I sleep naked. That’s right, keep reading. But I share a flat with seven people. Someday, I’m going to have my own place and go to the bathroom at 3 a.m. with nothing but my birthday suit on. Until then, I use the sheet; it’s always easier to find than proper clothes.

It was nice to walk into a situation in which several people from varying backgrounds would be forced to meet me, nude sleeping and all. Halfway around the world and not knowing a single person could have been a lonely way to start a semester. But this way, I knew seven people.

I even remembered all of their names by the first day of class.

But with eight people in one house, this place gets a lot of traffic. With Neil throwing pajama parties for random pink-pajamaed women and the rest of us occasionally setting out three or four pairs of shoes around the lounge room, and then pretending that each pair is occupied by a celebrity, a lot of dirt is tracked in.

I don’t think it helps that the newly renovated section of university housing that I occupy has a sandpit instead of a lawn, a beach without all of the perks of the actual ocean.

As I was checking in, the manager assured me that the garden was the very next thing to get done. I was actually a little upset by that, considering that I still don’t have shelves in my room.

Priorities are priorities. The tradies (tradesmen or worker dudes in Aussie-speak) must have been fooled by the big box that is designed to hold shelves hanging over my desk. They just failed to notice that the good parts, the actual shelves, are still in hiding.

I was also a little put out when I learned that only the girls have mirrors on the backs of their closet doors. It seemed sexist in an odd way that the females would be supplied with a handy personal mirror in which they could check their hair or makeup. But I figured it wasn’t so important as to require a march, or a petition, so I would let it slide. I am only going to be here for six months.

But then a flatmate dropped the bombshell — he had a mirror! So, I’m thinking, why would they single out this guy for a mirror? But no, I come to find out that they singled out me to be the only one in the whole place without a mirror.

It’s not really like I need one. I can’t do anything with my hair anyway (see photo), and my face just looks like my face, so it’s really a matter of principle. I let the shelf issue slide, but this was the final straw.

OK, I still didn’t march or start a petition. But last week, I lost my keys (don’t play drunken sand volleyball after midnight) so I had to go to the office. I took the opportunity to walk straight up to the portly manager, look down onto his crew cut, and say, “How much trouble do you think it would be to get some replacement keys?” I had to wait until those keys were in hand before I could risk a full confrontation.

All right, I’m not much on confrontation, but I did find a nice lady who talks regularly to the architect in charge of renovations, and I am expecting some tradies any day now. I only fear they will come in the morning and I will be left dealing with the nudity problem.

I’ve been careful to be considerate of my flatmates on that issue so far. And they have all proven to be pretty considerate also. Just Monday evening we joined forces and cleaned the whole place. I write this with the scent of lemon wafting in from the common area.

Eight people do make quite a mess in the kitchen, though. Using an average of three meals prepared by each person every day — my five daily meals and Brody’s addiction to Subway serve to cancel out — that is 168 meals a week.

We just cleaned, and I know that within three days, I will be sniffing around the kitchen trying to isolate that dead kangaroo smell.

It’s not any single person’s fault. That’s just the way things go with such a crowd.

Crumbs pile up and next thing you know, there’s a scratchy voice coming from behind the fridge, saying that it wants to be called “Papa” and fed beefsteak.

Don’t you love university life?