A Moving Account
The identity of a bachelor is defined by his lifestyle. And his lifestyle, like that of a frog, is characterised by his occupancy of a pad. The words ‘bachelor’ and ‘pad’ go together as comfortably as ‘jilted’ and ‘lover’ and ‘jealous’ and ‘husband’ in fact, a padless bachelor, is merely a bloke.
In view of this sentiment, it was with a sense of mounting gloom that I was forced, this week, finally to acknowledge that the woeful state of my lodgings could no longer be ignored.
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Mr. Patel and I have had a three year association, which in the main has been fairly matey. Gradually though, it has emerged that he is distinctly reluctant to spend one penny of my punitive rent on halting the property’s steady decline into decrepitude. In the fullness of time this disinclination on his part has persuaded me that a parting of the ways is indicated. Thus I have spent the week addressing the soul sapping task of acquiring new digs.
Why not buy a place? Chorused my married friends on hearing of my decision to move. ‘It’s cheaper than renting and you can have fun decorating it.’ How little they understand the nature of the bachelor psychology. Home ownership with its mortgages, freeholder meetings and general overtones of settling down, is as corrosive to the spirit of bachelorhood as marriage itself. A bachelor’s pad, like his girlfriend, is selected for being convenient, low maintenance and utterly free from commitment.
Naturally my new abode had to be within easy staggering distance of the town’s late night watering holes and within easy crawling distance of the casino. It needed to be orientated to catch the morning sun too, since in the evening I would be elsewhere. It would need one huge room for impromptu parties and a woman-friendly bathroom. What it would not need though, is a lawn, a potting shed, a wood fired cooking range, or a nursery. Eventually I found what I sought in one of Brighton’s more ostentatious seafront squares. To transfer my chattels and install Horace my enormous cheese-plant was the work of an afternoon. The same evening saw me happily dozing on the sofa grateful for having weathered the storm. The feckless avoidance of responsibility is an exhausting business. But it’s worth it.
