I’m the only guy in an all girl house

I had high hopes about living with all girls. The non stop conveyor line of fit friends I would be able to whisk away under my paradise duvet. Waking each morning to a full English breakfast, because the man of the house needs lots of energy for his feats of lovemaking. My clothes already ironed, bus pass packed and ready for a long day of bread-winning at university.

The reality didn’t live up to the hype.Now my life is like EastEnders: a Groundhog Day of dramas. My days are structured around kitchen bitching because Molly got off with Sam who used to date Dolly, who’s no longer speaking to Molly.

I’m yet to get a cooked breakfast. Dare I leave my cheesy chips container out overnight? I’m awakened by a volley of messages threatening sweet revenge if it’s not gone by midday.

I can’t watch Match of the Day because Sunday mornings are reserved for exercise videos. Yet living with girls isn’t having a positive effect on my health: one evening I almost had a heart attack because I came downstairs and they all looked like this:

Or I’m almost breaking my neck while tripping down the stairs on long hair. Being man of the house isn’t all it is cracked up to be either. I spend most of the time pulling the human equivalent of fur balls out of the plughole.

That’s not to say it’s all bad though. I should retake my GCSE biology again because I now have A* knowledge of the menstrual cycle, although I’m yet to decide whether synchronized periods are actually a thing.

Also, I’ve become an authority on celebrity trivia. I’m ordering season 8 of Keeping Up with the Kardashians right now. Should I get that subscription to Heat magazine? Or is the money better spent on the next season of America’s Next top Model?

Based upon my new hobbies, the experience has broadened my horizons and increased my breadth of knowledge.

Now, where did I put that can of Budweiser and Die Hard box set?