I think I’d like a girlfriend for Christmas.
I know, I know I should be a fabulous, independent woman: shakes tits aggressively. The thing is, I’d love to have someone to shake my tits at. And not just temporarily for a few nights or months but in a long-term, soft, loving sort of way; more like a very gentle tit wagging in front of the telly.
I’d like a partner for all the usual reasons – the kisses and head stroking and lazy late night cuddles – but also for the less usual reasons, the practical reasons, that tend to be forgotten in an age where everyone’s googly-eyed with romance.
Sure, it’s nice to have someone to hold hands with in the cinema but what about someone who can write a really superb angry complaint letter? And yes, I like surprise flowers as much as the next person but what about surprise home insurance renewal? Or surprise fixing of the boiler? “Surprise! I checked land registry records and you do own the extra 3 feet of garden you’ve been cultivating into a tiny orchard.” “THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU, YOU’RE THE MOST HELPFUL HUMAN I’VE EVER MET, PLEASE MARRY ME.”
Maybe I’ll start a range of really honest wedding cards:
Congratulations on finding someone to freak out with when a huge poo gets stuck in your loo
Hooray! No more sexually transmitted diseases unless they cheat
Mrs & Mrs & a whole bunch of tax breaks.
Congratulations on your marriage! Now people are more like to visit your grave because it feels like less of a hassle to visit two dead friends rather than one.
There are times when I feel with a painful pang this lack of another person in my life. Like when I get sick one weekend, the kind of sickness that upends bottom and bowels and leaves you weeping into the toilet bowl. I shuffle from bed to bog and back again with my dribbly arse and wish desperately that I had a contractual arrangement that would force someone to, literally, take responsibility for this shit. Or, at the very least, go get more food so I don’t have to strategically time trips to the supermarket in between poos.
Or the times when I have someone round who’s thinking of renting my second bedroom and I worry because it’s a man. What if he attacks me? The belligerent single woman in me thinks I CAN PROTECT MYSELF but the truth is I can’t. The only exercise I do are dance lessons. What am I going to do, stun him into submission with a wobbly 3-minute sequence to Lady Marmalade? Hip thrust my way to safety? It’s times like this when I feel intensely vulnerable, when all the romantic claptrap and fanfare seem so arbitrary against the basic human need just to feel safe. I don’t need a hero in my life, but sometimes I’d really like a heroine.
So there it is. This Christmas, I’d like a girlfriend who can write complaint letters, renew my home insurance, fix my boiler, check land registry records, look after me when I have chronic diarrhoea and hide in the cupboard with a knife when I’m showing strange men round my house.