At the ripe old age of 37 and a half, I have finally achieved something I never have before. No, I still can’t drive (legally), and no, I’m still not allowed within 50 feet of Sophie Ellis-Bextor (legally). I’m talking about my living arrangements. You see, I now live alone. It’s very exciting.
From birth up until this point I’ve always had to suffer with co-habiters. From my parents and sister in the early years, to my ex-wife and children more recently, I’ve always lived with someone. There’s always been… someone else there, with all their stuff, and their need for space and privacy. No more.
Aftermath
As revealed in last month’s ‘tell-all’ column about my divorce and mental health problems, I moved out and got myself a rad flat. A bachelor pad. A man cave. A “knocking shop”, according to my mother. Either way, It’s awesome and it’s all mine.
Which is weird, because I’ve never lived anywhere which had been all mine. I can now wander around completely naked and not be assailed by calls of “Howard! My friends are here!”, or “Daddy! Our friends are here!”, or “Sir! Your neighbours have made complaints. Get dressed, or we will arrest you!” Squares.
But as well as enjoying a more casual attitude to clothing, I’ve also discovered that, for the first time ever, I’m quite house proud. Like, little old lady house proud.
Pride cometh…
Obviously, as a cool young gentleman with his finger on the pulsating hub of the zeitgeist, my flat is stocked with brilliant things. I can use my voice to switch on my TV, merely wink at my bin to make it open, and possess a cupboard in my kitchen that is perpetually cold; good for the storage of perishable goods. I’m also on the top floor, lending stunning views over Huntington and Heworth. By God, my breath is taken daily.
Then my kids came round and messed it all up.
They daubed chocolate handprints all over my walls, smeared jam into the hardwood floors, and deposited a treat into my swish toilet that refused to flush, no matter how many times I yanked.
During their first sleepover, I found myself chasing after them, warning them not to crease the leather sofa, bang the sliding mirrors, or bounce on the memory foam mattress (doing so results in memory loss, FYI).
Which was odd to me, because I honestly never cared all that much back in the family home. I never liked living in a dump, so would always tidy and clean up after them. But should ketchup be squirted on the carpets… meh. It was just the floor, in a house I shared with others, that never really felt like mine
Castle Howard
But my flat, my fortress of solitude, is different. All this stuff, this is mine. I and I alone choose the plates I have, instead of simply nodding along in IKEA as my ex-wife placed a box into the trolley I was pushing. ‘Twas I, Howard the ‘Single and very Ready to Mingle’ who selected that house plant, not because it “looked lovely” but because it looked mighty!
After my kids went home, I blitzed the flat with my new mop, new bleach spray, and new robot vacuum cleaner. After several hours, and following several weird and oddly erotic conversations with Google (“Hey Google. What are you wearing?”), the place was mine again: sterile, empty, and quiet.
Home.
Of course, the kids will be back. And obviously, chocolate isn’t going to fall out of favour with them any time soon. Hopefully my house pride will chill somewhat over the coming months, and I’ll come to re-accept a little bit of the chaos that parenting involves.
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