Domestic Intruder

I'm back. After an overnight flight and prolonged wait in a new terminal of the apparently toiletless Charles de Gaulle airport, I arrived to a refreshingly cold and wet Aberdeen. Hauling my bags up the many hundreds of stairs up to my flat, I unlocked the door and entered. But what's this?

The hallway is clean. Cleared of rubble and mopped of sawdust. The living room is likewise - plus some recent Sunday papers. The bathroom is spotless! And there's a new shower curtain, bathmats and an abundance of toilet roll. In the kitchen... my God, there's food in the fridge: vegetables and stuff. All the dishes are clean and actually put away in cupboards. In my attic bedroom, my bed has been stripped and the bedsheets washed. And in the main bedroom, mounds of clothes, and probably a hairdrier. Only the snooker room seems left untouched.

This can only mean one thing: I have acquired a flatmate. And it's a girl!