lived with two
blokes, who also happen to be my friends. It has
been fascinating. In fact, I have spent a large
portion of that time sitting in a dimly lit corner
of the house like a creep, making notes, just so
that I can turn them both into a column. So,
this is what I have learnt from my two darling boys.1 Dinner takes as long as dinner takes. Meals are
decided on impulse at the precise moment my
housemates become hungry; no earlier, no later. The
two of them have been known to head out cheerily to
the supermarket at 8.40pm on a Tuesday to buy a long
list of ingredients for whatever elaborate meal their
stomachs have told them they want that night. Food will
be on the table at five minutes past midnight and the
portion size is simply whatever has been cooked divided
equally between the number of people eating. Pudding
is the ice cream their mums never let them buy as kids.2 Kitchen equipment is important. There are six
different plastic things on the counter that, apparently,
are all essential for making one cup of coffee. This is
actually a “streamlined” system and has to be
monitored closely by me. Sometimes they will try to
sneak in another pointless coffee accessory, which is
always noted and met with a single raised eyebrow
(mine) followed by embarrassment (theirs). Huge
knives are used to cut very small things, sharpened
so often that there’s not going to be anything left of
them by Christmas.3 The glassware shelf is incredibly exclusive, in terms of
quality and in terms of vibe; a situation brought about
by the fact that both of my housemates are product
designers. The glass itself must be thin and perfectly
proportioned, voted into the cupboard like it’s a private
members’ club. “Megan, have you seen this,” said one of
my housemates the other evening. He was standing in
the kitchen, solemn and disappointed, holding a BuxtonCHARLIE CLIFT FOR THE SUNDAY TIMES MAGAZINE
MEGAN AGNEW
My male flatmates can fix
anything. I just like watching
“I lie there in my sunglasses
like a Bel Air mom perving
on her gardeners”
cider glass covered in multicoloured brand stickers.
“It’s entered our home.” Yes, I said, it’s a pint glass from
a pub. “But Megan, have you seen it?” he repeated,
practically dry retching by this point. I dunno, I said,
they’re quite useful for when you’re very thirsty for lots
of water. “Oh my God,” he said, shaking his head. And
I looked at the garish pint glass and thought: you are
living on borrowed time, my friend. All I know is that
poor glass will happen to go missing on a day that I
happen to be working from the office, another victim
of my housemates and their merciless aesthetic vision.4 There is always another job. These two boys are the
busiest I have met. Sometimes I think they might set
down tyre spikes for my bike just so they can get out
their puncture kit again. Everything in the house has
its own hook. One of my housemates keeps a five-
tiered toolbox under his bed and the other one asked
for a “special drill” for his birthday. I can’t lie, I absolutely
love it. I love those long, languid weekends watching
them digging and drilling in the garden because they
have decided that the decking they built the weekend
before should actually be a foot lower, while I lie there
talking about how I’d be more of a hindrance than
a help, drinking Diet Coke in my sunglasses like
a Bel Air mom perving on her gardeners. Heaven.5 The bathroom is, surprisingly, much cleaner than
in a girl’s house — fewer foundation smears on light
switches, less powdered bronzer mashed into sinks.
There is, however, a stark contrast between products.
Mine all seem to be shades of pastel pink. Theirs are
black or grey, with great emphasis on “destroying”,
“combatting” and “attacking” facial dirt. Very manly!6 Dating in a house of girls is essentially a group activity.
Before you even get home your housemates want to
know how he said hello, what drink he ordered and if he
waited for the green man when you were walking back
to the station. My male housemates, largely, don’t give
a toss. I have to loiter around their rooms asking them
if they want to hear how it all went, like a has-been
celebrity desperate to share her old stories. When I was
a bit heartbroken they didn’t really know what to say
— but they did go out to the shops, at a reasonable hour,
cook me a fish pie, divide it into three and hand me a
huge mountain of food in my favourite bowl, way too
much to finish. They poured me a glass of wine in one
of their fussy tumblers that looked bloody fabulous, and
they sat either side of me on the sofa and said it’ll get
better, you know, and I love them very, very dearly n
@MeganAgnew. Matt Rudd returns next weekThe Sunday Times Magazine • 7