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A spy in the house of chocolate, chick flicks and cosmopolitans.

AUSTRALIA | Tuesday, 14 July 2009 | Views [1144]

Me and my 8 house mates who I love dearly contrary to the following journal.

Me and my 8 house mates who I love dearly contrary to the following journal.

I think Fate either fancies me, or she has a wicked and cruel sense of humour. Finding house mates is never an easy task. Either no one calls, or the people that do, spend the initial interview talking about their knife collection and how they perfected their stabbing technique. Two friendly and out going English girls in JJ and Rosie had agreed to take Shane's room, leaving one room to be filled. Laura hurriedly put up sterile signs advertising a room in Dumpsville with faceless clones and surprisingly no one called. We combined my sign writing skills with Laura's flair for painting the worst things in a positive light and came up with slightly more appealing advertisements.

Unfortunately they yielded little result until Kristen (USA) and Tuisku (FIN) convinced us they weren't the couple we were looking for, but nice enough to have in anyway. Alarm bells were chiming pleasantly in my ear at the thought of living with 5 women. One week of the month could be a veritable mine field given women's propensity to bring each others cycles into sync. The rest of the time could be informative and mildly titillating in polite and appropriate ways.

Before getting the chance to bask in such possibilities, Laura invited her best friend from Ireland to come stay as well. Of course she was female, and Laura's inclination to see the absolute best in serial killers had me concerned that her friend could ignite the powder keg that was building before my eyes. Not only was I losing the room I had enjoyed on my own since moving in, I would be sharing with two Irish girls. One an angel, a best friend and faultless in the eyes of God and myself. Except perhaps for her judgement of character. The other an unknown quantity, highly regarded but tainted by dubious stories of a tendency to either flirt or fight.

Alarm bells started howling like a nuclear attack was imminent when my English bed bunny got the boot from her hostel. That her and her friend were evicted for turning their room into a wardrobe massacre filled me with as much dread as the prospect of living with 8 females did. Stunned looks and envious scowls greet me every time I tell another male about my predicament. Obviously they have never been part of the vast minority in an oestrogen factory like this. Unfortunately I am not treated like the last functioning penis on a deserted island and instead routinely find myself being blamed for every crime mankind has ever inflicted upon these girls. Not that these crimes exclude the possibility of repeating the pattern, seeing that a woman's libidos is just as healthy as a man's. Discussions about picking up seem to exclude the opinion of the one male living here, so I have to sit idly by as the one gender tries to find ways to get laid without revealing any neurotic dispositions to the other gender. That is when they are not rifling through each others wardrobes, randomly rearranging anything I placed in any semblance of order, or aiming to derive sustenance solely from chocolate.

These 8 girls I thought were nice, stable and relatively rational until we all watched 'He's just not that into you' together. Seeing them all nod in agreement with every neurotic and irrational thing the lead character did convinced me they had all done such things themselves before. And would probably not be too concerned about doing them again. That could have resulted in an instant conversion to homosexuality had I not been able to escape to the sanctuary of the tent outside.

“Why is there a tent outside?” you may be asking while cringing in light of the most obvious answer. Too many times already have I've had the displeasure of coitus interruptus in the relative privacy of my own home. Even more so than the discreet intimate moments shared in the hostel like a teenager in the bathroom with overly sensitive ears tuned to approaching footsteps. With 2 of the 3 bedrooms covered wall to wall with mattresses, and some of the room mates snoring like midnight yodelling is their favourite past time, I decided to move my base of operations out into the tent. Ultimately, you can only spend so much time covertly spying on the enemy before refuge is needed to tinker with an engine, watch the footy, nonchalantly scratch your balls, or fulfil some sort of handy man duty.

Group conversations have only furthered my belief that males and females are two completely different species and any conclusions I draw will be harshly criticised by those that don't share my dangling appendage anatomy. I could accept that if I was confident all arguments would be firmly based in rational thinking. Unfortunately that forms part of the first conclusion I ever made about women. 'All men are bastards' is a common refrain in this house, so forgive me for deriving perverse pleasure out of living up to that claim. Instead of apologising, I think I'll just go and fix something.

Tags: friends

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