S lives in a pretty crappy area of Sydney, notable only for its proximity to the uni he goes to. It is loud and grubby, full of equally loud and grubby teenagers and homeless people. Public transport is rubbish, and the fact that the bus terminal is swarming with security guards as soon as the sun goes down does not put me in a positive frame of mind.

S' home is spread over two levels, and located behind/on top of a shop. His bedroom is the size of my entire apartment, and as the weather gets colder it gets harder to heat - . There's a dance school across the road that is overly fond of Rihanna's "Don't Stop The Music," which, while an awesome song, has gradually taken over the part of my brain that used to tell me how to cook toast and open cans. I'm now SLOWLY STARVING TO DEATH and it's all that dance school's fault.

Also, the supermarket near his place doesn't sell the type of tea I like.

This weekend, S broached the topic of moving in together. Rather than thinking about the practicalities of the matter (is nine months long enough? What about that whole permanent residency thing? Whose microwave would we keep?), is it so wrong that the first thought that went through my mind was "thank god I won't have to come to this fucking suburb every weekend"?