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HOUSESHARING

BETWEEN the ages of 19 and 36, I lived in 14 properties in five British cities with 26 different people — none of whom I was related to.

On two occasions, I moved three times in 12 months. And for at least three of those years, I lived alone.

(After nearly 12 years of co-habiting, my husband is now my longest-ever housemate, but still we often bicker about who gets in the shower first.)

I have lived in some squalid situations. There were both memorable parties and bust-ups. Of my 26 housemates, at least ten are close friends, and I remain in convivial contact with almost all.

They say familiarity breeds contempt, but, for me, it has forged solid bonds: there is no surer way to gain intimate knowledge of someone’s foibles or push-points than sharing a bathroom, fridge and sofa.

Beth O’Leary’s debut The Flatshare makes a serious point about London’s housing market through a funny, original set-up. The only way that Tiff can afford to stay in the capital is to shift-share a bed with nurse Leon.

She gets the nights and weekends, he gets the weekdays — and theirs becomes a will-they-won’t-theymeet relationship.

Flat and house-sharing is now the norm for today’s single, urbanite non-homeowners, but, from the Victorian era until at least the mid-20th century, it would likely have been a boarding house.

Patrick Hamilton’s brilliant, caustic World War II-set novel The Slaves Of Solitude revolves around Miss Roach, one of the long-term residents of the Rosamund Tea Rooms guest house. She has washed up there after being bombed out of London; her dinner companions are, at best, trying.

Another trying — and terrifying — situation: having to get to know your life partner through co-habiting.

This is Nazneen’s lot in Monica Ali’s Brick Lane. She comes to London from Bangladesh as the young immigrant wife of the unpromising Chanu, and must find her feet — both as a wife and in a new country.

I don’t miss my own house-sharing days, but they were a valuable rite of passage.