A boyfriend’s for life, not just for Christmas. It’s no good me getting myself a nice cuddly man with whom I can wade through the snow, roast chestnuts and ice-skate in amusing bobble hats.
Because then I am going to be responsible for that boyfriend for a very long time. I should know. These creatures need feeding, they need coddling. They need endless amounts of fuss, and care, and attention. A boyfriend can’t be left in the house for longer than four hours at a time, or I will come home to find he’s been lying in the bath all day and has managed to use up £200 worth of hot water.
He can’t be trusted around food. The cupboards will have to be secured, or I will suddenly discover he has been secretly scoffing every edible thing in the house, including the tins of lobster bisque I was saving for a nuclear holocaust.
He can’t be trusted not to wreck the house by taking things apart in the interests of ‘fixing’ them. No matter how much I try to keep him shut in one room so he doesn’t make a mess, he will find a way to take the bath panel off to find the source of a damp smell and not put it back on …ever.
Above all, a boyfriend cannot be trusted not to start regurgitating all sorts of horrible things I had no idea he had swallowed and not digested, every time he goes on Facebook after I have broken up with him.
I know this, and yet I can’t help myself. It started last month when I was walking the spaniel on Tooting Common. I could feel Christmas in the air, drifting relentlessly towards me. The panic gripped my chest and the thought assaulted my brain: ‘Get a boyfriend! Quick!’
The only other time this happens is the summer holiday season.