Actually I don't want a boyfriend...

Every morning as I potter around my one bed flat I feel a little bit more like an unfortunate version of Bridget Jones. Living alone has its perks, you can stay in bed for as long as you want and not have to justify it (if anyone asks you can always lie, who’s going to know that when you said you got up at 9am you meant 12pm and you didn’t get dressed until 4, and only because you realised you needed to go and buy some milk) you can eat and drink at whatever ridiculous time you choose and you don’t have to brush your hair. Perfection.

Sometimes however, as I sit down after overindulging myself by dancing around in my batman t-shirt, clutching a whiskey and singing along (much to the distress of my neighbours) at the top of my voice to everything from Glee to Pearl Jam; I wonder, would I be happier or at least a little less distressingly similar to Bridget Jones if I had a boyfriend?

The more I think about it the more I realise that actually, I don’t want a boyfriend at all…I just want a slave. I want a nice man, preferably tall and skinny with blonde floppy hair (see examples 1 and 2) to be my protector from moths, my chef, my chauffer and a vessel at which to spout everything and anything that’s on my mind. After talking with one of my closest friends, we both came to the conclusion that it would in fact be so much easier to have a slave and not a boyfriend (with the exception of a marriage proposal from the aforementioned sex gods which of course I would immediately accept after regaining the power of speech)

After all, if you have a boyfriend you’re expected to treat them well and tell them nice things about themselves – effort! Sometimes you’re going to have to cook and then of course clean up all the mess. Not to mention having to brush your hair AND get out of bed and into the shower at a decent time in order to entertain them! No, having a boyfriend is just… So. Much. Effort. At first it always starts out well, you actually have a reason to leave the house and socialise; so that’s exciting. You go for nice romantic walks to Sainsbury’s and grab a Starbucks and everything is peachy. Then you realise that you’d actually like it if you could have some time to yourself and just schedule them in to come and help you when you need it. A slave to do all the important man things like save you when there’s a giant and terrifying moth terrorising you as you try to sleep, or being your bright eyed and beautiful delivery man when you realise you forgot something at the shops.

It’s fair to assume most people tend to believe that if you are in a relationship your other half is solely responsible for your happiness and, if for some reason you’re not having the time of your life it’s all their fault and there is nothing they can say or do to correct their heinous misdemeanours. Enter slave. Their sole purpose being to supply you with whatever it is you need at that moment. Whether that means to keep you company when you want to rant about that horrible woman at work, or be the nice strong arms that hug you tightly as you get over emotional watching “Britains Got Talent” or “X-Factor”.

The best part of this new fangled arrangement? You don’t have to say that horrible phrase “No, I’m fine.” There is some unwritten rule of the universe that teaches everyone with at least one brain cell that “fine” means a thousand things, but never, in the history of the world has it ever meant that you are actually ok. You can skip over the bad parts of relationships like stupid arguments and fighting over who’s turn it is to take out the bins; even if, in my opinion that should be a job reserved solely for men. Instead you can just enjoy the fun moments of being saved and hugged and cooked for. Who needs a man to be happy in this age anyway? That’s what books are for… Pride and Prejudice was written solely to make women realise that no one will ever be as perfect as Mr.Darcy so why bother? Why go through the stress of moulding a man into your perfect slave personal Mr.Darcy when you can just go about getting a slave outright. I’m by no means saying “Come on girls lets burn our bras and stick it to the man!” but it’s something to think about. Perhaps I should give the idea time to settle, after all, it’s a life changing and incredibly ground breaking discovery that must be chewed upon.  Any takers? No?