Another March, another month spent alone while M— traipses around Canada in an SUV full of guitars and blokes who’ve all spent a bit too much time in each other’s company – aka going on tour. This year is different to last, of course, because we now live together, and so while he is not home, his stuff – old copies of Classic Rock, unidentified guitar cables, the stray plectrums – still surrounds me.
People ask how I am, their faces prearranged into looks of sympathy. But the truth is, there is pleasure in solitude – and it’s not just being free to eat the things he refuses to (olives, sweetcorn), or to watch the television he will not countenance (mostly Criminal Minds, Grey’s Anatomy and The Walking Dead reruns). There is a simplicity to being unbothered by another person’s desires and expectations. I am a creature of routine, and I enjoy locking in: ticking by the hours in my own little world. The first few days are a flurry of activity, cleaning and tidying. It’s not so much that I want to erase all evidence of his existence, but that the moment seems somehow a change of season.
Yes, I do keep shouting “Hiya” to an empty house when I return home from the office. Yes, it took me hours to get to sleep that first night without him (I could somehow hear my heart thumping slightly too fast through the pillow) and when I did sleep I had terrible, Walking Dead-adjacent dreams. I have yet to stray on to his side of the bed, not even unconsciously, mid-sleep, though there is now double the space available to me. It is strange to be cooking for one again, eating the same meal two nights in a row. And yes, I do talk to myself quite a lot, especially in the kitchen, as though I am presenting a cooking show. But the honest answer, and I feel quite guilty about this, is: I’m absolutely fine.
I have long had a push-pull relationship with my own company, in turn craving the independence of wide-open days and fearing their emptiness. In my early twenties I filled my calendar, morning, noon and night (how I afforded to be so sociable I do not know; I suppose life was cheaper back then). Before long, I could not bear to be alone. When I presented myself for my first session of CBT, which would supposedly treat my fast-spiralling anxiety (though in reality I found it next to useless: for a start, my therapist was male, about my age and really quite good-looking…), I set myself a goal for the scant six weeks the NHS covered: to be able to spend an evening on my own.
I have come a long way since then. I have sat at bars with a beer and a book; asked “table for one, please” and eaten alone, fork in one hand and book in another (you’ll be spotting a theme). Even when I have the option of going with someone else, solo cinema remains my preference: no need to take into account someone else’s taste; no need have fully formed thoughts to share as soon as the credits roll. I’ve holidayed alone too – though the last time was Bali, and we all know how that went. In those early weeks of lockdown – after my flatmate had moved in with her boyfriend, but before I had moved in with mine – I found a perverse pleasure in how long it had been since I had interacted with another human being.
M— being a gigging musician, and me having a relatively nine-to-six office job, it is a rare day that he is up and out before me. So I have resolved to take the time that he is away to try to become still more of a morning person. The first step must surely be going to bed earlier – but this alone doesn’t seem to be enough. It turns out I can quite happily go to bed two hours earlier yet still wake up at the same time the next day.
I’m not sure what exactly I am chasing anyway, other than the vague impression of being a healthier person. I am not going to go to the gym before work (all gyms are hellishly busy before 10am), and it seems the opposite of healthy to spend those extra hours in the manner I would have spent my lost hours the night before: watching TV. Though at least that might reduce the incidence of terrifying zombie nightmares.
[See also: Why Britain isn’t working]
Content from our partners
This article appears in the 12 Mar 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Why Britain isn’t working