I was 23 and six months into my new life in London when my best friend Meg and I made the decision to move out of our lovely Battersea apartment to somewhere a little less out of the way for her work. We finally found a place in Shadwell that was not only affordable, but didn’t feel like we were living in a shoebox, so we put our names down, handed over our deposit and it was all locked in.
Our elation at finally finding a new place managed to cloud any concern for the free-for-all style at which this six bedroom place was being divided up. Not only were we now on a new lease, but we were living with four complete strangers. Male strangers.
Mamamia staff members confess the worst things their housemates have ever done. Post continues below.
The apartment was actually two separate flats that had been merged into one; we had two bathrooms, two kitchens, but only one front door. The second had been boarded up under the guise of this being one place, and a door had been put in the middle of the two apartments, left open for easy access.
I met Noah* the night before we officially moved in. He walked in, spotted me, and immediately came up and introduced himself, grabbing my hand and shaking it enthusiastically. He was a student, a few years younger than us, and I was excited at the possibility of making a new friend. My instincts could not have been more off.
On a Saturday morning, Meg and I woke up to find that all of our stuff in the kitchen had been taken out of the cupboards and drawers and placed on the floor. Noah was the only other person sharing the kitchen with us, and when asked about it, he aggressively retorted, “You touch my shit, I touch yours.”
He believed that we’d moved his things in the fridge, and had retaliated accordingly. His hand was down his pants during this exchange.