A Home of One's Own

First things first, I would like to direct any attention away from me and towards my good friend Ivan's new blog beyondtheironpeak, in which he discusses the various crazies in his head. 

Now, the notion of a living space is one that I have previously touched upon, although that post dealt with the degrading drudgery that is house hunting. This entry is to do with a very personal dream of mine: the dream to live alone. Okay, 'dream' may be too strong a word: a really big fucking desire to live alone puts it more succintly. 

For someone in their early 20s, or actually near-approaching mid-twenties, which is really terrifying, there are several states in which one can live:

1) Living with parents (very likely)
2) Living in a house-share with strangers around your age (pretty damn likely)
3) Living in a tiny flat with a live-in landlady who doesn't let you have guests but does let you listen to her have sex with her partner on Friday and Saturday nights (more likely than you would want to admit)
4) Living with friends (sadly not as likely as it really should be)
5) Living with a partner (come on, who even HAS long-term relationships any more?)
6) Living by yourself (pretty damn impossible).

Okay, it's not THAT impossible. Bypassing the hyperbole, the main obstacle to having a place to myself is cost. That is, I can't afford it. I suppose it's my fault for working in Cambridge, which happens to have the highest average rent outside of London. 

So, removing the cost barrier, why would I choose to live alone rather than live with friends or a partner? Well, because I'm a romantic of course. I have this image, which has undoubtedly been influenced by so many novels, films and biographies of poets in the 1920s, of a small apartment, with a kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, books crammed into every cranny and a delicious turntable and stereo in the corner with stacks of vinyls and CDs. Probably a cat as well, to act solely as a lap warmer. That is my vision of paradise. On no account does this perfect space include a damp problem, bad central heating, shit estate agents, uncaring landlords and a mounting sense of despair and loneliness. 

Yes, I prefer not to involve reality in this dream. Reality would dictate that living alone in perfect contentment is really just as much a raging fantasy as living with someone else in the same state. But dreams are infectious, and the image of the artist being locked in their private world with no distractions is very contagious. The main problem is that it's bulllshit. All of these novels with these sorts of people always involve them somehow acquiring lovers. I should try locking myself in my bedroom and writing poetry all day, I'm sure that hundreds of Parisians will flock to the landing in an instant.

Okay, so maybe this doesn't sound so great after all, but what is the alternative? Spend most of my 20s living with strangers before moving in with a partner? Maybe that is the only choice. Yet it hardly seems like something that can be depended upon. Romance or not, living alone affords the virtue of space, of being fully in one's own skin. 

Also, you get to walk around naked.