When Flatshares Turn Bad.

Frosty looks at breakfast, hostile notes, slamming doors and sitting for weeks in the same room without saying a word (friendly or otherwise). Arguments with flatmates are as bad, if not worse than those with your own family, except with no formal ties, there is little reason to try and sort things out. The options are mediation and reconciliation, or just get the hell out, and then the only question is, who will go and who will stay.

There are several ways that people fall out. There is creeping coldness that ruins any warmth. It happened to me once when one girl stopped talking to all her flatmates: seems she had decided she simply didn’t like us much. An extreme case of this was the two blokes who just stopped talking, and didn’t exchange a word for about eighteen months, which is surprisingly common.

Then there is the full on blazing row: hugely cathartic and entertaining for eavesdroppers, but usually as destructive as hand grenades. I’ve been there too, when a flatmate moved in her vile, snide and parasitic boyfriend. We all tried to be tolerant, but eventually, when we realised he’d been cheating on her by bringing women back to our house the shouting started. It ended with them both moving out.

Then there is unacceptable flatmate behaviour. This can be as harmless but vexing as the flatmate who always lost her key and banged ferociously on the door to be let in (“…but I was in the bath!” “Sooooooorry”) to the friend who’s flatmate’s boyfriend stole money before disappearing, although mercifully, that’s an extreme.

It hard when any relationship ends; people grow apart, and for example, someone who waits isolated, bitter and forlorn at home while you are out with friends, or one brings back random strangers who use the ‘romantic’ encounter to do a recce and return to rob your house, or steals your food are quite simply bastards. Sorry: I slipped there. All of those have happened to me, and talking doesn’t help. People find it hard to change, and usually, just don’t want to.

But what if you like your house or flat? And what if you want to stay, or have good reason to remain, such as work or family just round the corner? Deposits must be salvaged and moving is tricky. Or what if you have other people who’d like to move in, and want to negotiate a truce so that weapons (snide looks and hateful, passive-aggressive post-notes) can be abandoned, and truth, reconciliation and your tin opener can be shared.

If you move into a house, and guards are dropped, and all that civilised turning the other cheek, smiling sweetly, trying to make the best of it passes, and violence breaks out (I’ve heard of actually fisticuffs which is no laughing matter) then here’s an idea: what about Relate? They’ve embraced the modern world, helping gay and unmarried couples. Now someone needs to help out when flatmates row, as it’s really hard to find a new home.

Hellish Flatmates (Slight Return)

Here’s another popular keyword people use to find this blog: “I hate my flatmate/what rights do I have in a shared house/my flatmate is crazy,” and other infinite variations of the fresh new up close and personal hell that go with human contact.

In my circle of friends, the traditional problems are still doing the rounds, from minor vexations such as variable recycling standards, right up to entering a shared lounge and tripping over smelly drunken blokes crashed out on the sofa of a morning.

When it’s good, flat-shares are a marvellous idea – they’re cheaper, you have the chance of some companionship - someone to share bills and maybe even the occasional meal. But when it’s bad, it’s horrible – and uniquely uncomfortable for many unusual reasons.

In one previous house-share, one girl had an especially arrogant and imperious boyfriend. His parents seemed to own much of the county, but despite his wealth, he refused to pay his way, and drank all the coffee, used all the toothpaste etc etc.... This is a common problem in house-shares: moving in a partner who isn’t officially a tenant. When are they deemed to have moved in: when they’ve left a toothbrush in the bathroom, contribute willingly to the leccy bill, or even have their name on the cleaning rota?

For ‘Steve’ it was none of the above - in fact at one point he brazenly suggested that we should insure our house, as in the event of burglary, he didn’t want to be losing his precious stereo, now did he? (and no he didn’t offer to pay.)

Don’t worry – though: we had our revenge, but it was anything but sweet. We left the house one morning and waited at the bus stop opposite. A female acquaintance noticed us and said: “Oh – you must share a house with “Steve’ – I had a fling with him over Easter.” As our jaws bounced on the pavement like space-hoppers, she explained that she’d spent Easter in bed with him. In our house.

So…we waited until his girlfriend was out to have a little chat. His face was like a bright red deflated balloon and initially he denied it, until eventually he confessed. We ordered him to move out, explaining that we would be telling our friend about his little fling. For my friend it was horrible, but to skewer such a lazy, bumptious, supercilious snobby leech was extremely satisfying.

Other flatmates in different lives have been lazy, crazy, omnipresent or eternally absent (which can be extremely unnerving.) Another friend, when a mature student, shared a flat with a young and immature first year bloke. He didn’t mind being a father figure, until one day he got a text, which read: “Quick - how do I undo a girl’s bra with one hand?” The mental picture of the lovelorn lusty lad trying to romantically disrobe a young lady, phone in one hand, girl in the other, is memorable and evocative, although at least he didn’t untangle himself so as to move over to his laptop and google the answer.