The day I moved in there were no carpets, no curtains, no
electricity, and the telephone had yet to be connected. However,
until the builders, who incidentally had become my first friends in
Oxford left that evening, I was euphoric. All day I boiled saucepans of
water to make cups of tea and I made jokes. The unreality of
dreaming of a house of my own had become a reality. Unbelievably,
this small part of the universe belonged to me, somewhere to root
myself. Ken and Eddy left at 5 o’clock wishing me goodnight and
hoping that I would enjoy the first evening alone in house. But, as
with most anticipated events that fall short of expectations, this was
no exception. The much sought-after silence in the house seemed
oppressive rather than peaceful. Putting away china, hanging the
pictures, and generally straightening the muddle, lost its appeal as a
solitary pursuit. The excitement of being solitary, of being free (that
freedom so sought after, so much discussed, so often) and the single
life for which I had fought and now attained, diminished, it seemed
on acquaintance. I thought of the Schopenhauer quote: “He who
does not enjoy solitude does not love freedom”, and decided that
solitude equalling freedom would be an acquired taste, arrived at in
time, with much planning, effort and thought. As it was, I had
forgotten to buy any food. So hungry, cold, and feeling less
courageous than I expected, I burst into tears. Until that evening I did
not realize exactly what it would be like to be totally alone:
something which is perhaps not possible to know until experienced.
In the midst of noisy families women dream of endless peace and
quiet on their own, sure that they would be entirely happy in
isolation. But in truth they might be no such thing. An hour or two
maybe…. But real solitude, though aspired to by many, is in practice
only really enjoyed by a few.
Anyway, I made pots of tea, and cheered myself up reading
Persuasion by candlelight. Jane Austin, was, after all, single, and she
seemed to have managed all right. (My reliable friends out of books
are as one would wish, human friends to be, constant, predictable,
and peaceful. Peaceful, perhaps, because they are constant and
predictable). That first night I went to bed with mixed feelings, many
apprehensions and a constantly re-occurring thought. Had I been
extremely foolish in my desire for independence?
In the weeks that followed, before I decided what I was going to
do with my life, I discovered some very important facts about single
living. Planning a structured day, and sticking to the plan, was vital.
The radio provided my mealtimes admirably; I had breakfast with
lovely Terry Wogan until he misguidedly left his large adoring
audience to prostitute himself on the terrible television. I had lunch
with Robin Day to acquaint myself briefly with news of the outside
world, and at 7.07pm had supper with the Archers who have now
become an integral part of my life. Perfect entertainment at the end
of the day, Shula’s love life or lack of it, Nigel Pargiter’s
misdemeanours, Brian’s affair with Caroline, Eddy Grundy touching
up the girl sent to Grange Farm by the Council for experience as a
nursery nurse (but not that experience) and every evening I silently
thanked God that the most irritating woman ever invented, Peggy
Archer was no relation of mine. Many mock the Archers. They see
the series as unrealistic in the modern world. But man is not
supposed to be able to bear too much reality, and life in Ambridge
can provide a continuity missing from real life, a sense of security
and safety brought about by a proper order of things. And, of course,
the radio provides the sound of a human voice. A necessity to
solitary people, who buy canaries, sticklebacks, cats or whatever as
an excuse to converse out loud with something. I bought a large
brown Teddy bear and called him Aristotle to share my bed, but so
far have baulked at talking to him, although he would, I feel,
understand as much or as little as the canary, stickleback, cat or
whatever.
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