There's no place like 'Home'

I am currently in the middle of the first weekend in a month when I have had no plans. Nothing. Not dinner, not drinks, not brunch, no parties, no gatherings, no dates. From lunchtime today until dinner tomorrow when my housemate comes back, it's just me, myself, and I.

Apparently, to many, this is a terrifying concept. I was telling my friend SK, who stayed over for a Girls Night In on Friday, how much I was looking forward to my solitude, and she practically recoiled. 'But what are you going to do? Won't you be lonely?' SK is one of those who, as a matter of course, flood out of London on a Friday night on a crowded train from Paddington and go Home to the familial stronghold for the weekend, to avoid the sheer horror of two whole days, in the city, alone. Now, to be fair, I do this when I've been particularly stressed and want a nice home-made chicken pie, and when I feel that a little bit of countryside might be good for my soul. Sometimes, it's great and I feel rested and refreshed. Other times I come back on a Sunday evening to a slightly musty-smelling flat and a giant pile of laundry, and wish I'd done the sensible thing and stayed at home (small-h) in the capital.

At first I thought that the tendency to return Home at weekends was the preserve of the single girl with family in the Home Counties (pun not intended - I promise), but no. My housemate is happily coupled-up, but still makes the trip about twice a month. My friend R's family are in Scotland and Ireland, and yet she still disappears to spend weekends with them whenever she can. Best Friend L goes home every week as a matter of course, and did even when she had a boyfriend in London.

Now, I quite like my family. I like to visit them, I like spending time with them (for the most part). But I enjoy the solitude of being on my own in the city, and the time that I have to do exactly what I want to do. I can go for a walk, see a movie without negotiating which one, fall asleep on the sofa, read for hours with no interruptions...I mean, I spend most of my week at work surrounded by people, so why is it odd that on occasional weekends I want to spend time all by myself?

This Home-visiting feels to me like some kind of retro throwback, like something out of 'Girls of Slender Means'. The single girl (i.e. without a live-in partner) is still tethered to the family she grew up in. My married friends are not forever going Home for the weekend, because they've established a new one together. Without a resident Significant Other, the single girl who's staring down the barrel of 48 hours with not much to do simply decamps in search of comfortable company.

Actually, maybe the love of weekend solitude and the weekend Home-visiting are just two sides of the same coin. Potentially, one day, all of us single girls will be married with children, and with huge demands on our time from the Home that we've created. Maybe choosing to either go back to the nest or to stay home in our sweats is to be enjoyed now as never before because we can see the day on the horizon when our lives won't be our own anymore. Saturdays will be spent in Ikea, dragging around a screaming three-year-old who refused to leave the house in anything other than a Batman costume. Sundays will consist of sitting in various motorway laybys whilst peering at the map with our spouse and arguing about whether we've missed the exit for Scunthorpe and whose fault it was that the satnav got left behind. And, my worst nightmate, entire Bank Holiday weekends will be spent sitting on a beach in cagoules, in a force nine gale with the rain pouring down, saying cheerfully to our weeping offspring and sulking husband "Aren't we having FUN?" as we picnic on wilting sandwiches and crushed crisps.

You know what? I feel a need for chicken pie and a nice walk on the Ridgeway...

Good Housekeeping?

Last week, I felt amazing. Life was wonderful, and everything was right with the world. This was because I was spending most of my time sitting in a farmhouse kitchen in rural France, watching the sunlight glinting off the Loire and knowing that didn't have to do anything I didn't want to do. It was bliss. Then I had to come back.

My parents were kind enough to drop me off on the way back from Dover ferryport. When my mum asked if she could come in to use the bathroom however, my heart began to race, my palms began to sweat, and knees began to tremble. Despite my exhaustion from the day's travel, I was suddenly filled with the urge to run as far and as fast in the other direction as possible.

Even in the modern world, it seems that women tend to be burdened with the housekeeping. In fact, it seems that once a woman is a fully-fledged adult, she apparently starts to be judged on her home. I have internalised this to quite some degree, and will always clean up for visitors in case they go home and decry my hideous squat of a house afterwards. I will clean especially thoroughly for my pathologically obsessed, hypercritical (about cleanliness, at least) mother, who can see pieces of dust which even electron microscopes would have trouble picking up. It will come as no surprise that my mother believes that those who do not come up to her standards live in squalor - me very much included.

Nor is she shy about 'helping' with the situation. One day last year, she went into my kitchen to put the kettle on, and decided to start spraying surfaces with Dettol and de-crumbing under the toaster. She couldn't understand why I was so insulted. Once when I was at university she came to visit, and the first thing she said as she stepped into my hallway was "Hm. You haven't vacuumed."

On this occasion, though, my fears seemed to be unjustified. Even though I was utterly convinced she'd refuse to leave until I'd let her fumigate the entire flat, everything was fine. "Wow", I said to my housemate, "she's finally learned to keep her thoughts to herself!"

The next day she called me offering to send me some Flash Bathroom and Kitchen cleaner.

Travels with an Over-Independent Suitcase

For the last few days, I've been in Dublin visiting my parents. My dad took a job there, so they've rented this fancy apartment in the south of the city and as I was dying to get out of London for a bit, I invited myself to stay. About a week before I went, my dad offered to send me money to get a cabin-sized bag, so I wouldn't have to check a bag and then wait around at baggage claim. 'No thanks', I said, 'I'll borrow one'. This is how I ended up going away with a suitcase that is quite possibly possessed by Satan.

This suitcase is very well-traveled. Last week, it went to Frankfurt with my friend R, to whom it actually belongs. The week before that, it went to Amsterdam with our mutual friend C. And of course, it has just returned from Dublin. I think all this globe-trotting has given it ideas above its station. It does not realise that it is a mere receptical for clothing and suchlike. It has become something of a prima donna.

The suitcase does not like corners, and is apt to swing out in unexpected directions. The suitcase does not like bumpy floors or lumpy pavements. The suitcase does not appreciate being jolted over kerbs, and will attempt to hurl itself into the path of the Dublin air coach in protest at such rough treatment. The suitcase goes where it wants to, oblivious to the fact that its handler is desperatley trying to stop it scattering toddlers as it hurtles merrily around Heathrow Terminal 1. The suitcase very definitely does not like the street that I live on, and attacked my left leg mercilessly all the way along to illustrate this point.

I'm going away to Siena next month. I'm buying my own cabin bag.