KATY HARRINGTON

I have a home — and what I think is a date

IFOUND a place to live and I couldn’t be happier. My friends and family feel the same because now I’ll shut up about my housing woes and the threat of having me live on their couches has lifted.

The house is very cute, but falling down a little on the inside. Like me. It may not have carpet, but it has character, I tell myself as I sign the contract.

Signing contracts makes me nervous (as I once spent 20 minutes telling a mobile phone salesman who cold-called me to convince me to upgrade and hung up regretting being born), but for once having my name on the lease, and the firm commitment to stay in one place for at least a year is strangely comforting.

No more sublets for me. I email the guy who I am currently subletting from to tell him the good news. I’ve been in his room for almost a month, sleeping in his bed, staring at the pictures on his wall, sharing a sock drawer. “Not a moment too soon,” he says, “I come back from Dublin next week and sleeping together might have been awkward”. Nonsense, I say. Sleeping with me is excellent. I tell him I’ll miss his/my flatmate.

The flatmate is a raw food chef which means the fridge always smells of ancient cabbage. He is also a yoga enthusiast who spends his weekends at breathing workshops and handstand classes. So we have a bit of a joke about him and then we talk about other stuff, like London and work and he makes me laugh a lot.

And then, even though I’ve never met him, but because he’s Irish and I like his room, I ask him if he wants to go for a drink when he’s back. He says yes but then I’m not sure if it’s a date or not. Maybe I should ask his flatmate to come too?