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You\u2019re not allowed to call it \u201cbatching it\u201d anymore, but that\u2019s what I\u2019m doing right now. I\u2019m a momentary bachelor, fending for myself, while Jocasta is off doing a show. Why she has decided to be a performer at this point in our lives, I\u2019m not sure, but I\u2019ve given her the nickname of Dame Sybil Thorndyke, the famous English thespian.<\/p>\n
Of course, I plan to be in the front row most nights, cheering her on.<\/p>\n
Dame Sybil is living in an Airbnb, over the water from the theatre in which she is performing, presumably so the stage door Johnnies don\u2019t have too far to walk. She likes them age-appropriate, so no way should a hill be involved.<\/p>\n
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The bachelor\u2019s life isn\u2019t all it\u2019s cracked up to be.<\/span>Credit: <\/span>iStock<\/cite><\/p>\n But back to \u201cbatching it\u201d. The reason you can\u2019t call it \u201cbatching it\u201d is because it implies that men are idiots who can\u2019t cook and keep house, while women are some weird combination of saint and doormat: the only humans who possess domestic skills.<\/p>\n So, if you use the term \u201cbatching it\u201d, you are painting some image of a poor chap left suddenly, and unreasonably, alone. His wife – having chosen to attend her father\u2019s funeral or her sister\u2019s wedding or the burial of her cousin\u2019s pet \u2013 has left him to fend for himself. He has, egad, to wash his own clothes, cook his own dinner, and, yikes, use a vacuum cleaner for the first time. Who knows, he may even have to clean the bathroom.<\/p>\n The \u201cbatching it\u201d meme \u2013 if one can use a current term for such a decaying idea \u2013 was all about sardines eaten from the can, underpants worn once too often, and rather too many drinks being taken.<\/p>\n Then there are the veggies. Broccoli one night, broccolini the next. I\u2019m nothing if not a free thinker.<\/p>\n These days, of course, it\u2019s nothing like that. A modern gentleman such as myself has been thriving. I don\u2019t miss her at all. The stage door Johnnies are free to keep her occupied.<\/p>\n For a start, I\u2019ve adopted an Australian Defence Force methodology when it comes to cooking. Why cook one meal, when you could cook in bulk?<\/p>\n Some people might be bored by Michael Mosley\u2019s recipe for Mediterranean Chicken, but for me, it is the perfect response to the temporary removal of Dame Sybil. As her show is on for a month, I have made 27 single servings of Michael Mosley\u2019s Mediterranean Chicken, each nestled, frozen, in its own Tupperware.<\/p>\n Some might say it\u2019s boring, eating the same meal 27 times in a row, but some nights I have a robust Barossa shiraz with it, and sometimes something more subtle from McLaren Vale. Occasionally, I\u2019ll have a VB afterward, so no one can call me a stick-in-mud. Then there are the veggies. Broccoli one night, broccolini the next. I\u2019m nothing if not a free thinker.<\/p>\n Dame Dame Sybil Thorndike and her (batchy?) husband in 1968.<\/span>Credit: <\/span>Getty Images<\/cite><\/p>\n If I fall asleep in front of the tele, there\u2019s no one to see me, which – philosophically speaking – means it hasn\u2019t happened. I\u2019m basically like that unobserved tree, falling in the forest. Ah, the freedom.<\/p>\n Also, the house has never been cleaner. I find Dame Sybil\u2019s mind stimulating but am less enthusiastic about her theory that everything she owns should be stored on the shelf that also houses the phone chargers. Fold-up umbrellas! Bills! The dress she intends to return to the mail-order firm. A book that she thinks might interest her gal pal. A pamphlet from a bee-keeper in Mudgee she\u2019s keen to support.<\/p>\n I note one fact: she has her own room, an office in the house, for the writing of shows such as the one she\u2019s currently in. It\u2019s a room that might enjoy the opportunity to store her many treasures.<\/p>\n There are other upsides to flying solo. I can watch any TV show, and \u2013 better still \u2013 not face questioning about the plot. The observation \u201cYou do understand that she\u2019s the dead man\u2019s daughter?\u201d and my attempt to pretend that I\u2019m across this point, is blessedly no longer a feature of my viewing.<\/p>\n Also, the regular accusation \u201cyou\u2019re asleep, go on admit it\u201d is pleasingly absent.<\/p>\n It\u2019s true I miss reading the paper, side by side in bed, her railing against the patriarchy, reading out loud every story about a man who has done something terrible. It makes me feel special that I, unusually among men, fail to excite her total contempt.<\/p>\n And I miss making her tea. I put some effort into it every morning, warming the pot, using real tea, four minutes of brew time, spinning the pot three times to settle the leaves, and then the careful pour. \u201cThere you go,\u201d I say, as I put it on her bedside table.<\/p>\n Batching it, I instead make a tea bag for one and feel, for the rest of the day, as if I\u2019ve let down the tea gods. I\u2019m virtually an animal in the jungle. I\u2019m hardly human.<\/p>\n So maybe batching it is not so great. I may, after all, need her back. Please go see her show, but not in such numbers as she\u2019ll do it again. Already I\u2019m beginning to tire of Mediterranean chicken, tea-bag tea, and TV shows I can\u2019t follow without her constant assistance.<\/p>\n Dame Sybil, come home soon.<\/p>\n To read more from<\/b> Spectrum<\/i><\/b>, visit our page here.<\/b><\/p>\n The Booklist is a weekly newsletter for book lovers from books editor Jason Steger. <\/i><\/b>Get it delivered every Friday<\/i><\/b>.<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n<\/p>\n
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