..although not so far away from my beloved house on Cypress Road. I live now with a life coach / theatre designer Emma Wee (yes, that IS a real surname and yes, this is the right spelling), who's one day going to make a clean sweep of all the titles handed down by The Great British Bake Off, thus in preparation sifting through all the recipes in Merry Berry's and Paul Hollywood's baking bibles, and sabotaging my gluten-free diet with a constant supply of succulent brioches, devious profiteroles and evil lemon drizzle cupcakes.

Emma has a son, whom I started an innocent love affair with.

His name is Alfie, he's 2.5 years old and several times a night screams for "heeeeelp" on top of his lungs. His favourite pass time activity is jumping on my bed with no pants on (weirdly enough Emma DID NOT find it even mildly amusing when I told her I was used for guys rubbing a naked bottom on my sheets, just usually aim for at least a few years older). His latest addition to a whole array of socially awkward behavioural patterns is to run full speed to embrace me from behind (more often naked than not) and passionately bury his face in between my bum cheeks, usually when I'm washing the dishes so I can't even do anything but exchange a very uncomfortable eye contact with his mum.

The house is a fine balance between a homey and chaotic, with the light in the kitchen flickering, a loose board in a floor I never fail to step onto and fall flat on my face, the world's most minuscule bathroom where the light does not work at all, so one need to light a flickering candle, plus it's so cold that putting on the shower produces swirling fluffs of steam making it a fitting setting for a ghostly serial killer attack.

Bursting with theatre designs, peculiar toys, books and baking instruments, it resembles Pratchett's Nanny Ogg's rural cottage and all of this belongs to the most insane couple of cats that allow us kindly to co-habit. Izzie (from Tristan and Isolde) is the slutty sultry one, (Errol)Flynn is just really dumb and so used to sneaking into my room to sleep on my bed, that he bashes at my door relentlessly 3am making me dreading a ghostly visitation, yowling angrily when I lock my door.

Only like twenty minutes into our first meet-up at Emma's house she said "I feel good about this, should we sign the contract?" I went to a nano-second long stupor thinking the grown up thing to do would be to ask several dozens more questions, the right thing to do would be ask for a time to think this through, the reasonable thing to do would be to do more viewings, maybe write down pros and cons to evaluate and do the right decision.

And then something unexpected happened: I jumped the wave of chaos swooping through my life since about a year ago, and rode it away from logical reasoning.

I signed, shook hands, and moved in quite appropriately on 1st January 2015.

We bonded the first night over this ingenious drinking game that Emma developed, and which is centered around one of the most painful, yet still mysteriously NOT CANCELLED TV shows "Revenge", that she most affectionately calls "Revengay". Basically you pour yourself a glass of wine, put the program on, brace yourself for the worst and take a sip every time there's a particularly bad acting (nonstop), bad writing (always), a bizarre choice of wardrobe, overly botoxed face or a meaningful evil stare (all the **cking time). In the effect you get through a bottle of wine easily before the first advert break.

There are the otherworldly noisy neighbours upstairs with a child possessed by Satan, who screams and jumps around so much books are actually physically flying of my shelves. There are cats as weird as to jump on the toilet and drink the soapy water from my bath (when I'm actually in) or run back and forth the marathon in a hallway for HOURS during the night time. SO it's not perfect.

But it's mine. A first decision I made in almost 8 years just purely for myself, with only myself in mind,

and I'm embracing the chaos.