Andrew was not much of a traveller. He regarded going to the supermarket as a great excursion and had only been abroad a few times. Not from any fear of the foreign or uncertainty about what it would be like abroad, more a matter of his not being arsed.
Andrew just didn’t care.
Once, when he was bored one Tuesday afternoon, he’d tried to list all the things in the world that he didn’t care about and had stopped at number 752. Not because he’d run out of things he didn’t care about, but because item number 751 was Numbered Lists Of Things. He’d thought of that before several TV channels hit on the idea of making entire two or three-hour long programmes based around numbered lists of whatever archive footage they could shovel together around some vague theme.
One of his ex-girlfriends had once said, ‘Andy, you are so laid back, I have to check for a pulse to make sure you’re still alive.’
Andrew had thought she just liked holding hands in that way. He’d thought, once or twice, about telling her he didn’t like been called Andy, but – in the end – he decided against it. After all, she made nice toast and so it wasn’t worth the hassle of upsetting her.
Her name was Sharon. It was only after he’d tried to kiss her in the pub that she told him, with something akin to shock on her face, that she’d left him five weeks before.
Later, thinking back, Andrew realised he’d been puzzled by the lack of her underwear on the bedroom floor. Also, a pack of her favourite chocolate biscuits had lain unopened in the kitchen for more than a few days. Then, even later that night, on returning home he eventually did remember to have a look around, just to confirm that she wasn’t still living there.
Well, he thought, slumping down in what would be his favourite chair, if he could be arsed to have one, that will save a few bob on teabags… and chocolate biscuits. But it would mean he’d have to start going out again, and making a bit of effort, to get another girlfriend… if he could be arsed.