I’m now into the second week of my stay in Morden, South West London, having kindly been offered a temporary roof over my head whilst I flat hunt by one of my oldest and closest friends.
He knows Latin America’s walked and as such, he and his wife must be aware I’m not getting any action. The uncomfortable question of what and where I might be releasing the necessary pent up frustration must’ve not just crossed their mind, it’s probably wedged in there. Any stay at someone’s house, whether on your own, or with a partner, will inevitably involve you getting into some sort of routine where you appropriate as much of your everyday life and transfer it to your temporary home, particularly in the sex department.
Latin America’s abrupt departure has closed the nookie door so that leaves the uglier DIY option. But I’m not admitting to anything here. I wouldn’t do that. Not in someone else’s four bedroom house. But it must be uppermost in my hosts’ minds. About a decade ago, I spent a month staying with my aunt and it was definitely uppermost in her mind as she got my uncle to remove the lock from the door to the room she’d put me up in.
I’m currently putting my head down in the front room, watching TV well into the night with my friends after their kids have gone to bed. And if you ever find yourself in this position where your hosts suspect you may be having a tug in their home, and are probably waiting for them to go up to bed, I would suggest you make out you’re quite tired, perhaps go as far as dozing off in their presence, and make it clear that as soon as they go up to bed, you’ll be constructing the sofa bed and calling it a night. Allay their very real fears.
After a week or so, you should be familiar with everyone’s sleeping patterns. You’ll know that the hallway light automatically turns off at 11pm. You’ll know that one of the kids may still be moving about in the room directly above you. But no one’s coming down. You’re okay. You can do what you need to do to quell the pain of knowing you’ll never again have your arm around Latin America’s finest. You’ll never again relive Spain’s brutal mastery over the indigenous population of Latin America 500 years earlier. Or you can, like I have, accept your situation and go straight to bed, with a podcast on, probably my own – Please Don’t Hug Me – and congratulate yourself on behaving correctly in your friend’s home. They didn’t take you into their home to do that.
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