This would be a terrible time of year to break up with a partner; it’s nearly Christmas and my blender has packed in.
We’re NOT breaking up. Nor is this a ‘conscious uncoupling’. He’s just moving out for a bit.
Personally, I blame the Tories. The government’s inability to cap London rent has resulted in us sharing a room no bigger than a cupboard for the last six months. There are shelves in Smeg fridges with more breathing space than our room.
We waited until we’d nailed Sopranos Series 5 and then we had ‘the conversation’. For the sake of Tony and Series 6, we were going to make this work.
A bit of space. It’s what everyone in this polluted city craves, innit? Space to swing a cat. Space to do a smelly trump without offending. Space to fry an omelette without waking your lover’s slumber, two inches from the hob.
“OK, I agree. Space is what we need. Move out for a bit...
but leave your Kenwood Gourmet FP505 blender and juicer, babe. Yeah?”
And now, it’s a bit weird. A mixture of loneliness and freedom. The best of both worlds? Or the worst? I’m not sure.
He left during a three day game of Trivial Pursuit. The board lies unfolded in the tiny, designated eating area by the window. My swelling pie, a daily reminder that I can never quite keep a man. But I CAN rest in the knowledge that I am thoroughly schooled in Geography, Entertainment and Sports and Leisure. (Every cloud).
Initially, I relished the partying ‘til dawn, once more. Barging in (loudly now) as the shop below laid out its Christmas trees for the morning trade. But then I awoke to the boyf’s weekly coffee delivery that I had ordered for his birthday. The inscription on the label taunting my whisky-fuelled brain:
“Enjoy these beans Broseph. Love from Lolly: light of your life”.
I’m weighing what this all means in my head. Here are the good points of living alone again:
The return of Tom Yum Sum Noodles (from a packet) and Double Wank Sundays.
Leaving the washing up.
Watching shit model documentaries and generally being a base human being: lying unwashed, amongst crumbs of Discos (Salt and Vinegar) and Wheat Crunchies (Crispy Bacon).
Coming home to an empty house.
Determining what needs washing by the sniff test (instead of the delicate, holding up to the light technique).
Not having to watch rugby.
Munching on two advent calendars instead of one.
But here are the bad points, in all their shitty glory:
Not seeing chest hair on a daily basis.
Not nestling my face in chest hair.
Not running my fingers through chest hair.
Not seeing him.
Not eating with him.
Not hearing about his day, as he tears through the fridge in search of cured meats. (As he slowly remembers that he’s not Tony Soprano).
Coming home to an empty house.
Not being able to relay my tragi-audition stories through the medium of interpretative dance. And feeling loved.
Washing half a load of clothes and consequently SCREWING THE ENVIRONMENT.
Waking up amongst a crumby pile of Walkers (Prawn Cocktail) and Wheat Crunchies (Crispy Bacon).
So, the next time I see him, it’s going to be as his Date on DATE NIGHT.
I’m out of touch. Do I shave my legs? My Foof? Do I talk about my achievements and twirl my hair seductively? Do I laugh in the right places and let him buy the first drink? Do I tempt him back to my gaff with the promise of a blowie and some (newly blended) carrot and cumin soup? Do I make him breakfast? And hang on…who's washing the dishes?
I’m nervous. But then it wouldn’t be a proper date without nerves, would it?
The only given here, is that I WILL be caning his ass in our unfinished game of Trivial Pursuit. Let’s hope that we both have the stomach for a rematch.
Universal love and (more importantly) The Sopranos-Series 6 are counting on us.