They call me Ellen, they call me Rosie, they call me KD, that's not my name.

So, it's all been a bit whirlwind-ish around TBNIL Towers recently.

I feel like I need to share.

Le Fabulous Parisien blew into my life 5 weeks ago. Since then, we've not spent a night apart. We've not spent an evening apart, not a weekend, not a day. Except when we're working of course. Even then we speak two or three times a day.

I'm starting to think that I may be a lesbian - you know, the whole 'moving in together immediately', 'talking about whether there's room in our lives for a couple of cats', 'shopping for scented candles together' thing.

When I found myself sat on the sofa with him last night in what can only be described as a 'scissor fuck' position, I decided enough was enough.

I turned off the TV (we were watching Arrested Development on DVD and appreciating Portia de Rossi - I kid ye not) and demanded we go do something butch, manly, macho.

We went for a cocktail. I know, it's not very butch, but I was reassured...if we truly had turned into lesbians then we'd have gone for a pint of guinness and an arm wrestle, so all's well on that front. I shan't be drinking from the hairy cup for the near future.

Anyway, me and FP. What's it all about?

Well, it's kind of weird.

He's been back from Montréal for a few months and has been sharing with a friend. His stuff is still all chez the friend (which leads to many huffy 'where's my shirt' moments) but he is chez moi.

Above all he desperately needs to find his own place. Neither living with me, nor sharing with his friend is ideal. He's looking but the Paris real estate market is difficult, to say the least. To get my apartment, the company had to pay a year's rent in advance - that was the only way to get straight to the top of the list.

That said, he has two viewings today so hopefully one of those will work out.

It's not that I don't love having him at my house - I truly do.

Because he doesn't work every day like me there are advantages to him being around...he cooks my dinner most evenings, the house is the cleanest and tidiest that it's ever been and there's always food in the fridge.

I love knowing that he'll be waiting on the sofa when I walk through the door. And I know that he'll always have something ridiculous, hilarious or stupid to tell me. Seeing his dopey face when I walk through the door makes my day.

But he still needs to move into his own place.

We both agree that if this is going to stand any chance of lasting, then we both need some space.

Having no time to myself leaves me exhausted, tired, overwraught and fatigued. I'm sure it's the same for him too.

I'm not a natural sharer. I could be, but I need time. Let's hope he gets his own place soon.

Meanwhile, I'll put up with his tidiness, his great cooking and his bedroom demands.

I mean really, it would be churlish not too...