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!