It was only when the third lockdown was lifted, and life between variants returned to a kind of normal, that I realised just how comfortable I’d become with it, how contentedly accustomed I’d grown to an absence of socialising.
My wife, who had felt quite differently throughout the enforced incarceration, celebrated by inviting friends over for dinner, thus reintroducing to me that quaint practice we humans have of sitting around a table filled with food, alongside people we know, and talking about what we watched on Netflix last night.
I never used to be especially introverted, or quite so suited to my own company. But, it seems, I am now. When I heard the singer Adele say during an interlude on her new album that “I always preferred being on my own than with other people”, I thought that at least I was in good company. But I’m 20 years older than Adele. At her age, I was a minor-league extrovert: always out, endless work events, busy weekends, the last bus home. But as I grew older, I cleaved – not always willingly – to stereotype: the lone male curmudgeon in his metaphorical shed, whiling away the hours, alone.
What happened was that I grew older, had children, moved to the suburbs. The friends to whom I thought I’d remain forever close began steadily to drift away (unless it was me drifting from them); our new social circle was now dictated by convenience: those who lived within our postcode, specifically the parents of children who went to school with ours.
These new people were perfectly nice, convivial enough, mostly toilet-trained and not all working in IT, but even after 15 years of knowing them, I can find no real connective tissue between us – the kind that can only really be formed, perhaps, on that last bus home, aged 27. We never laugh like drains over some half-forgotten in-joke; instead, we talk property prices and sport and “Have you seen Squid Game yet?” At summer barbecues, all the men gather around the grill, unwittingly aping our Neanderthal forebears. The women, meantime, seem to be having much more fun over by the garden furniture, drinking prosecco. Life has become one long sitcom script.
For my wife, who is so much better-adjusted than me in every conceivable way, this isn’t so grave a problem. It’s simply life morphing and rearranging itself, as it does. Better endless small talk than nothing, she says. I can see her logic, and yet there’s a sense, now, that I’m stuck on a hamster wheel, and there’s no getting off. You can enjoy the film Groundhog Day without wanting to live it.
It’s not that the quality of conversation has faded – back in the day, I’d never have discussed, say, the merits of Aristotle when I could have prattled on about Blur versus Oasis instead – but that perhaps I’ve simply had my run of small talk, and no longer need it? I don’t crave the same conversations time and again, and have no wish to become a bloviating old windbag like so many men of a certain age; I’d prefer to stay home and read a book.
To appease my wife, I continue to agree to intermittent events. Most of them, when they occur, are fine, fine. My rictus grin deceives. Wine is drunk. But I’m relieved when they’re over. I am secretly hoping that Plan B eliminates the prospect of Christmas drinks.
I’m not sure what the ultimate destination is here, what happens for me as my social life continues to contract. But I sense it won’t be pretty. It’s a dilemma I’m struggling with, and it’s ongoing.
Read more: The man I married has turned into a country squire – and I hate it
