The Roster

I have turned into that girl, at least a little bit. That girl who cleans ovens voraciously instead of going to the pub, that girl who has given up biting her nails only to discover the untold pleasures of a polished cistern. The girl who vacuums noisily under other's propped-up feet "to get the bacon off the sitting room floor".

My new flatmates are all boys, all younger, with shiny, duckling haircuts and stripy shirts and proper jobs. Hedge funds manager, yes! End-of-month accountanty person, yes! Pharmeceutical engineer, yes! What?! You left the womb when I was learning to write joined-up...

All this pulsing academia does not, unfortunately, stop them pissing on the toilet seat. Someone, someone, does this with clockwork regularity; a jaundiced blight on my otherwise perfect morn.

While hoovering the stairs (I know, I know, I thought only Mammies did that too, sigh), I wonder am I turning into their own personal bean an ti? The one who cleans the shower, and replaces the loo roll and, joy-of-joys, brushes up the pubic hairs from the floor under the sink.

Enough. I suggest we make a roster. A wild look of caged fear comes into their young eyes. Nothing crazy, I assure them, just a simple week-to-week notice of who cleans the bathroom, hooovers the floor and takes out the bin...

Ok, they agree to my surprise. Willingly. They are dotes really. And since they can use Excel, maybe one of them can make a spreadsheet for this document of organisational wonder?

A step too far, methinks.