The Boyfriend, on his return from a recent visit to the South of France, announced he is becoming a socialist. It would seem he has "grown weary of London and its angry, consumerist ways" and wants us to up sticks and move to some sleepy hamlet in Burgundy.
As you know, I have renounced all things French so the timing of his premature mid-life crisis isn’t the best.
And don't get me started on the socialism thing. This, from a man who refuses to clothe his feet in anything less than 100% cashmere, and kicks up a stink when I suggest eating somewhere that requires a voucher. But now he insists he has "profoundly and irrevocably" changed after witnessing the camaraderie between villagers on his trip.
"Everyone is equal,” he told me. “The doctor is friends with the postman, nobody asks you what you do for a living and everyone takes pride in their work."
It's astonishing he was able to nail rural France in just one weekend. A perceptive individual is The Boyfriend.
All week he’s been singing the same tune- he could labour on a farm, I could clean houses. There isn’t the same imperative to mindlessly consume over there- we can live off the land, and our love.
Faced with choice of donning a pinafore and brushing up on my peasant French, or searching for a new partner at my time of life, I started preparing an ad for Guardian Soulmates, when thankfully; he appeared to return to his old capitalist ways.
When offered VIP tickets to see U2 play Wembley last Friday, he jumped at the chance, leaving me trying to discern the ant-like figures of Bono et al from the back of the stadium while he mingled with celebs in an enclosed platform, raised up from the crowd of “plebs” or diehard fans to you and me.
Vive la socialism.
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