Welcome to the house of fun

Earlier this evening, over several £2 glasses of ice with squirts of cocktail, I and two friends meeted and greeted a couple of potential housemates for next year. Between you and me, this was quite the audition process masquerading as a light and frothy "We'll have so much fun!" cringefest. Mentally we were all sketching a deep psychological profile of these two girls; though in my haste to swig my drinks before the ice melted (excellent excuse for appearing like a raving sauce monster), mine might not have been the most accurate. Quite frankly, the only reason we didn't have America's/Britian's Got Talent style electronic bells and a pair of hovering large red Xs is because, well, we were clean out.
Ahhh yes, housesharing. A phenomenon in which those fresh-faced, palsy-walsy strangers' quirks and foibles will be peeled away like an artichoke, one leaf after another. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt and spilt my cocktail down it. I feel so well-versed in the subject I could write an entire blog entry on it.
I've shared a university flat with 3 others for several months, and as I'm reaching the end of my tenure I'm also reaching the end of my tether. This has been tricky! After the honeymoon period of Freshers' Week, it has been a mighty ordeal tolerating this fine mix of characters. From many of my university chums, I hear nothing but delightful tales of the escapades they share with their flatmates. But in my questionable mind, I wonder how the dickens you can be besties with someone with whom you're competing for the bathroom? Or the oven? Trust me, during the many times I've slaved over a hot stove (in true Jamie Oliver fashion) and someone's hanging around like an unpaid bill, I've often pondered the less culinary and more blustery uses of certain cooking utensils.
But, as the end draws ever closer I can already foresee the wistfulness with which I'll look upon my soon-to-be former flatmates. Not least the chap one room down, blaring Dubstep at multi-figure decibels, only pausing to whack a frozen pie in the oven. Perhaps I'm even putting him on the pedestal, but I'm starting to see him as a guardian angel sent down to purge me of the belief that Dubstep constitutes music. Thank you! I'm cured!
When it all boils down to it though, the flatsharing has been the singular disappointing aspect of university life for me. In university accommodation, the flatmates with whom you share is a lottery. So I'm cherishing the houseshare audition process, shouting "Rejected. Next!" and dropping them down a trap door (well, we're working on that). You may well not have a clue what I'm talking about, but if you're planning on making that step up to university life...well, in the words of Lester Burnham, "you will someday."