At the moment, my house resembles a cross between a refugee camp and a self-storage warehouse.
Yes, it's housemate changeover time, with two in, two out. Or as it has become, one off on holiday, one moved stuff in but not living here, one clinging on to his room for another two weeks, and one deciding wisely to stay out of it. Oh, and several coming to visit.
Possibly my favourite part is that my hummus-eating housemate has got his Lebanese ex-girlfriend staying with him for two weeks (thought about cleaning the house; realised she'd be coming to it from a war zone) and a mysterious French girl called Aude. I only ever see Aude in the kitchen, slicing watermelon. if she does other things, then I've seen no evidence of this.
I have no idea how long these people will be staying here, and in a way I've come to enjoy the commune-like feel of the place. It's also preferable to my boyfriend's new house, which benefits (as estate agents would say) from an awesome living room - complete with Sky Plus, I nearly cried with joy - but has one major drawback. This would be the fact that Boyfriend has what a kindly person might describe as 'the small room'.
A fairer description would be 'the smallest room' as there's no more than a foot of clearance round the bed on two sides, and no clearance at all on the other two. It's actually almost impossible for us both to be standing up in it at the same time, and certainly ill-suited to my style of living, which is to leave a comet-trail of discarded clothes, magazines, cups and shoes in my wake wherever I go.