Sunday, 7 April 2013

Clearly I should be single (and male)

Arrive at the city centre apartment in Liverpool. Conveniently sited over a pole dancing club and a late night girly bar.

The apartment is designed as if I am a chic young urban professional, and I like to stay in places that are black, white, steel, with television sets bolted onto the ceiling.

I think, with this interior design and the proximity to the pole dancing club, if I am to properly enjoy this apartment, I should be 25, footloose, and have a penis. As things stand, I am 52, bullied by three kids, and connected to a gas hob where I can forever cook a hearty pasta dinner.

Anyway, see for yourself. I can't stop gawping in horror. There is a silver animal's head over the kitchen sink. Could be buffalo. The word steer keeps coming into my mind, alongside images of cowboys strangely dressed like yuppies and memories of Habitat circa 1982. We all look at the head incredulously for a while, wondering why, then Shark announces there are no bookcases in the flat but she has counted three television sets. The young man showing us the apartment confides that it is his favourite place and he loves it here!

We are so clearly not the target residents - aspirant urbanites, hen ladies and stag buddies - but I ignore that to tell everyone how we can enjoy many aspects of staying in this city centre apartment! Even though we haven't a penis. After all, it is very chi-chi these days to live in urban style over a brothel.

Then I spend the next hour unpicking myself from that remark via awkward questions regarding poles. I end up explaining that you must have very strong stomach muscles to hang onto a pole and, inspired by this experience, I might try it for myself down the gym.

Apart from the steer and the pole dancing and the need to cook a hearty pasta dinner, the gentleman seeing us into the place is so very sure we will like it, that he almost suggests he will kill himself if we fail to adore it all. He is so attentive to any possible requirements I have, that for a moment I think he might be flirting with me, except I am old enough to be his great-grandmother. And I am sure I remember his zoot suit the first time around.

He fusses at me, clucking about how wonderful is the stylish apartment with the 2,000 television channels and the fantastic jacuzzi and the discounts he can procure - we only have to ask! - that I forget to check whether the urban style comes with any tribal-sized saucepans in which to cook that family-sized pasta imperative.

When he's gone I discover in the black and silver micro kitchen there are indeed three tiny saucepans. Each could contain - oh, at least 3mm of water - so it's the corner chippie for us. But I should travel the vibe of this chi-chi urban lifestyle! I should breathe a sigh of relief! Between the vibrant nightlife, the city centre noodle bar, the late-night bistros, and the pole dancing club, here at least my aspirant urbanite side can, at breakfast, play at boiling an egg.

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