Flatmates are disgusting. What would it take to fall in love with one? | Emma Beddington

You'd have to ignore the hair-clogged plughole for a start. But I guess that's where pheromones come in

Home alone last week, I did what I only do in private: flipped open my laptop and surreptitiously signed up to another unnecessarily complex streaming service to watch the romcom series The Flatshare. It's not that I think enjoying romance is shameful; I just live with someone whose comfort viewing skews to stuff exploding and Kevin McCloud raising an eyebrow at architraves.

I adore a good romcom, but the reviews were adamant: The Flatshare is not that. I switched off my limited critical faculties and surrendered to a fondue-gooey viewing experience. It has a sketchy plot, damp-squib sexual chemistry and supporting characters limited to one personality trait, as if rationed. Then there's the loopy premise: the leads share a flat and a bed (one gets it during the day, the other at night) without meeting. Fine by me.