After many years of being single, I think I’ve finally discovered the strongest argument for having a partner.
Flat-pack furniture.
Nobody mentioned this. I’ve heard plenty about companionship, emotional support and having someone to share your life with. But nobody ever said, “At some point you’re going to buy a bookcase and the instructions will suddenly require a second human.”
And IKEA are at least honest enough to draw the second person in the instructions. Bit late by then, though. You’ve already bought it. You’re sitting on the floor surrounded by 74 screws and three pieces that all appear to be called B when you turn the page and suddenly there’s another little man. Who is he? He wasn’t on the shopping list. Was I supposed to pick him up in Home Accessories? Because I have the bookcase. I have the Allen key. I’ve even got the little wooden dowels that will somehow still be left over at the end.
I do not have Lars.
So now you’re holding one side up with your knee, balancing the other against the sofa and using your chin for something no chin was designed to do. Then people come to your house afterwards and say, “Is that shelf slightly crooked?” No. It’s bespoke.
And apparently IKEA aren’t the only ones who assume Lars is hanging around. Who exactly is putting zips up the backs of dresses? Because I can get into the dress. I can get most of the way into the dress. But apparently the final three inches require a husband, a lady’s maid or the shoulder mobility of a Cirque du Soleil performer.
Eventually you’re standing in front of the mirror with a coat hanger hooked through the zip thinking, This cannot possibly be what they intended.
Playsuits are even better. We have collectively decided it’s acceptable to sell women an outfit they cannot go to the toilet in without project management. Although women have solved this themselves. How many women have you undressed in pub and nightclub toilets whose names you never knew?
There is a very specific look a woman in a playsuit gives another woman on the way into a cubicle. No words are required. Zip? Of course. Five minutes later she’s back. Again? Turn around.
That’s community.
Forget neighbourhood initiatives. Put twelve women in a bathroom with badly designed clothing and society will rebuild itself. Men have no idea this is happening. Somewhere a man is outside the toilet thinking, Why do women always go in groups? “Because Claire is trapped in her own outfit, David.”
And really, this is when you start to realise you don’t need another person around all the time. You need part-time staff. Nothing extravagant. I’m not asking for a butler. Just one person permanently on standby for all the things manufacturers have decided cannot be accomplished with the standard allocation of two human arms.
Sometimes, though, your part-time staff member doesn’t actually need any useful skills. Apparently they just need to make up the numbers.
Take a dance class. “Everybody pair up!”
Nothing makes adults regress to being twelve years old faster than somebody saying find a partner. You could have been chatting happily to someone for twenty minutes, but the second the instructor says “pairs,” she’s grabbed Margaret and won’t make eye contact with you.
Now you’re doing that little scan of the room. One, two. One, two. One, two. And across the room, another woman is doing exactly the same calculation. Your eyes meet. There you are. Neither of you needs to say it; the numbers have spoken. Apparently you’re doing salsa together.
Restaurants are slightly different. They don’t insist you produce a second person. But every now and then you get the distinct impression it would have made things easier if you had.
“Table for one?”
“Yes.”
It’s the volume they use when they remove the second place setting that gets me. CLANK. There goes the other wine glass. SCRAAAAAPE. Spare chair pushed in. CLATTER CLATTER. Knife and fork removed. Thank you. Could you ring a little bell as well? Maybe make an announcement.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE SECOND DINER IS NOT RUNNING LATE. THERE IS NO SECOND DINER. WE MAY NOW REMOVE THE SIDE PLATE.
After all these years, perhaps I’ve misunderstood the problem. I don’t need a husband. I need somebody to hold this end, zip this up, tell me if that’s straight, look at the back of my hair. I need Lars from IKEA between approximately 3:15 and 3:20 on Saturday afternoons.
There should be an app for this. Not Tinder.
Holder.
You don’t even upload a photograph. Just skills: Good with zips. Owns drill. Tall.
I’d swipe right on that.