I live in a bachelor pad

I have become a single, style-less, smelly man. My flat is littered with Turkish Delight wrappers, old socks, magazines, bag contents, pens, and power adaptors.

My jeans lie where I stepped out of them, as do my shoes, and shirt.

My table is dressed with the noodle soup of yesterday's lunch, fat forming solid islands round the bowl's egdes, centre warming nicely in the sun. Big jars of vitamins, headache pills, candles form a ring around it.

My kitchen is beyond description. A Jenga pile of dishes smeared with tomato sauce and washing up liquid. Milk cartons and juice cartons dance on the side board amongst wrappers of food long gone.

Footprints mark the floor, the bath mat, the rug - acts of defiance against Finland's practical but cumbersome unspoken 'shoes off' policy.

Have I become a bloke? Or are these the joys of single living?!

Tonight, I'll clean.