I have moved in with a boy. Or more accurately, he has moved in with me.
He told his mother. She said to me, “You don’t know what you are letting yourself in for.” Encouraging this was not.
My flat is a small city flat with habitat cushions and candles which claim to smell of ‘fresh linen.’
He turned up with a broken computer held together by dirt (cables lost en-route), one suit, some questionable household furnishings, his car – the ‘silver shadow,’ (which, I am told, is named after Minder’s trainers) and a bathroom bin which reportedly cost him £6.
4 weeks in and my boyfriend thinks I am a nag.
I think that on the scale of womankind I am not a nag. He agrees with this. He does however still think that I am a nag.
Ok, so I do occasionally feel a little bit panicky about where we can dry the towels. Over the doors is messy. On the floor is horrific. I cannot live in a damp smelling abode. It really is a quandary.
I am a firm believer in getting a grip. If you are a regular reader you will know that I have been known to throw pans away to avoid washing them. However, the other night I found myself teaching him how to make a bed.
Please understand that he is quite capable and more than willing to make the bed.
It’s just that, well, it’s just not as nicely made as when I make it. Let me explain; he leaves the pillows underneath the duvet. The blanket is not folded perfectly in half along the mattress. The pointless scatter cushions are not scattered in exactly the right way. Half way through the lesson he asked me ‘And how important is this exactly?’ I concluded ‘not at all’, but just in case he is now fully trained in hospital corners.