I think I hate share housing. It's sad but true. Telling you this I feel guilty, like I'm betraying a once much trusted lover - unfairly bitching about the bad stuff when most of it was great.

But no more can I pretend I enjoy the student squalor of the whole deal. I can't fool myself the overflowing bins, the skid marks in the toilet, and the unwashed dishes are hip and neo-grunge - some sort of up yours to the hideously anal standard of cleanliness preached in Brand Power ads.

I no longer ‘dig' the impromptu parties. I no longer think it's ‘rad' or ‘cool' to find people passed out in the morning, blocking access to the ironing board.

I'm sick of the partners I have to pretend to be nice to and the early twenties selfishness and melodrama. And of never being able to watch what I want on TV. No longer do I see it as some sort of half-civilized version of the commune idea.

Increasingly I'm sick of being ‘consultative', of ‘facilitating', of being ‘constructive' and ‘finding solutions'. Instead I want to start wars of attrition. When there's no toilet paper left I want to hoard mine in my room and wait for everyone else to get flyblown. When no one puts out the garbage I want to leave it until it's the kind of place Troughman would want to live. When there's no laundry liquid left I want to wait until people are using the meat tenderizer on their knickers before I even consider lending them half a cup of Cold Power.

It seems a little unfair to blame my current housemates, given I've seen much worse than their behaviour in my share-housing career. Eight years of living in five-bedroom share-houses certainly gives you a wealth of anecdotes and stories, in fact almost enough to write a book. I wonder if anyone's ever done that? Anyway.....

I tell you what, I've seen some shocking stuff..... I've almost sat on uncapped syringes on the couch*, I've had sick flat-mates use the wok as a bedpan, I've had a smoke detector** screwed underneath my bed when I was quitting smoking. I've had cold dishwater chucked over me when asleep on the lounge, I've had ceilings cave in on me, and I've had a Vegemite swastika smeared on my bedroom door.

So maybe it's not so much the latest batch of housemates which is turning me off sharehousing as I'm just getting a bit old for it all. And I suppose four months of living with up to fifteen people under the cold glare of the nation played its part in precipitating this inevitable burn out.

So what does this mean? Well I suppose it means I'm announcing my retirement from the game. It's time to move from Newtown to the far-flung suburbs or Annandale or Summer Hill. It's time to downsize to just one to two flatmates. But I know I'll miss it terribly - like when you desperately want a girlfriend and when you get one, all you want is your freedom back. But, there will be upsides. At least never again will I strain my bladder while my flatmate sits on the toilet watching YouTube clips with headphones on, unable to hear my hammering on the door.

* My flat mate was a diabetic, not a junkie (although her habit of spooning sugar into her gob after a big night was unnerving to guests).

** This may seem funny – however smoke detectors contain a radioactive element, which was 20 centimetres away from my kidney for 8 hours every night for a month.

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