I wouldn’t mind so much if I lived in a 12 bedroom mansion. I wouldn’t mind at all. But I don’t live in such palatial surroundings. I have a kitchen that is so compact and bijous, that if two people occupy the space at the same time, they should really be married, or at least be overly-familiar friends. What really pisses me off is the way I come back from a hard day typing shit like this, gasping for a spicy bean burger, only to find the big lummox creating an ostentatious baked potato meal for him and his Turkmen wench.

That’s not the worst bit though. Last week I came back to find the bastard doing Tai Chi in the garden. MY garden. Or at least 25% mine. He knows he’s taking the piss; but he still practices a flamboyant eastern hippy-thing in my leave-strewn garden. He could at least give it a f*cking mow.

The thing is, I’m torn. He is in fact a really nice, quiet guy, who simply wants to avoid his (presumably) overbearing parents and shag the merry Tai Chi out of his girl friend. I can understand that. He’s always trying to ingratiate himself with little gifts and offering to lend me his hard drive full of illegal music downloads. He always gets out of my way, trundling off upstairs to make full use of the showering facilities/broadband/electric lighting/weatherproof building. He’s nice, he’s girlfriend’s nice.

But why can’t he just f*ck off?