The Pursuit

Lolly JonesComment
He left during a three day game of Trivial Pursuit. My swelling pie; a reminder that I can never quite keep a man.
moustache man

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.