Blog: Running Through My Mind
I live alone, except when I have the company of my dog, Wilson, who is a ‘child of a broken home’ and spends half his time with my ex.

I like living alone. It suits me.

Why is the bed never made? And other life’s little mysteries

30/04/2014
I live alone, except when I have the company of my dog, Wilson, who is a ‘child of a broken home’ and spends half his time with my ex.

I like living alone. It suits me.

I can get up at 5am to photograph a sunrise, or get up at 6am to go for a run without disturbing anyone, wander around in my pants, leave the bathroom door open when I am in there, have my breakfast at 11am and my dinner at 3pm if I choose, eat off my knife if I want, drink straight out of the orange juice carton, do yoga in my living room, have full control of the TV remote and listen to the music I want, when I want. I am not saying I do all these things, but I can, if I want. I like knowing that things will still be where I last put them and everything will be done the way I like it. I guess that’s the OCD side of me.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I can’t live with someone else. A good friend of mine lodged with me for just over a year and I loved having the girly company – someone to share a bottle of wine with, to discuss my day with, to watch Made in Chelsea with (yes, I confess I like watching the posh people).

I just also happen to like having my own space.

What I don’t understand is this: if I live alone – and please, anyone else who lives alone back me up on this – why does it come as a surprise when I go to bed and find it has been stripped but not remade? Or why does it come as a surprise when I walk into the kitchen and it looks like there was a controlled explosion in there?

I remember dozens of tasks a day, more if I am at work, and I have multi-tasking down to a fine art. So why do I never remember stripping the bed to put the washing through until I am dog-tired and just want to crawl between the covers; or why do I never remember using every pot, pan, pyrex dish and spoon in the kitchen to make a meal for one until I next venture into the kitchen in search of tea and biscuits?

Is it a form of selective memory? Or just a cruel joke? Or maybe I didn’t strip the bed or use those pans and this is all evidence of the existence of poltergeist?

I would ponder it further; possibly come up with a more sensible conclusion than amnesia or the supernatural for this and other of life’s little mysteries … but I have a bed to make and dishes to wash.