The evils of the studio appartment by Belle de Neige

This year I went from living in my own 3 bedroom home, avec super kingsize bed, tempur mattress, fluffy carpets and dressing room, huge marble and tile bathroom, and a seperate cupboard specifically for my handbags, to living in what is essentially a black hole of doom hovel with two other girls.
The mentality of sharing this space has been much less difficult to deal with than I expected. Specifically because I had top roomies who were relatively aggro free human beings. Also, deep down I am actually a bit of a grubby urchin at heart, despite my best friend's protestations at Glastonbury last year that I have a dirt-repelling superpower. No, it's not the mentality of sharing that's the problem.
Because we spent 90% of our time cleaning other people's shit from toilet pans, dishes and floors, said hovel was never cleaned. And it started out fustily filthy anyway. I mean, like, you have to dust off and wipe your feet before getting into bed if you want to avoid crumbs of unidentified mildewed goip all over your sheets. There was crap everywhere. Ski equipment, knickers hanging off curtain rails to dry, crispy ski socks which have been reused far far too many times sitting on radiators, Snickers wrappers, condoms.
Well yes, particularly condoms. And this is the real issue. There's nowhere private to shag.
Not that this presented much of an obstacle for one of my room mates in the second month of the season. One night I awoke, bleary eyed from my afternoon and evening of heavy drinking, at about 4am and lay there for a few minutes wondering idly why I had been untimely ripped from the womb of sleep. Before it all came into disturbing focus. Those scraping noises, that squeak-squeak, squeak-squeak, the heavy breathing. The fact my bed is being shunted rhythmically by the dresser, because something else in rhythmically shunting the dresser.
Oh. Right. Great. Yeah. My room mate is having the back bashed out of her with all of us in the room. Tops. I can't move or even cough as disturbing them would make this even more excruciating. I can't even reach for my ipod to block out the slapping noises. The fucker's in my coat. And I really need a pee. I believe we've all been there. Right? And those in glass houses can't throw stones, so I shall finish by admitting that I too did my fair share of none-too-subtle covert shagging during my time in the hovel. And it was damn good fun.