Bachelorhood

It is now one week since the girlfriend was ordered back to London for three months, at the fleeting whim of one of the overlords at the corporate empire for which she works. No doubt her work there will be a role in some appalling plot to extract every last bit of profit from innocent, impoverished locals, probably in the most cartoonishly evil manner possible. Churning orphans into puppy food and then poisoning it or something.

“I don’t work in that area of the company”, she’ll say which sounds like something you’d hear at the Nuremburg trials doesn’t it? “I only drive the trains”.

At first, although hysterical with grief and certain that my heart would burst with longing (she reads this), I’ll admit to a degree of thought that living as a bachelor for three months would not be entirely a bad thing.

I could avoid the nightly torture that is being made to watch Eastenders. Watching this shit-fest since I’ve met her has been a steady drain on my already limited faith in humanity. I’ve found myself starting to nod in thoughtful agreement when I hear about high fatality disasters on the news.

I could have the flat looking how I want. Namely: untouched by human hands in either attempt to decorate or clean. I am far tidier than I used to be, a fact which uniformly horrifies anyone who has seen my office, bedroom or general appearance. The fact that I used to be worse is normally taken as a sign that I once lived in a permanent state of dirty protest. Despite this, my enhanced domestication under her guidance has only reached a certain level. I still fail to understand the need to clean a towel more than once a fortnight. She, on the other hand, would prefer to burn them after use and buy new, whiter, fluffier ones. I still find fabric softener a pointless luxury. I still feel uneasy when everything is bare and ordered. And I still hate fucking Eastenders.

So although I was going to miss her, I wasn’t appalled at the idea of being able to come home from work, strip immediately to my pants, eat something so lacking in basic nutrition that it might as well be a building material and splat into the arse shaped groove on the sofa, not to move until I wake the following day, late for work and caked in my own filth.

It seems though, incredibly, that after several days of this, certain draw backs develop which I don’t remember from my glorious days of bachelorhood. It seems I may have grown accustomed to the benefits of having a feminine touch around the place.

Food for instance. Forgot that doesn’t actually materialise in the fridge. It’s been a week and I’ve already licked all available moss and weeds off of the patio. I tried cooking a couple of days ago but…well it doesn’t matter. This cleaning of clothes business as well. It’s a good job I’m on holiday next week as work were starting to disapprove of my potato sack with plastic co-op bag for shoes ensemble.

And remember the toilet scene from Trainspotting? That’s what the kitchen looks like. I no longer approach the sink unarmed.

In short, I will most likely have returned entirely to nature by the end of the three months. I will be communicating with wild animals, competing for scavenged bin food with stray cats and defacating in the corners of rooms. They will have to reintroduce me into society like that feral boy they found in India who had been raised by wolves.