Narrow

I live with the narrowest man alive and for the purposes of the internets I call him Narrow. I have done since I met him, when I ran into work the next day and squealed to my colleague The Large-Living Texan Goth (not a very concise nickname, I know, but she's not a very concise person), 'OH MY GOD I MET THE NARROWEST MAN ALIVE YESTERDAY!' And that was BEFORE I tried to sleep with my arm slung across his torso, after which experiment I barely kept the use of my hand, the bones in his ribcage having cut off all circulation to my arm in the night.

I'm not sure if he likes the moniker, especially since it spread off the internet and into the real life salutations of my Twitter friends, but until he raises a serious objection (or starts eating lots more pies and butter) I'm going to keep using it because it is both apt and pithy. To me, anyway.

Narrow works for them thar railways, and this means when he comes home his knees are always filthy. Also, he's most adept at installing ceiling fans, and jiggering around with the internet so it is better on his computer and inaccessible on mine.

We also have a large burgundy Chesterfield sofa called Karl. I wanted to call it Horace, but apparently that was too remeniscent of corpulent old aristocrats, to which I respond, yeah duh, that's the point. The sofa is only a two seater because that's all we could get through the door of the apartment, but it is still the biggest thing you've ever seen. He appears deeper than he is wide, an incredible feat of sofa physics. I should become a vegan right now, because for the rest of my life I'll be atoning for the thousands of cows which went into making my sofa.