The mystery of those we just love to live with

Finding myself once again on the move, I have been forced to consider the curious conundrum of HOUSEMATES. Why is it that, while a good three-quarters of the folk you meet everyday (and trust me, travelling and teaching brings me into contact with a pretty wide selection of new faces on a pretty much weekly basis) are what can be broadly termed as "normal", while a freakishly high percentage (´scuse the pun) of those who we should be proud enough to address as our Housemates are, well... losing screws, marbles and toothpaste lids all over the place.
I realise of course that on first contact, one´s own personal quirks, habits, fetishes and fads are not usually on display to the whole world, and that living with someone can draw attention to the bizarrest of traits. Four years at Art college introduced me to some pretty odd characters (creativity manifests itself in many ways, maaan), though this would generally entice you to know them better, and enjoy spending time around those who had broken from the sterile concept or "normality" and the fear of "what will people THINK???"

Now, I have no desire to name and shame here, that´s not the point of this blog. But I do feel that a few examples would help to flesh out this theory, and clarify my point. So here´s a small selection of the characters I have been blessed with over the last eight years of shared homes.

• The paranoid-schizophrenic anorexic who pulled her hair out.

Way back in the hazy days of my first ever student flat and still dazed by all the possibilities that were open to me now that I didn´t live with mummy and daddy, I was presented with the scary housemate to scare off all other housemates and was forced to sleep with a locked door, until one day she disappeared, just like that.

• The depressed Sicilian who folded plastic bags

I never actually saw the bags being folded, they just appeared in neat, tiny little triangles in the kitchen drawer.

• The nymphomaniac Argentinian musician

Despite having a rather gorgeous model as a long-term girlfriend, this lovely young chap decided he was man enough to take up the challenge of shagging his way round the capital, and I was regularly introduced (or, not, if they were in a particularly randy mood) to nymph-like cellists, nurses, and, more memorably, the baker from across the road.
The problem was that the Housemate would leave early for work, and I would always double lock the door on my way out, resulting, on more than one occasion, in said cellist/nurse/baker (especially the baker - she started work early) being locked into the flat and having to find ways of breaking out. Extra evil housemate points for the all-night house parties, allowing me not a wink of sleep, then running away the next morning leaving me, on the verge of collapse, to deal with fuming neighbours.

So I start my latest hunt optimistically enough - Mission: Find a nice house, within budget. Avoid: Total freaks. SO simple. Surely the odds are on my side?

I rock up at the door of the first flat, hopping from foot to foot with anticipation (it´s a beautiful old building! It has balconies! I has views!) and the door slowly opens to reveal... a female drag queen. Sigh.

To be fair, (s)he was pretty sweet, her dogs (dogs??!) were friendly and she even said that me being a Gemini made us compatible as housemates. Her own brightly coloured paintings covered the walls. If I could just have seen past the spangly turquoise eye make-up and pink-and-platinum wig, we may have been the perfect match. I guess I´ll never know.