Night owl

It’s late. Quarter to four and the Girlf is asleep. I would be to if I hadn’t passed out after dinner. Helped along nicely by a cheeky whisky consumed far too early in the day. I’m not a drinker but it was there, barely two shots left in the bottle that Justin and I destroyed last week.
Fuck it I thought. Went down lovely it did and was the perfect aperitif to the lounge floor picnic. Unfortunately, as she lay reading, I embraced her and closed my eyes. I was out. Three hours later the house was spotless and my sleep pattern’s completely destroyed. I’m up and she’s going to bed. Nice.
Sitting alone in someone else’s house is weird. There’s not a lot I can do. I could watch TV but I’d have to have it painfully low. If I wake her up she’ll turn into a monster. She does a very good incredible hulk impersonation. So I’m sat here respectfully quiet.
You become very aware you’re not in your own place. I love my squat. It’s falling apart but all that I have is there. It looks like an absolute mess but trust me it’s a very complex and evolved filing system. It may look like a jumble of plates and clothes piled up on stacks of paper but I know exactly where everything is.
The Woman cleaned the place a few weeks ago and, to be fair, it looked immaculate but I was fucked for days. I couldn’t find a single thing. I’m not exaggerating. Everything I needed had vanished into thin air.
‘I put everything in the little cupboard. It’ll be in there.’
Umm no. I think you’ll find it isn’t. There are birthday cards off of my ex from two years ago but the gas bill that arrived last week has mysteriously disappeared.
It’s taken me over a month to get it back to the way I like it but at least the shower’s clean I suppose.
I’ve been at mine for nearly a decade I know every creak of every floor board. I understand the acoustics of the place subconsciously so I don’t wake her up when she’s there.
This place is treacherous, it hasn’t yet accepted me. It amplifies everything I do and wakes the Kraken in the other room.
New builds see. Made out of fucking paper.
My old place is lush. You can’t hear anything from room to room. This place puts four stone on me. I sound like a fat man jogging when I nip downstairs to the loo. I’m frightened to move around.
See, see! Every time I have a burst of typing I can hear her turn over and mumble in the other room. Nasty, disloyal, house. It’s because I’m a man. The oestrogen from the three women who live here has seeped into it’s walls. The place even feels pink. It clearly hates me.
Now I’m wondering if it’s acceptable to put on babe station on her telly. Is it the done thing to watch soft porn on your girlfriends TV? I won’t need the sound for that but it seems a little cheeky. Like using her phone without asking permission.
God this is annoying. If I go to bed I’ll probably wake her up. I have to climb over her because she can’t sleep next to the wall and that will unleash the whinge. Bugger.
I think I’m going to risk it...