I’ve been eating spaghetti. Yes, I know it’s something like 34 degrees outside; I felt like making spaghetti. I’ve had two big bowls now, which is stunning in and of itself – when it’s hot, I don’t eat. (You all wanted to know the secret of my elfin physique – ta-da!)

And, I have just caught myself picking the mushrooms out of my nice chunky homemade sauce.

This is how I know I’m done. I begin picking the mushrooms out of their hidey-holes – under waves of pasta, coyly cowering behind meat, peeking out from under an onion. When the mushrooms are all gone, then there’s just no point in continuing.

Yes, I made sauce, and had spaghetti, and I caught myself enjoying the whole process. I just don’t get it: if I have to cook for my significant other, I feel as if I have been forced to. If I’m home alone, pretending that once again I am mistress of my own flat, I adore preparing food.

Living alone means the dishes in the sink are yours, the towels on the floor are yours, the cat hair on the carpet is sort of yours by extension. When you live with someone else, these things become issues. You try to keep up your end of the bargain, and feel resentful if you think the other partner doesn’t take them as seriously as you do.

I like being on my own. I enjoy pretending the apartment is all mine. Mind you, significant others are useful for those times where you feel limp and lifeless and someone needs to do the dishes or bring you a cup of tea or help paint a room. Still haven’t managed to train my cats to do things like that yet.

I will now draw a nice cool bath. I received some very nice bath salts as a gift this weekend, and I intend to take advantage of them!

Just when you think you’re on top of things, the sky falls. Sheesh.

I really, really, hate money. I also hate the fact that even though we try our best, sacrifice a lot, and break our backs to be responsible and upstanding citizens, life still jacknifes around and slaps us. I hate the fact that even though we care and we try, other people who don’t care and don’t try live lives of ease, and have the good luck that seems to avoid us like the plague.

Grr.

On the other hand, a friend came over today to sketch me. We’ve known one another since our first year of high school, and she’s definitely my oldest friend. We even roomed together for a year. We have a tendency to weave in and out of one another’s life; a couple of years of being close, a year or so of doing our own thing, a slow amalgamation of lives again…

I sat for two hours while she took different angles, used different media and light, and we talked about everything under the sun: what was new in our lives, what was going wrong, the lessons we’ve learned. The nice thing about friends like this is you can pick up right where you left off – no awkward re-integration, just jumping right into the deep personal stuff that you used to talk about sprawled across each other’s beds years ago, with a glass of wine, late at night.

We tend to forget how similarly we react to life, and how good we are for one another. We really should get together more often. And yet, I wonder – if we did, would things be the same? Would they be as easy? Or would there be all the little things that trip you up, the familiarity-breeding-contempt issue?

So she got work done, I got to sit and do nothing (what a novelty!), and we both downloaded and got to relax. We encouraged one another regarding our artistic pursuits. We shared secrets that even our significant others don’t know. And apart from re-discovering how much we enjoy one another’s company, we also agreed to do another girls’ night like we used to do. We’re currently trying to figure out where we can go to cause as much trouble as possible.