In the beginning I didn’t know I was alone. What baby does?
In the beginning there was solace and safety.
In the beginning who knew what separation meant.
And then like peeling chewing gum off the pavement, there’s a stretch and a tug, and you are no longer attached.
I was a lonely child, although I didn’t know it.
My Semite colouring singled me out from the rest of the blue eyed Church of Englanders.
I would play alone.
Taking the grey army blanket out of the cupboard, flap it over a table, I’d fill a teapot with water, lay the table with a cracked cup and saucer, and playing all the parts, I would read from ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’. Performed very loudly until it got to 4.00 o’clock when my mother would come home.
She worked in a state school I was independent so we had different holidays.
Everything was put away. Nobody ever knew of my secret life.
There’s being lonely and being alone.
The delicious melancholy of solitude.
The quiet terror of being lonely.
The contentment of quiet.
When I think about my childhood I now realise it was tricky but not unmanageable.
I didn’t know that Morag Bigwood and Audrey McMullan had what was considered normal lives.
Morag had a blue and white gingham kitchen and a yellow canary in a yellow cage. Audrey had sallow, but smooth skin. I had contemporary furniture and outdated parenting.
Both girls invited me into their gangs. I refused. Even then not wanting to ally myself with anybody, took too much responsibility. Staying alone was a safer place.
In the beginning there was a private school, small classes and a scholarship for my music. I still have Miss Foulgers’ blue musical dictionary, it sits on the piano next to top ‘C’.
The private school was two bus rides away. I loved the top deck, the smell of old fags and school boys who flirted. Aged 13 I travelled to the music school unaware that I was alone.
I enjoyed the deliberate removal from the crowd.
So whilst I’ve never felt lonely I have spend most of my life alone.
Writing is a lonely business. Writing is an alone business. I’ve never understood the ‘Hen Do’ mentality; the noisy shrieking of a gaggle of girls, ostensibly having fun.
Maybe its because I’m a Londoner. London Town is teeming with people but they leave you alone. Working in telly is the same.
Nothing happens without the team. Nothing happens without the director in the gallery, the floor manager on the floor, the team of researchers and runners. A show only happens with everybody in tandem with each other. A quiet understanding, a brilliant alchemy of differences.
Standing in front of a camera, alone, is my safe place.
Singing with a band standing behind a mic, teaching a class of kids, cooking in a communal kitchen, a gathering of alone people working together.
In the beginning I tried to be part of the society I found myself in. Coming from the beastly working class required savvy. My world is – well was – a company of them upstairs and the likes of me in the basement..
Privilege and opportunity served up with on ‘Antiques Roadshow’ silver spoon.
I knew nothing of that world. I survived by observing their modus operandi and working out where to place myself. Although I’m not sure it was that conscious.
Life happens, with hindsight comes reflection.
Opportunities come and go.
When I auditioned for my favourite drama school a posh bird asked if she could borrow my leotard for the recall audition. I happily gave it to her.
At the session I didn’t wear my leotard, Miss Snottyclogs was swearing it.
I was called into the principles office and told that I was given a place, which was then withdrawn because I didn’t come prepared. They’d asked for a leotard blah blah blah.
I didnt argue my case. I did what all peasants do I went away and accepted my surfdom
In the beginning I was a silent observer, being in the crowd and feeling lonely. Then I understood that making anything from soup to a sonnet, is a singular activity.
The old git, like most men, does not have a posse of friends. The acting fraternity love him, so he has hundreds of acquaintances, but not a lot of friend friends. At over eighty he really does prefer his own company . Me, on the other hand, has a thriving network. From New York to Shropshire, from Totnes to Chatham, I have available Samaritans.
We are all alone but not lonely.
In the beginning I knew I wanted to be on the stage, jazz hands and an audience. I did what I set out to do, and doing it a lot. It has now come to an end. I was going to say sadly but the idea of schlepping round the country making fatuous telly no longer appeals.
If I’d stuck to acting then working with Bill Nighy is a different game.
Working on GBNews has come to an end for me too. They keep calling me to be the other voice, but I just can’t allow myself to share a screen with the likes of Lee Anderson and the cock Farage. Makes my skin crawl. Of course I could do with the money but taking the King’s shilling ain’t worth it.
Like most Europeans (which I still class myself) I like café culture. I take breakfast in various eateries, mostly ignoring familiar faces. The inside of my head is noisy and companionable. When the nagging gets too loud I’ll find a distraction, from knitting to Radio 3.
Increasingly I wonder about widowhood. What will I do if he pops his clogs before me?
If I go first it becomes his problem, but he has got three attentive daughters.
I’ve realised how self suffiicent I am.
Sadly the old git has been diagnosed with mild dementia. He’s fine but our silences get longer. I have fleeting panics about life without him, a packed life turning into Nobby no mates.
I haven’t prepared for getting old, although now I’m hand in glove with social services and have asked for waste assistance. They collect the dust bins instead of me dragging them down the slope. Daft little things that make life slightly easier.
At 15 I asked my mother, what would happen when I left home and had forms to fill. What then with the small print? She stood in the kitchen, wringing her hands round a tea towel.
I could see the concern for her idiot daughter. She said calmly.
‘They’ll always be someone who can help. All you need do is ask.’
And she was right.
There is always somebody that can pick up the flack and there’s always Apple TV.
Who could be lonely with ‘Slow horses’ and Gary Oldman farting at you?