When it comes to sharing that mysterious space we call the bathroom, all manner of clandestine things go on. But when your housemate is pushing the gross envelope it can ignite prickling resentments or lead to full-on, nuclear rage. Here are some things it would be great if they'd cease immediately.
The wet floor thing
When you get out of the shower in the morning, do you kick your way through the basin like a cast member from Singing in the Rain or do you just stand stand there shivering like the girl from The Ring? I don't know what it is you're doing but it certainly livens up my underfloor morning bathroom experience. If you've been unlucky enough to slip already, you'll usually do something super -elpful like make a dam for the flood using my White Company towel.
The razor thing
When we're all locked away all wet and naked in the secret room, we do all sorts of things. We hover over the bath riskily trimming pubes. We brazenly reach past our own strawberry Alberto Balsam for their seductively packaged John Frieda. We generously dollop it into our hands, because WHO WILL EVER KNOW. It's sneaky, sure, but for God's sake we're only human. What I do find a tiiiny bit weird, however, is that despite having your own perfectly functioning Venus, EVERY week without fail I will find it stuffed to the brim with mowings from your body. I don't like to think what parts of your body. To be quite honest with you babes, this is a) costing me a fortune in blades and b) revolting.
The stacking thing
Listen, we've not been students for a few years now. We can afford toilet roll. Damn it we can afford Andrex, so just BUY SOME. Or at the very least be a decent human being and don't perch the one I bought on top of the empty old roll. You're sat RIGHT THERE ANYWAY. And don't think I haven't noticed that when you can't be bovved to buy bog roll you wipe your bum with the cardboard tube. Stop doing that.
The pube thing
So you know last week when I came home from that insanely stressful day at work? When I sat with my forehead on the kitchen table until I'd mustered the energy to run a bath? Remember when you heard me running the bath and wearily pouring my day's wages in bubbles into it? Was it before or after you heard me cry out as your wiry pubic hairs clung to my naked body that you decided to tell me you'd not rinsed out the tub? In fact, any detritus from your body I do not want on my body. That goes for the film of skin from your fake tan scrubbings and those big clumps of hair in the plug.
The toothbrush thing
I love your friends. They are an absolute gas. Last weekend when they came round after a curry and we bitched about everyone - that was really fun. We had a blast. Hearing you crashing around, pointing everyone towards pyjamas and the spare toothbrush warmed the cockles of my heart. It was only in the morning when I detected that unmistakable hint of garam masala mid-brush that I remembered there is no spare toothbrush. I lie awake at night wondering where the hell those bristles have been.
The perfume thing
I used to be a really big fan of jasmine. I'd douse myself in those dizzying floral notes, transporting my senses to a Provencal garden on a hot summer's day. But I've got to say, ever since your started using my favourite Dyptique perfume to cover up the smell of your outrageously smelly poos, I dunno, it's given jasmine a whole new meaning. Those sweet-scented top notes mixed with the contents of your bum. WHAT a remarkable bouquet.
The periodbin thing
I am not an easily grossed out person, I'm really not. I would eat my dinner out of your unwashed hands: Pass me the mould! Sneeze in my face! Nourish me with your germs! I genuinely think it means I'll live longer. But that thing that you do where you use half a roll of toilet paper to gift wrap your used tampons and place them precariously on top of the bin: you have to stop doing that. We both know I'm the only one who empties the bin. That's why last week I had the pleasure of witnessing your wastepaper surprise leap off its tissue mountain and unravel at my feet.
Follow Lucy on Twitter @lucyannehancock
Picture: Eylul Aslan
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.