Why freelancers who live alone will end up dirty, fat, crazy and friendless

Posted on Nov 24, 2013 in Me | 0 comments

Andy flew back to Munich early Sunday morning after a three day visit, leaving me with a week of packing up my life here in Spain before flying out to London Friday morning. A goodbye dinner with some friends is scheduled in for Thursday night but bar that, nothing. Malaga is one of those cities where most people come for just 6-12 months. As a local for nearly 10 now it means I’ve been through an entire cycle of making new friends and saying goodbye to them and with leaving soon I can’t be bothered to make any more. The remaining crew have actual jobs and I have a lot to do before I leave. I’ll use the time of being alone, in my house, with my work, until Thursday night to be super productive.

Yah. Right.

I head to my favourite cafe where I sit all day. They don’t mind, they know me. People buzzing around is nice but the house is cold and quiet when I get back. I grab my second pizza of the year because the fridge is empty and curl up on the couch. It’s been a long time since I watched an episode of Californication…

Californication is seriously such a good show. I watch it while ‘eating lunch’ and then again after making a big dinner. I’ve emailed a couple of people today, done some serious work on an event I’m managing and now, maybe, will head to bed to do some reading…

I say all this to myself. Out loud. In the kitchen as I dump saucepans and plates into the sink. Before looking around my empty apartment to see if anyone heard me.

Crazy, tick.

Monday Again

(I just worked out exactly how many days it’s been since this experience started and despite the math assuring me it’s been less than 48 hours, it feels like it was at least a week ago that Andy left. So I’ve added in two Mondays to balance things out a little.)

Some friends from Munich are in town and message at 11:30pm to say they’re going out for drinks and I should come. I’m in bed already. Not up on my third gin & tonic ranting about men and the impending planets’ doom to whichever Flatmate is naive enough to accept the second glass of wine as usual. In bed. With zero gumption to get out of it despite the fact that I haven’t seen another soul who knows to call me by name since Saturday night. Which feels like a week ago even though it’s technically only yesterday. Maybe tomorrow? I text.

Friendless, tick.


For some reason I (or someone) bought low grade cookies and cream ice cream a few months ago and put it in my freezer. Two tubs. I’m a cookies and cream ice cream snob. I haven’t touched those icicles masquerading as delicious goodness for the entire four months they’ve been squatting in my freezer.

Except that as I write this I’m sitting on my bed, (bra off, the only indication my outfit gives that it’s bed time not work time) hoeing into three scoops. I’m not eating because I deserve it. I already ate half a chocolate block this afternoon and a little more for good measure after dinner. I’m eating cos I’m bored. Shoveling frozen cream with crappy chocolate bits littered through it is keeping me from the silence that will soon descend around my ears as I think myself to sleep so I can spend all day tomorrow alone again.

Fat, tick.

There’s three days washing up in the kitchen and the thought of having to clean a frypan stops me eating breakfast until midday. A coffee pot spills on the floor and I just leave it there, intending to do a ‘big clean’ before the landlord comes at 11am the next day. Come to think of it, I think there’s a plate of ice-cream under my bed…

Dirty, tick.

Season 3 of Californication is pretty good though.

Bit of light reading over your coffee?