I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [98]
All in all, Sonja had that indiscriminate fun-loving quality that you often find with people from post-Soviet regimes. It’s as if their people have cast off the state-imposed grumpiness of Communism and are now grabbing life with both hands. After a while, of course, it becomes incredibly tiresome. But Sonja’s love of practical jokes, sex, laughter, chintzy homeware and relentless intercourse was a sometime source of periodic happiness for quite a while.
We broke up just hours after the house was completed. She was understandably miffed by this but, as I explained patiently in rudimentary English, it was a new build so I wanted shoes off at the door – and she was hopeless at remembering to do that.
You know that phrase, if you love someone set them free? I’ve always liked the sound of that – even if its logic is plainly horseshit. It’s the equivalent of saying, ‘If you like beefburgers, don’t eat them’ or ‘If you hate London, go and live there.’ Instead, I’ve adapted it slightly to read, ‘If you don’t love someone and don’t want to hang around with them any more, set them free’. It just makes more sense.
Breaking the news to her wasn’t easy. We’d been living together for a year and a half for goodness sake, and she’d often talked about marriage – ideally to me, but at a push anyone with UK citizenship. This was a big deal for her.
So I locked myself in the bathroomette and got my assistant to do it. She broke the news with some relish – a bit too much if you ask me. Of course, Sonja was devastated. She kept banging on the door and telling me to come out and face her. Knowing she was from a former Soviet country where human rights atrocities are commonplace, I had no idea what she was capable of, so I had no choice but to stay inside.
‘Come out, Alan!’ she was shouting.
Through the door, I could hear my assistant trying to placate/fib to her. ‘He’s not in there any more,’ she attempted. ‘He clambered out of the window and ran off.’ I winced at her utter inability to lie and pledged to fine her £10 later on.
‘Alan, I love you!’ she kept shouting (Sonja, not my assistant – urgh). Poor kid, I thought as I did my belt up. (I was in the toilet anyway so thought I might as well make use of it.) But I became less sympathetic with each shout, because it was repetitive and, other than the theme tune to Ski Sunday, I don’t like repetitive noises.
She stayed for absolutely ages. I found this irritating because I’d promised to send a showreel to Bid-Up TV and the post office was going to shut. After a few hours she calmed down and sloped off, but I’d missed the last post and never got that BUTV job. Shame, because it was one of my favourite channels and I used to practise the patter in the shower, imagining I was selling Radox or a bath mitt.
And so I moved into the house alone – a big space for one certainly, but I liked that, sometimes running around the building with a makeshift cape around my collar. It had four good-sized bedrooms and I used to alternate between rooms 1 and 4, leaving 2 (Fernando’s) and 3 (Denise’s) untouched in case they dropped by and needed to go to sleep. Still do!
And Sonja? Well, she and I are still very close – in the sense that she’s now my cleaner. I wish things had turned out differently but I’m glad they didn’t.
217 The finishing touch was to be a boot scraper outside the front