Flatsharing

Things are tight in the Outcapers household this Christmas after a spate of DIY and too much fun so it feels like a sensible and practical move to rent out my spare room.

I did this earlier in the year and it didn't go well. Steve's nipple rings, tattoo and fabulous range of weekend wear weren't apparent as he sat sipping a coffee as we chatted about working in the City nor was his ability to lose jobs and the boyfriend who much preferred it round ours.  A friend suggested that Steve possible appealed to my "inner peacock" - but the day to day reality is I'm a bit conservative. A lasting lesson in the kind of guy I shouldn't share with.

So the ad is up and I've photographed the flat with the determination of a high end estate agent. Good old Grindr - have already rejected one chap who came round based on the rather alarming picture of him that popped up the other day.  Onwards.

My big fat mess

Ever have to fake amiability when all you really want to do is curl up under the duvet shed a few manly tears and think "what a fuck up"? That was me last night with former work colleagues Karen and Trish swinging my legs in a Soho tapas bar looking at pictures of Trish's new baby and feeling so low I let Karen choose all the tapas. 

Being the dumper

What a fuck up - the ex and I broke up over two years ago and as the dumper I have inflicted a suitable amount of pain on myself. The lecherous Vauxhall flatmate (two weeks), my brother and family (two months) and the sweet but ever so slightly OCD flatmate (two years). This dumper had to quit the house and in my case was never really allowed back in.

The dumper who moves out gets the crap bits of furniture you both knew neither of you really liked. The dumper who moves out gets all his University text books and photos really fast and is still waiting to receive the antique Chinese porcelain bowl chosen on an important birthday years ago by his brother.

Making the call

So almost a year on from the handover of stuff which wasn't really a handover I finally picked up the phone to the ex this week. The ex is a lawyer and knows how to hold his own in an argument and I got a commitment to not commit to anything.

Getting a grip

R of course knows all of this and has been through all the stages - my latest admission of having achieved nothing by trying to be decent got short thrift and there it was in black and white. The man I adore whose goodbye gesture yesterday morning was the finger and who never chews his food was deeply upset. I was being managed by someone who I last spoke to in February re the delivery of a set of belongings which would finally close a painful page in my life. My conversation with R was short and almost tearful - "deal with it".