I love my own company, always have. When I'm on my own there are no arguments, no irritations, I am always in total agreement with myself and there is nobody to piss me off. What's not to like? My liking for my own company has definitely increased since being a Mum. Obviously it's not as intense as when they were tiny, but still, having to break up an argument whilst on the loo, incessant interrogation on the meaning of life pre-8am and the general level of noise in my house on a weekend makes me revel in my 'me time' when it comes.
My Greek friend is convinced I'm going to be ever so lonely when I don't share an office with himself and Zoe any longer. He says that in my newly formed department of one I'm going to be crying into a mirror and lamenting the days of Beaumont Banter. I will, of course, miss them both dreadfully, but actually working on my own doesn't phase me at all. Probably for all the same aforementioned reasons - mainly, I can do things my way with nobody else either telling me what to do or, God forbid, doing stuff wrong.
I had a matinee theatre date with my dearest Deputy Head at the Young Vic this afternoon and set off nice and early on a beautifully sunny day in a fantastic mood. I revelled in the simple act of sitting on a park bench in Southwark in the sunshine eating my egg and ham baguette and thinking that all was right with the world. Until I was joined by the beggar. I was early, it was the only bench in a half a mile radius and I wasn't moving. It was a particularly awkward social situation as he sat that little bit too close for comfort, (plus he smelt bad), and started a monologue that went along the following lines: 'please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please', (you get the idea), whilst staring at me. If I was ever have going to have given this particular beggar money, he hacked me off enough within a second that I was giving him nothing. He was however pretty persistent. I luckily had my iPod so I plugged in, tuned out, and eyeballed him back. I began to realise however that us staring into each other's eyes on a park bench, could look from a distance as if we were in some sort of relationship. So, after enough time had elapsed so that he knew he hadn't bullied me off the bench, I left, and went to the theatre. Damn you smelly beggar bulldozing me out of the sunshine.
We were watching 'Happy Days' which is an absurdist drama about a couple abandoned in some sort of desert in a sand dune where the husband lives in a cave with horrific sunburn and the wife is buried up to her waist for the first act and up to her neck in the second. As the house lights came up for the interval, I had Morag in hysterics when I told her that it was all a bit more depressing in the flesh than it was when I read it as a play. 'What were you expecting?' she said. Fair point really. The wife character, 'Winnie', keeps up an insistent monologue throughout the play and in the first act refrains that she is so lucky to have yet another 'Happy Day'. This happy day is fuelled by her lipstick not having run out quite yet, or by being able to read the writing on the tube of toothpaste. Most of the time she manages to forget the fact that she is buried in sand. The second act takes on a more sinister feel as she is buried up to her neck so unable to reach into the treasures of her bag or even the gun that could put her out of her misery. Her husband appears occasionally and towards the end we aren't sure if he is reaching out towards her or to get the gun. There are maybe therefore certain types of solitude that are not to be relished...
To the lady I met on the train home with two boys aged three months and two and a half years, who is moving house on Tuesday, with a husband who is currently working in China: I hope you listened to me. Send the big boy to pre-school and put the tele on without worrying so much. Things will get better a lot sooner than you think. Throw those eco-nappies in the bin and drink some more wine love. As the SMA advert keeps telling you - you're doing great.
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