Single File: In a new series about living alone, the comedian Priscilla Robinson bemoans the lack of surprises

I have just started living on my own. I can tell it is going to have a distinct monotony. Now the dirty dishes are all mine. There are nobody else's to complain about. It is always my turn to clean the bathroom and take out the bins, unless I have just done it, but in that case it will still be my turn next time.

It is not going well. On Friday I nearly gassed myself. There is too much to remember: first you turn it on, second you light it. I didn't notice the place was still cold, but I did wonder what the hissing was. I had already finished burning my sausages, so it couldn't have been them. Did you know it is possible to both burn and undercook sausages at the same time? You just have to do it fast enough. It is still possible to eat them. You just have to do that fast enough too. My tip is to concentrate on the extra-crunchy skin and try to ignore the tang of uncooked pig gristle.

For me one of the most troublesome aspects of living alone is that there are no surprises, or at least very few. There is, of course, the surprise of leaving the immersion on all day, the leaking ceiling and the inept workman who leaves smouldering butts and his bootprints on the rugs, but these are predictable by now - and already happened when I shared. Maybe a real surprise will be when the leak moves left a bit and hits the television.

The monotony of sharing is different, because it is fundamentally linked to surprises. The surprise of your flatmate's biggest-ever pile of dirty dishes or, one day, the surprise of her having cleaned everything, even my pile. And, of course, the surprise of not knowing what surprise it will be tonight.

People were not meant to live together, if you believe Morrissey. But if you live alone you have to work pretty hard to entertain, distract, fight with and comfort yourself. You need to develop the voices in your head. An internal monologue was something I heard about in college, something from Shakespeare. Now I need all the interior monologues I can get.

It's good I'm not fussy: I will happily listen to myself talk about most things. I don't even have to be coherent. Just a bit of enthusiasm and a range of topics. Actually, I don't even think I need a range of topics, more a variety of approaches to the central subject: me.

My mother always said it was boring to talk about yourself too much, which is why it was good to have flatmates to talk about instead.

There are some good things about living alone and talking about yourself to yourself. You won't bore anyone else. You might eventually bore yourself. But the payoff is diversion. You probably won't notice this new boredom, because you are so happy to be distracted from what you were already bored with: shopping for one, cleaning for one, burning sausages for one.

The choice of approach is always yours. Today I discussed the word "fend" - meaning to look after, especially oneself. To distract myself further from my life as a monologue I made it a dialogue, playing my flatmate too.

Me: "I'll go first."

Flatmate: "I was taking that for granted."

Me: "I was thinking how that word 'fend' even sounds a bit forlorn."

Flatmate: "Yes, but it also sounds sturdy."

Me: "Pollyanna!"

Flatmate: "What is the name for that grammatical thing where the word sounds like its meaning?"

Me: "Diversion!"

Flatmate: "Name it and shame it!"

Me: "I'd have a better conversation at a dinner party!"

Flatmate: "You don't even get invited to crap ones."

Maybe I'll get better at living alone, and the quality of these exchanges will improve. Somehow, I don't expect that living alone will suit me, but then neither does living with someone. Maybe it is life that doesn't suit me. Sounds like something to discuss.

• Next Tuesday: shopping for one