Fending for Myself

At first, I was daunted at the thought of living on my own. For the previous sixty years of my life I had no need of the rocket science necessary to operate a washing machine, nor the skilful dexterity necessary to neatly fold a fitted bed sheet. When it came to it, I was relieved to find that what I required of myself wasn’t nearly as challenging as I had feared.

The trick is to not be a perfectionist. I learnt that lesson early on and have stuck to the principle rigorously. Another thing I’ve realised is that lots of chores I always assumed to be essential aren’t always even necessary, and can be dispensed with completely. Ironing is one such mystic art that I do not concern myself with; I find that wrinkled clothes not only match my complexion, they also suit my personality.

Regular cleaning is another concept I have debunked. Working out the frequency at which it should be performed confused me to begin with, but I have refined a strategy whereby I can tell when it needs doing by the prominence of the patterns my daily activities have left in the dust on my furniture. My rule is to do something about it within one month of it starting to bother me. My wall calendar enables me to keep track of how long I have exceeded my deadline by.

Cooking seems to be my biggest problem area. Co-ordinating varying cooking times so that everything crosses the finishing line simultaneously can only be coped with when the variants are no more than two in number. Having no one else here to vent my temper on means I need to avoid losing it, so I try to keep things as simple as possible. This makes maintaining an interesting diet difficult, but thanks to patient advice from a much appreciated source, I feel I am making steady progress. Seldom in my life have I felt more proud than when I achieved my first edible risotto.

All in all I don’t think I’m doing too badly. My daughter was amazed; she expected me to be living in squalor and popping out to McDonald’s every night. I think she’s impressed.