Will Harris on searching for the perfect flatmate

Looking for a flatmate on the internet is like playing Russian roulette. OK, you might get lucky – the person responsible for those few lines of text and slightly blurred photo of a corridor might be your perfect match. It could be you’ll discover a shared love of badminton, or marijuana, or sitting up late into the night talking about your feelings. Then again, it’s equally possible you’ll end up with someone you have absolutely nothing in common with at all. Or a serial killer. Or an actual Russian. Na zdorovie!

For a whole generation of people like myself, unable to conjure up the crippling sums of money required to get a mortgage, the only economically viable solution is to move in with a stranger. To make matters worse, when you make the decision to move in, you’ve often only met this person once, at the viewing, most of which you spent acting nothing like yourself and conscious they have another three viewings straight afterwards, all of whom will present a far better prospect than you (not being so unaccustomed to cleaning the bathroom they think Mr Muscle is a lubricant).

“Is it any wonder our parents warned us to steer clear of strangers?”

My personal experiences in this area are vast and horrifying. There was a period of four years when I shared a flat by Hove cricket ground with a lesbian called Emma. It was a three bedroom flat on the ground floor, with laminate flooring, an emormous American-style fridge-freezer, and an Ancient Egyptian curse on the third bedroom (we know it was Egyptian in origin because the room’s first incumbent was from just outside Kom Ombo, and by the time he vacated – saddling us with £300 in unpaid bills, might I add – the curse was already firmly in place).

For the entire time we lived there, the accursed room played host to a succession of bizarre individuals, all of whom crawled in our direction from a computer screen like that girl from The Ring. These ranged from an ageing trolley dolly who managed to stick all our towels together with foundation then moved out without telling us, to a morbidly obese psychiatric nurse with a penchant for springing out of dark corners in a black leather kilt and pop-socks. Is it any wonder our parents warned us to steer clear of strangers?

Anyway, eventually Emma and I moved out, and got a place of our own, and that worked out much better all round really, except the residents association tried to get us evicted and we lost most of our damage deposit for setting fire to the balcony. The only reason I mention all this is I’ve found a new flatmate. Two actually; gay couple, late thirties, and so far they seem suspiciously normal.

I’m not sure whether you should wish me luck, or them.