PEOPLE OFTEN SPECULATED THAT I was clinging to my bachelor life because it was so glamorous. Many evenings I’d think: If only they could see
me now.
Then I’d go back to folding my underwear and watching “The One with Monica and Chandler’s Wedding.”
Besides my own laundry (often laid out to dry on my radiators) I did my own chores, my own cooking, my own food shopping. There was a supermarket by the Palace and I went there, casually, at least once a week.
Of course I’d plan each trip as carefully as a patrol around Musa Qala. I’d arrive at different times, randomly, to throw off the press. I’d wear a disguise: low baseball cap, loose coat. I’d run along the aisles at warp speed, grabbing the salmon fillets I liked, the brand of yogurt I liked. (I’d memorized a map of the store.) Plus a few Granny Smith apples and bananas. And, of course, some crisps.
Then I’d sprint to the checkout.
Just as I’d honed my preflight checks in the Apache, I now honed my grocery shopping time down to ten minutes. But one night I got to the shop and began to run up and down the aisles and everything…had moved.
I hurried over to an employee: What’s happened? Excuse me?
Where is everything? Where is—?
Why has everything moved? Honestly?
Yes, honestly.
To keep people here longer. So they’ll buy more stuff.
I was gobsmacked. You can do that? By law?
A bit panicky, I resumed running up and down the aisles, filling my trolley as best I could, keeping an eye on the clock, then rushed to the checkout. That was always the trickiest part, because there was no honing the checkout: it all depended on others. More, the checkout counter stood right beside the news racks, which held every British tabloid and magazine, and half the front pages and magazine covers were photos of my family. Or my mum. Or me.
More than once I watched customers read about me, overheard them debating me. In 2015 I overheard them frequently discussing whether or not I’d ever marry. Whether or not I was happy. Whether or not I might be gay. I was always tempted to tap them on the shoulder…Ello.
One night, in disguise, watching some people discuss me and my life choices, I became aware of raised voices at the front of the queue. An older married couple, abusing the cashier. It was unpleasant at first, then intolerable.
I stepped forward, showed my face, cleared my throat: Excuse me. Not sure what’s going on here, but I don’t think you should be speaking to her like that.
The cashier was on the verge of tears. The couple abusing her turned and recognized me. They weren’t in the least surprised, however. Just offended to be called out on their abuse.
When they left, when it came my turn to pay, the cashier tried to thank me as she bagged my avocados. I wouldn’t hear of it. I told her to hang in there, scooped up my things and ran, like the Green Hornet.
Shopping for clothes was so much less complicated.
As a rule I didn’t think about clothing. I didn’t fundamentally believe in fashion, and I couldn’t understand why anybody would. I often got mocked on social media for my mismatched outfits, my ratty shoes. Writers would flag a photo of me and wonder why my trousers were so long, my shirts so crumpled. (They didn’t dream that I’d dried them on the radiator.)
Not very princely, they’d say.
Right you are, I’d think.
My father tried. He gave me an absolutely gorgeous pair of black brogues. Works of art. Weighed as much as bowling balls. I wore them until the soles developed holes, and when I was mocked for wearing holey shoes I finally got them fixed.
Each year I received from Pa an official clothing allowance, but that was strictly for formal wear. Suits and ties, ceremonial outfits. For my everyday casual clothes I’d go to T.K. Maxx, the discount store. I was particularly fond of their once-a-year sale, when they’d be flush with items from Gap or J.Crew, items that had just gone out of season or were slightly damaged. If you timed it just right, got there on the first day of the sale, you could snag the same clothes that others were paying top prices for down the high street! With two hundred quid you could look like a fashion plate.
Here, too, I had a system. Get to the shop fifteen minutes before closing time. Grab a red bucket. Hurry to the top floor. Begin systematically working up one rack and down another.
If I found something promising I’d hold it up to my chest or legs, standing in front of a mirror. I never dawdled over color or style and certainly never went anywhere near a changing room. If it looked nice, comfortable, into the bucket it went. If I was on the fence about it, I’d ask Billy the Rock. He delighted in moonlighting as my stylist.
At closing time we’d run out with two giant shopping bags, feeling triumphant. Now the papers wouldn’t call me a slob. At least for a little while.
Far better, I wouldn’t have to think about clothes again for another six months.
