WHAT HAS HE DONE NOW?

You may have heard that Simon Cowell is to be a father. If you haven’t heard, I envy you. The cycle of stories rolls on: at first he was distraught, then he was excited, in love, looking forward to becoming a father. One fact seems clear: he didn’t intend to get anybody pregnant.

Whenever Cowell’s ‘ex-girlfriend’ Yacht Harem is mentioned, I can’t help but imagine it as a sort of Carry on Atop Our Cowell, with Barbara Windsor pinging her white bikini into the great blue yonder, while Nancy Dell’Olio – don’t ask me why she’s there – blabbers on endlessly in his ear. There have been rather wonderful suggestions that women in this Harem warned him of Lauren Silverman’s motives. Which is akin to saying the ‘socialite’ (what a wonderful job title) was off the pill and already drafting baby names on the back of cake recipes. Who knows how true this might be?

And it’s unfair to point fingers – accidents can happen. Perhaps Silverman genuinely thought she was protected, and perhaps Simon did use other methods. In all fairness, he probably believed that his contraceptive needs were being met by his incredibly high trousers.

Whatever we believe – whether she meant to fall pregnant, or not – I can’t help thinking that Cowell’s been incredibly stupid. Stupid is as stupid does, after all – but stupidity can be forgiven, or at least overlooked. Actually, I almost feel sorry for him. It is all too easy for a woman to casually say – or perhaps vaguely hint – that everything’s taken care of, and stupid or foolish or just plain randy men will believe her.

But what a terrifying prospect men face when entering into new relationships with a woman who promises she’s on some form of birth control: she could be blatantly deceitful, or she could merely forget to take one tiny pill and change the course of their lives forever. All of the responsibility may be removed from the guy – but so too is any form of control.

It would be morally reprehensible and sickening for a woman to lie in order to fall pregnant. Unfortunately, I know it happens. I used to work in a solicitors office that dealt with child contact and matrimonial matters. I saw one case where the woman had lied about birth control in a relationship and the man was adamant that he shouldn’t be held responsible for the unwanted child. Another case saw a wife who had only pretended to take her pill in the vain hope of falling pregnant. As soon as her husband discovered this he filed for divorce on the grounds that he could never trust her again. And I don’t blame him one bit.

If we females take charge of birth control methods then we must treat that responsibility with the utmost respect – on behalf of ourselves, and our partners. I’m not letting men off the hook completely here; they can and should safeguard themselves too. But it’s a fact that until the male pill becomes a hit, women are the contraceptive enforcers in long-term relationships. Which means we’re in control. Just like Cowell’s publicity team.

 

MANY MINEFIELDS OF HOUSE SHARING

In your student days, it’s perfectly acceptable to live in a darkened share house, with a stoner named Chad on the ground floor, an unnamed insomniac patrolling the floor above into the early hours, and a kitchen festooned with empty beer bottles. Not even good beer, either, but cheap multipacks, piled high in the corner. Oxford is an odd place. It’s perfectly catered for students who wish to live like this. It also does a nice line in immaculate houses with front gates, and Agas for reasonably comfortable, professional types. But if you happen to fall in the bracket of ‘on the way up’, or at the very least, ‘fumbling along’, finding a room of one’s own – never mind a home of one’s own – can be a nightmare. Believe me, I know. In the last four years, I’ve lived in seven different houses, both as a student, and as a ‘fumbler’. And now, I’m on the hunt again.

The other day, I turned up at one place in Jericho to be greeted by a forty-year-old ‘bachelor’ as a tour guide. He climbed the stairs ahead of me with only a tea towel around his waist. No jokes about a cracking view, please. It was only when he reached the top of the landing, and lent casually against the airing cupboard as the towel slipped lower that I thought it was probably time to leave.

Tomorrow, I’m visiting a guy in Summertown, who in the Daily Info advert specifically requested a female housemate. I’m not judgmental. I’m completely open to the possibility that this single male may just prefer female company, or perhaps believes that females make quieter, cleaner housemates. I barely thought twice about it. Until I remembered Ole Cracker in the Jericho house, and realised this is serial killer territory. Conclusion: I should probably safeguard myself when entering properties, alone, with strange men.

But it’s a minefield, isn’t it? How can we tell when strange new housemates aren’t going to murder us on the first night, after welcoming us into the new abode with copious amounts of booze?

And then there’s the other type of minefield: the ‘friend’ you agree to live with who, halfway through tenancy, decides to ply you with cheap red wine, and suggests ‘joint’ everything. I lived with a guy and three other people for one whole year, and on the day I moved out he declared undying love for me. This type is worse, if anything – at least serial killers usually manage to keep things from being emotionally complicated. I just kept piling boxes into my car, pretending not to hear him.

Anyway, I hope it goes OK tomorrow, and that I’m not horridly murdered on the wood flooring I’m so very excited about.

Tune in next week to find out.