Home Alone

          In the late 70’s, there was a fad for the pseudoscientific theory of biorhythms. It came to mind this week when I experienced a day of extraordinary listlessness, brain-fog and clumsiness. Since this is not how I normally feel, I sought an explanation for the condition but, lacking the energy to dig deeply, fell back upon the familiar, half-boiled theory. I might as well have consulted my horoscope – another unsubstantiated system that purports to explain the vagaries of life. On reflection, it’s more likely that my bio-system was fully engaged in fighting off a viral attack, therefore short on reserves for anything but the essentials – getting up, getting dressed, getting lunch, etc.

          It may be unrelated, but I think the fact that I had been on my own for a few days imposed a layer of introspection on what would otherwise have been an unremarkable event. With no-one around to chivvy me along, perhaps I was just wallowing a bit – which is one reason why I wouldn’t choose to live alone. On the other hand, the temporary absence of my Other Half is something I savour as an opportunity to break out of habitual behaviours, free myself of compromises and revert to solitary indulgences, such as uninterrupted reading for hours on end – which has enabled me to finish several books – and watching a tv series for which she has shown no enthusiasm but which has captured my full attention (Better Call Saul). And there have been podcasts to fill the silences, among them a discourse on the history of the waltz (I find myself tapping the keyboard in 3/4 time as I write this).

          A lot of cultural ground can be covered when your time is your own, but the downside is not having anyone to share your harvest with. Perhaps, when she gets back, I can interest my OH in the following. Having read an account* of the prosecution in 1960 of the publisher of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (unexpurgated), I was struck not only by the contortions that the law has to perform in order to impose a moral code on its citizenry, but also the way in which that same code is applied differently to social classes. The now infamous line uttered by the prosecutor, “Is it a book that you would even want your wife or servants to read?” would be laughed out of court today (I hope). Then there is the waltz, which originated in Germany. It eventually gained acceptance as a civilised form of social recreation in England, but here it evolved a certain form of etiquette: ladies and gentlemen held themselves with a formal reserve, taking care to avoid intimacy, even in the form of eye-contact, unlike the lower classes, whose heartier embraces they considered vulgar and prurient. And, lest you should believe the USA is a classless society, check out Better Call Saul, with its revealing sub-plot of snobbery within the American legal profession. (I notice that Saul lives alone, by the way.)

          One day, while out cycling for exercise, I stopped to consult my phone and was approached by a man in his thirties who asked me a series of questions about cycling. At first, I assumed he was someone considering buying a bike and wanting some tips. But it turned out he was already an habitual cyclist and he just wanted to moan about how dangerous it is on the roads, what with motorists seeming to have a vendetta against him. “I ride every day and I get cut up almost as soon as I leave home!” I didn’t quite know what to make of the conversation, but it did occur to me afterwards that he might live on his own and need to express himself to someone – anyone. Either that, or his biorhythm had hit one of those low days when paranoia finds an easy way in. Perhaps what he really needed was a hug.

*Alison MacLeod Tenderness