My pidge partner never collects his post. I understand this shouldn’t feature significantly in my life. But Alan’s contempt for correspondence really grates. You see, however you approach it, Alan and I have an extremely intimate relationship. I cannot help but feel betrayed. The increasingly ostentatious stack of letters crammed into the narrow pigeonhole is toying with me. They are a constant reminder of the apathy of my non-existent penfriends. Each day a new envelope peeks an enticing corner out into the post-room. Each day the green shoots of my hope are sliced to pieces by the strimmer that is Alan’s enormous popularity. Dear Alan. Dearest darling Alan. Fuck Alan.
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Maybe I’m being unfair on the old chap. He could be bed-bound by illness. He might be engaged in a race to patent a multimillion pound discovery. Perhaps he is the fictional front for a network of university fee fraudsters. Whatever – it’s because of Alan that I have become an unintentional stalker. I know what you’re thinking. Horrendous excuse mate, you can’t accidentally stalk someone. Call the cops Jimmy, we’ve got ourselves a confession. But it’s true – without conscious effort I know which societies he’s part of, who he banks with, where he lives, the names of his family and friends, and which groceries he buys. That last one isn’t true. But it could have been if I’d opened the Tesco coupons. His unread Christmas cards haunt my dreams.
Alan got me thinking. This whole sharing thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, I think teaching a small child to share is morally wrong. You become the tremor behind the modern wave of unjustifiable chumminess. We must all learn to empathise, they say. Sharing is the first step towards kindness. Compromise is essential for a happy life. What they don’t tell you is how the amount of intimacy in your life will creep up and up to a perilous level. Then you realise you’ve been sharing a toothbrush for a week, you don’t know whose pants you’re wearing, and that your boundaries have gone the way of Jeremy Hunt’s credibility.
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It starts with the shared kitchen. It’s not the gradual merging of utensils and equipment. That’s almost endearing. No, it’s when you see dirty washing-up adorning the sink and receive an insight into the exact contents of your neighbours’ intestines. A rummage through the fridge becomes a series of 50 year health forecasts. Steak, cheese and chocolate mousse? Good luck mate.
Don’t even mention bathrooms. There are no secrets left when you’re breathing air which is 60% human. People have been accused of cannibalism for less. I encountered a sink the other day which was blocked by pasta, washing up liquid and clumps of hair. My life flashed before my eyes. What had I done to deserve this? It was as if I had plumbed the depths of the owner’s soul, and it had been found wanting. At the very core of their being was a slimy mound of fusilli.
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Noone really wants to feel like Sherlock twitching and blinking his way towards dark personal secrets. Sometimes you’ve got to grit your teeth and put up with a bit of unpleasant closeness to keep life running smoothly. But if you do decide to do intimacy, take my advice and avoid the bed. Sharing a sleeping venue is an unfathomable enigma of engineering. Formulating a mutually comfortable position requires feats of strength, flexibility and architectural ingenuity that would have won the admiration of the classical world. It’s in the name: single bed. It ain’t designed for two. Assorted limbs hang off various edges in unsightly ways. Apparently there are people who can reach orgasm purely from the feeling of damp laundry tenderly brushing against the soles of their feet.
I am not one of those people. Take my advice. Shun intimacy. Withdraw from society. Sharing is a one way street towards the abyss.
