It’s 8:15am on a Monday morning and I am wide-awake. My head hurts from the night before, but it’s not what you might think: my crazy housemate was up having one of his ‘crack-house Sunday’ parties in his room. You know how it is with the music, the humming and the occasional stranger coming out of the bathroom. I guess he works strange hours cause he’s never home when I am. He’s also got no real intention of getting to know us ‘others’ who live in the house with him, but oh well. It doesn’t really affect me too much. Unless he was to… say… I don’t know… invite his shirtless, shaved-head, tweeker friend into the kitchen to help hook the new oven up, because his said tweeker friend has happened to mention that his dad is a handy man and that it’s probably no problem to play with gas pipes when you’re high at 2am on a Sunday morning? If my housemate were to allow that to happen, that would probably affect me… It’s now 8.30am and I am cooking my porridge on our new oven stove. Nice one, friend.