This Summer has went in really quickly, and I guess that's how Summer should go. It feels just now like it's winding down, what with the days becoming shorter and the longing to get back to the old routine.

I actually miss the routine for once, since this whole summer has been an endless string of working and debauchery in other people's homes. The old routine of the Rev Brigade, based around visiting the same clubs on the same night of every week, has been usurped by drinking copious bottles of wine in unfamiliar locations, courtesy of the holidaying friends and relatives of Housesitters Anonymous.

Housesitters Anonymous is the collective name of Robert, Ange and I. The whole summer, we've lived in other people's houses, used their televisions, raided their fridges, drank from their glasses, shat in their toilets, spilt booze on their carpets, searched their cupboards and drawers and lost their pets. Although this has been fun, there has been no real structure to the Housesitters Anonymous – how can there be, when all our boozing was based on opportunity (and the surprising selection of wines in Aldi)? Also, for no good reason, it was just the three of us most of the time.

So perhaps that's what I miss most: the people I haven't been able to see. I think that the old routine may correct this. Certainly, I'll have my uni buds back, but after the entire summer of having most of my other friends missing-out-of-action. The Rev Brigade built up after the end of summer last year, and so history may repeat itself. At least now everyone's talking. It's almost like the beer has finally evaporated from our clothes.

Over the summer, I haven't been completely alone – I've met loads of new people at work whom I can fraternise with and stalk. Because I work in a fancy-ass restaurant for millionaires, some of the regulars speak as if they're living in a novel. I've been reading a Huxley novel over the Summer - taking my time over it while reading other books in between - and I've noticed parallels between reality and this other world, set among the upper classes of early 20th Century London. In text, it fits, but in reality, the needlessly formal, measured language can be at times hilarious, and sound as if it has been mulled over for hours to get the tone and word order just right.

A simple description of horse racing by one of the snobs came out of his mouth as a slightly slurred, derogatory poem: "What is there to understand? There are four legs, a tail, a jockey – some try, some don't."

Either the novel or reality, or possibly a combination of both, has affected me, essentially turning me into one of them - in Kathy's eyes anyway. Apparently, this manifests itself fully when I'm very drunk, such as the night I got wasted at work and couldn't recall getting home. I lay on the floor, in my winter coat (remember this is in Summer), and as I vomited red wine boak all over the kitchen, I told Kathy not to worry about the mess: "the staff will clean it up."

On further reflection, this is just one isolated incident among many; I'm affected by novels, films, music and - I assume, by extension - any other form of media. I don't mean simply listening to sad music when I'm sad, happy music when I'm happy and Joni Mitchell when I can't decide between either of these primary-colour emotions.

The most basic example is when I'm walking and listening to music: an aeroplane is mentioned, and I see a one trailing across the sky; a colour is mentioned, and someone wearing the mentioned colour walks past me – you get the picture. When I read a novel, occasionally there will be similar events or themes in my own life. Further, tragically, I find that my life is reflected in part by the outlandish plotlines in Hollyoaks. I wonder where this consonance comes from: whether it's predestined, in that I have some higher link with Sarah Barnes (God forbid); consequential, in that I'm affected by what I see, and essentially create the first steps in establishing this consonance; or that I'm mental, and none of the events I hear, see or read about have any correlation with my own life, and I'm just making it up in my own head.

If I'm correct in either of my latter ideas, then I would surely be affected regardless of what I was exposed to. Similarly, if it was the first option, I would either be controlled by some higher power into reading the books I am predestined to read; or there are other novels and music which deal with the experiences Bukowski and Joni Mitchell don't cover, and I'm just missing them. Anyone up to date on the plot of Emmerdale?

Then again, as a British student, perhaps I shouldn't give too much thought to the chance of being inexplicably linked to the British student characters in a soap opera. Just because they're going back to uni at the same time as me doesn't mean there are little green men watching my every move - but that kind of thinking is just a little too rational for me.