I’ve said this before but I’ll say it again. When V’s away, I live like a teenage mutant. I’m like an adolescent whose parents have gone out of town. Only I don’t throw wild parties.

Instead I unleash my inner slob. I remove my clothes and sometimes leave them where I’ve stepped out of them. If this is the living room, so be it. Piles of shoes congregate under the coffee table. The said table itself plays host to a collection of half-drunk glasses of water, medication, random paper, chocolate, inexplicable pieces of plastic, hair bands which I can’t find the next day…

For about one day, I attempt to maintain decorum. I even pull the duvet straight instead of leaving it an entangled mess. But it takes 24 hours for fuck-it to set in.

I’ve realised that I would be happier in a serviced apartment. Also because I’m doing a story on serviced apartments. I’ve always liked hotel settings. I like housekeeping. I like someone else pulling my sheets tight. I like non home-cooked food. I adore reception desks and pools. I could stomach a gym.

I also like the idea that the people in the other rooms are as lonely as me.

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