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Moving in with a boy is scary, as Helen pointed out. It can be a wonderful, joyous and not so huge event at all, as Helen also pointed out.

Having lived with three, pretty blokey blokes at uni, I swore I would never do it again. Dirty bath tubs, awkward run-ins with their one night stands and a constant lack of toilet paper meant that, for me, women were the perfect housemates.

Until I met a different sort of boy.

The sort of boy who can’t go to bed without putting the dishwasher on, who notices if you’ve switched around the cutlery drawer and gets frustrated if you forget to water the plants. Although this might sound like a nightmare to you, to me it is a thing of beauty; living with him is a pleasure.

Except we don’t live together.

The thought of committing to a home has always terrified me (good luck getting a ring on it) and we both very much need our own space. But the reality is, as with most long term relationships, we spend every night together anyway, rotating between each other’s places depending on what part of town we’re in.

This, of course, means nothing at all for a man. Pulling on yesterday’s t shirt and a pair of skinnies after a quick rinse, their life is simple, whereas living between two places for a girl is a different – and much more inconvenient – story. We shave our legs. We fake tan. We blow dry our hair. We can’t wear the same thing two days in a row and we need access to an endless supply of make up wipes. Don’t get me wrong, I love taking care of myself, but these rituals make staying over (and trying to look your best at the same time) really rather difficult.

In the early days, it was a nightmare. Dodging the shower head in an attempt to keep my hair dry and leaving make up on two days in a row so he wouldn’t see my – God forbid it – ACTUAL FACE. I used to keep a razor in my bag in case I stayed more than one night in a row and became a pro at looking decent in pyjamas. I was rarely seen without a rucksack. Or a toothbrush for that matter.

A year on, I am still rarely seen without a rucksack. But now, a bit like a child of divorce, I enjoy the perks of having two homes. I’ve stashed a million beauty products in his bathroom cabinet and have an endless supply of pants in the drawer. I am prepared for anything. Even an impromptu period.

We cook together and build sofas together, but I also have mum’s food and a room of my own five stops away on the District Line. The truth is, it couldn’t be more perfect.

I’ll keep you posted on further developments, but for now, I will continue to live contently – and oh so conveniently – in my wonderful halfway house.