My husband is away this week, something that used to happen regularly, but is a post-pandemic rarity. Like, I suspect, many people in long-term relationships, I look forward to a little alone-time (I’m sure he does, too – a few carefree days away from me and my dogmatic, dourly expressed opinions on everything from the correct cup for my morning coffee to radio volume). But how enjoyable is it, really? It’s day five and I realise that, yet again, I’m following my usual six-stage timeline towards total collapse.
1. The purge
Within minutes of the door closing, and without conscious thought, I find myself kneeling in front of the fridge, excavating decomposing and expired matter, tackling the jar graveyard (grey, ancient, pickled beets and luxuriantly furred pesto) and wiping shelves. Next, I move through the kitchen like a whirlwind, taking out bins, sorting recycling, spraying surfaces and putting everything in its place.
Once the kitchen is gleaming, I stalk the rest of the house like a fastidious five-star hotel manager, my gimlet eye hunting out anything jarring: those books aren’t stacked nicely; that throw is wonky; why is there a wrench in the bathroom? I need everything perfect for my fantasy solo life.
2. I love this
I spend the next 36 hours blissfully content in my tidy and tranquil house. I work efficiently with zero interruptions, then enjoy my well-earned relaxation, watching soapy shows about doctors’ personal lives. A reluctant cook in normal life, I prepare elaborate meals (I zest lemons! I toast pine nuts!) and enjoy little treats I source specially. By 8pm, I’m gleefully in pyjamas, fed, flossed and moisturised, my breakfast oats soaking in the pristine fridge. I sleep deeply, uninterrupted by noise or tossing and turning.
All is order and beauty, luxe, calme et volupté (richness, quietness and pleasure), as the poet Charles Baudelaire once wrote (or at least Grey’s Anatomé). This would be my life if I were single, I think, ignoring the fact that, if I were single, I would have been living in a cardboard box since I got made redundant in 2010.
3. Vague unease
It’s quiet; too quiet. I haven’t unwillingly overheard a conference call about tortilla-chip packaging or been interrupted by an update on tortoise drama or attic insulation for so long that I’ve finished all my work, which makes me twitchy. I self-soothe by setting myself a stodgy, chore-heavy schedule, which I recite out loud: “I’ll fold the laundry, water the seeds, make pasta sauce, top up the dishwasher rinse aid, then I’ll watch two episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, then read my book …” When I’m by myself, am I … boring?
4. Things get weird
By day four, I’ve forgotten what “other people” and “conversation” are, since I refuse to socialise, hellbent on making the most of my alone-time. Instead, I’m talking to household appliances, plants and mostly myself. I’m sick of cooking, but ordering in will necessitate 10 seconds of human interaction with the Deliveroo rider, which feels impossible (particularly since I’ve given up on getting dressed – why bother when I’m going nowhere?). Time for “crone dinner”: crisps, half a jar of peanut butter, an ancient cinnamon bun from the freezer, a handful of prunes.
Bored of medical melodrama, I lie on the sofa, second-screening so hard that I enter a fugue state (yesterday, this resulted in me inadvertently sending a TikTok of a woman doing squats to the journalist and author Sathnam Sanghera, whom I do not know at all).
5. I hate this
Awake before five because I went to bed so early, I sit in the eerily silent, tidy kitchen and face facts. Who am I kidding? I’m a relationship lifer; de-skilled for solo living and unfit to be left alone. I need my husband – the only thing standing between me and utter, joyless derangement, it transpires – to come home.
6. ‘Oh. You’re back.’ (Yay)
I’m startled by a cheery: “Woohoo!” accompanied by loud clattering. Coming downstairs with the wary, hostile demeanour of a poorly socialised cat, I glare at the bag my husband has dumped in the hallway and the pile of crap already accumulating on the kitchen counter and give him a frosty peck on the lips, followed moments later by a proper, relieved hug. This will be happening when he gets home tomorrow – I can’t wait.
Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
