London, 2013.
Ah, London. That infectious hive of continuous energy and buzz. Tall, steely buildings growing into the sky; solid, knowing their place and looking down as the city breathes life below. Everyone moving with a purpose, knowing where they need to go, which tube stop to get off at, which streets not to roam. Electric, organised chaos.
Zoom in on me: alone in the Big Smoke, wearing the wrong shoes and carrying far too many “city essentials” in my overly jazzy/trying-to-be-edgy backpack. After declaring myself sufficiently lost, and trailing the same three streets for what feels like hours in London’s sticky summer sun, I finally bumble through the main doors of The Cambridge Theatre with minutes to spare. The usher looks at me with that all-too-familiar disdain (theatre ushers of The World, I’m with you) as he waits for me to produce a rather crumpled ticket from the depths of my bag and, with a final check of his watch – 1 minute – leads me through the double doors of the auditorium, where I thump clumsily into my assigned seat just as the lights go down.
I’ll take this moment to comment on how absobloodylutely amazing Matilda the Musical is. If you have never seen it, do anything in your power to try and get a ticket, as it will blow your wee socks clean off and make you wish with all your might that you were a kid again. I’m fairly certain I sat through the entire first act with my coat still on and my mouth hanging open in adoration. Trust me, go and see it. You’ll love it.
Now I may have mentioned before that I love people-watching, and with no one there to accompany me, the interval seemed like a perfect opportunity. Of all the hundreds of theatre-goers in the building, however, it was the person in the seat next to me who caught my attention. I remember her so vividly to this day. As soon as the curtain went down at the end of Act 1, she’d whipped out a book and proceeded to bury her nose in it. Rather Meryl Streep-esque, with salt and pepper hair, colourful earrings and a shawl wrapped dramatically around her shoulders; she was classy, with a hint of eccentric. Cool. She was also there by herself but rather than, like me, feeling awkward at having no one to talk to in the twenty minute interval, fake Meryl Streep seemed totally in her element. And I wanted to be just like her.
Now, disclaimer to my family/friends/boyfriend/cat: this post does NOT mean that I never want to see or spend time with any of you again. So don’t go deleting my number just yet. But this was the day that I realised the joy of doing things alone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m up for a big group Nando’s trip or date night to the theatre as much as the next person, but believe me when I say there is something quite relaxing about also doing these things by yourself. Want to go to the cinema but none of your mates are free? Go anyway. Get yourself an obnoxiously large tub of popcorn and the biggest juice option they have, and revel in the comforting quietness of the cinema as you settle into your chair. Fancy checking out what all the fuss is over the latest coffee shop in town, but it’s a Wednesday afternoon and everyone else is at work? Take yourself on a coffee date. Buy a huge slice of cake to have with it, get your book out like my friend fake Meryl, and just enjoy taking the time to be by yourself.
I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life or anything. If you feel anxious or weird going to things on your own, or you just don’t want to, then that’s okay. No one is forcing you. But I would thoroughly recommend that you give it a try, because to me, it’s one of the lovelier things in life. And you never know: you might just find that being all by yourself every once in a while isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Fairley Rachel 