If a single woman in her late 30s declares that she enjoys living on her own and savours the feeling of independence it gives her, she generally receives the Adrea Dworkin seal of approval and a write-up in Cosmopolitan. However, unless he has taken Holy Orders, a late thirtysomething man expressing similar Garboesque sentiments is usually pigeonholed by Society as some sort of weirdo.
The fact is, we late 30s single men, weirdoes included, find ourselves in an awkward chrysalis stage. We are regarded as too old to be Jack the Lad, "playing the field", but still too young to have metamorphosized into a safe, confirmed old bachelor, à la Inspector Morse. So, whereas fathers used to look at me with an accusatory "You have come to seduce my daughter" expression, this is now largely replaced by "Why haven't you seduced my daughter?"
Well, for one thing, I am not looking for another long-term relationship. I have tried it more than once, but, like a Blur tee-shirt or a Mohican hairdo, it simply does not seem to suit. Living alone, on the other hand, does. I can drop everything at a moment's notice and head out to the pub or cinema without having to explain myself to anyone. It is now me who decides exactly how many inches of dust should be allowed to gather before it warrants jump-starting the vacuum cleaner. And at dinner, I now relish actually being able to enjoy the food rather than having to hold a conversation over it. And so on.
Sure, people always say, but could there be another reason? OK, let us dispense with that clichéd question; one which was posed - almost - by the woman who signed me up for BUPA (though I daresay all such companies will now ask it before accepting you): "I see you're single, Mr Hewitt. I was just wondering ..... I have to ask this, you understand ..... Just a formality for all men in your position ....." No, I am not even vaguely cheerful.
It is not just Health Insurance companies that are curious as to whether or not you are gay, though. Gays often are, too. Consequently, the heterosexual single man, out on the town by himself, may have to ward off a number of potentially embarrassing inquiries. Indeed, these days, the only guaranteed way for someone of my age to drink on his own without attracting undue comment and attention is to sit on a park bench with a can of Tennent's Super. (Abusing passers-by is optional.) Not being a lager drinker, I have resigned myself to being thought of as a potential pub-bound pederast, instead. Or just a sad git.
Fortunately, the lone male diner fares better. But only at lunch time when he feeds with the pack. Come dinner, other solo male gourmands - travelling salesmen, business reps, and so on - have gone home to their wives. After 7.00 pm, the request, "A table for one, please" is often interpreted as, "I'll have a table for two, but since there's just one of me, you'll only get 50 per cent of its potential revenue. As for tips - well, I'm eating on my own, so am I likely to be a generous, giving sort of person?" Which, if it gets me a table at all, gets me one right towards the back, hidden behind the aspidistra, from where I have to use an Aldiss lamp to catch the waiter's eye. By contrast - and this is a from-the-horse's-mouth fact, not opinion - lone women diners always get the best tables, because staff reckon they complement the decor and lend the joint an air of respectability.
I therefore create most of my own meals, in-house. And create them damn well, I might add. Why, when most chefs are men, does this usually come as a surprise to people? That a single man living on his own does not survive solely on microwaved stodge and beans on toast? ("You mean, you did all this yourself?" "Of course I did. It's only Beef Wellington, for God's sake, not bypass surgery.")
Sourcing one's ingredients can be very revealing of attitudes, too. Just as the staff at garages automatically assume that women know nothing about the innards of a motor car, so those at delis and specialist food shops believe that men are similarly ignorant when it comes to the constituent elements of their evening meal. I asked for passilla chillies and Szechuan peppercorns the other week in Harrods Food Hall. From the reaction of the assistant behind the counter, it was as if I had gone into Marks & Spencer and asked to try on a bra.
Men are less likely to anthropomorphize their ingredients than women, however, which means we can buy things like veal and panda steaks without suffering recurring nightmares about Carla Lane or ALF death squads. Although I did have a problem with a poussin the other day. Or rather, someone else had a problem with it. A poussin is a sort of chickenette, little more than an ambitious egg (though, pound for pound, it costs the equivalent of a high-flier, entrepreneur egg). Even dead and bereft of feathers, a poussin looks cute. To some, anyhow. "Ahh!" said a little girl, peering into my shopping basket, "poor little thing!" Her mother looked at it, and then at me. "You callous bastard!" said her scowl.
Or perhaps I just look shifty. Not surprising. I am of course acutely aware that serial killers and other such miscreants tend to have similar domestic arrangements to mine. Whenever I hear a psychological profile of a suspect - "We're most probably looking for a single man in his late 30s, who lives alone, is not particularly gregarious, and almost certainly eats poussin, grilled, not roasted" - my heart sinks. They lump us all together in the same boat, damn it.
For this reason, one has to be careful. This is especially so when I am on my own, using public transport late at night. I look nothing like the average Police photofit (few people do), but to a lone woman traveller, who - given the atrocious state of trains and stations these days - is probably nervous enough, anyway, I might well. So if I enter a carriage and find I am sharing it with just one woman, I consciously move right to the other end so as to avoid the risk of panicking her. And if we get out at the same station, I have to make sure I do not follow closely behind her, even if I happen to be in a hurry. Which itself can look suspicious, but what else can I do?
No, I have no intention of ever starring on Crimewatch UK. I prefer to be on my own, not because I am repressed, a sociopath, a misogynist, a homosexual, a schizo, or even just a miserable git. I do so simply because I like it that way. So show a little understanding, please, or I will have to take Holy Orders.