One of the worst house-sharing stories you'll ever hear.

I'm kind of gutted that I fell into a hole when all the redundancy stuff was kicking off. This is mainly because it meant that I didn't blog about The Housemates in the shared house anywhere near as much as I would have wanted to.

This is a shame because there were many stories I could have told at the time which now have either been forgotten or are just not worth telling when it's not in the heat of the moment.

However one story will unfortunately stay with me forever and I only feel it's fair to pass the horror on to you.

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This story is kind of gross and I feel you should be prepared for that. If you're of a sensitive disposition there's a chance you might not want to read on. And you definitely can't blame me if your interest is now piqued so much that you read it anyway and then feel ill.

By far the most entertaining housemate was Peter Pan. When I say "entertaining" I mean, "fucking irritating". His childish, boyish ways quickly went from endearing to irritating - from saying "Oh you" and slapping him playfully on the arm, to saying "Oh you" and wanting to plant a knife very firmly in the middle of his head.

One story which effectively showcases both his total irresponsibility and complete disregard for fellow human beings goes a little as follows.

And when you read this story - please bear in mind that this person is 32 and a secondary school teacher.

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It was a Thursday night. I had just spent the night cleaning the house in preparation for The Person who was coming for the weekend. Peter Pan had gone out for the night as it was the beginning of half term and that, to him, means going out and getting hammered (the same could be said for every Friday and Saturday night, staying in for the night was literally the worst thing he could think of).

I got up on Friday morning to go to work and immediately knew something was wrong. Instead of smelling clean and fresh, everything just "seemed" a little grubby in a way that I couldn't put my finger on. I got downstairs and knew that something was most definitely up. The washing up bowl was in the living room which wasn't a great sign, although it was mercifully empty.

The kitchen showed further signs of destruction - a polysterene box of chips was on the floor, and all the jars on the sideboard where strewn about.

And all the time there was a distinctly unclean smell about the place...

I knew what it was. The little shit had got so drunk that he'd been sick when he'd come in and hadn't cleaned it up properly. I immediately began the hunt, checking the kitchen sink and bin first but couldn't find the source of the unpleasantness.

And let us take a moment here to remember that this is happening at 7.15am and I am not a morning person at the best of times.

I was at a bit of a loss. And then I heard it.

The unmistakeable sound of the whirring of the fan in the downstairs toilet, meaning that the light was switched on.

"So help me god, if he's passed out in that toilet, I'm leaving him in there" I told myself.

I took hold of the door handle, bracing myself for the sight of not well cleaned up vomit, and pushed the door open...

Not vomit.

Not vomit all over our toilet.

Not vomit that was the source of the unclean smell.

Not vomit.

Do I need to say what it was or have I hinted enough? If I said that the source of the grossness was not the mouth but an orifice further down south would that be enough?

Yes really.

And the reason it was so horrific? It was not isolated to the toilet bowl. Oh no. It was all over the toilet bowl. And on the floor. And on the walls.

All this was taken in in the 2 seconds it took me to open and then shut the door again.

My first reaction was to go upstairs and literally drag him out of his bed and come and sort the mess out but two things occured to me;

1) Someone who gets so drunk they shit themselves, is not going to be in any fit state to clear up said mess at 7.15am, and

2) If this was the state of the toilet, what on earth might I be faced with in his room?

I settled for leaving the house immediately, meaning I was 45 minutes early for work because I literally could not stay in the house any longer, and leaving that bastion of housemate communication - The Note.

"I don't know what happened here, but I'm not cool with it. Someone needs to literally clean their shit up and it needs to be done by the time I'm back from work."

All day I seethed at work with the outrageousness of the situation and the unbelievable depths of disrespect that Peter Pan had shown his fellow housemates. I kept checking my phone but didn't hear word from him all day which I thought was strange, I expected an apologetic text of some kind but nothing appeared and I started to wonder if he had even got up that day to face his responsibility.

I opened the front door with some trepidation and walked through to the kitchen. Everything appeared restored to normal and the toilet was once again clean. "Well at least he's sorted it" I said to myself and decided that no more would be said about it, he must have been mortified after all.

And then I saw The Note.

My note was still lying on the table, although now, underneath it was scrawled, and I am literally quoting here,

"Like OMG Sorry!!"

Astounding. If I ever needed proof that I was living with someone with absolutely no regard for his fellow human beings this was it. He didn't even realise the enormity of what he'd done.

And where did I see him later that night?

At the pub.

For reals.