A Note on the Other C Word.

One of the side effects of the coronavirus crisis has been the gradual onset of social communality. It’s become a newsworthy event that people are rallying round to support each other in their respective hours of need, and a damn fine thing it is too. I approve of the communal principle.

Except that it doesn’t apply to me. I can’t do communal. I’m not a communal sort of person.

The thing is, you see, being communal works very well for normal people (‘normal’ being defined according to the habits and thought processes of the majority in any given culture.) I’m not normal. Much of my behaviour is generally normal because I was conditioned that way as a kid, but my thought processes are hardly ever anywhere near normal. Let me give you an example.

I gather it’s becoming common practice in Italian apartment blocks to hold communal, but physically distant, keep fit sessions. People come out onto their respective balconies and join in, while others play music to entertain their fellow residents. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? It does, and most people would see it that way.

I don’t. If somebody started playing music outside my window without my express consent, I’d be hopping bloody mad. I love music, but it has to be my choice of music and played precisely when I want it. Not before and not after. Being forced to listen to somebody else’s choice is tantamount to a serious invasion of my private space, and a hatred of invasion is one of the strongest of my neuroses. (I have others.) I think I would be driven to total distraction if I lived in an Italian apartment block.

So that’s why I’m not communal. And it’s a hard life.