I’ve learnt a few important lessons in my lifetime:
Never buy your mum a kitchen appliance for Mother’s Day, never go grocery shopping when you’re so hungry you could eat your weight in carbs and never ever marry your flatmate after knowing him for just a few weeks.
I wish I’d learnt the last one a little sooner.
Rob was a backpacker who was rebuilding the department store I was working at. All the girls talked about him, flirted with him and wanted him. I love a competition, so I put my stalking hat on and set to work studying his every move and every break time so I could “accidentally” run in to him.
Our first meeting didn’t go exactly to plan.
Because my concentration was focussed entirely on my sexiest pose travelling up the escalator, I totally missed the end. You know the bit where you’re supposed to get off. Instead I landed flat on my face, at Rob’s feet on the homewares floor.
Cue cheesy 80’s music, possible slow mo and imagined soft lighting as he gallantly helped me to a vertical position. I was transfixed by his extra-long lashes. They had me at hello.
And that’s how it began.
Before long I managed to convince him he should probably live with me as it would be far safer than living in a hostel with deranged strangers. I did need a flatmate; I’m not totally cray cray. He agreed.
No sooner had his back pack hit the floor we were in a relationship. He hadn’t even had time to colour code his t-shirts. (Yep, he did this I later found out.) We were in that first phase of, what I thought was love, where hormones and neurotransmitters are exploding like fireworks through your insides. That feeling I'd never touch another’s skin ever again. This was it.