I remember how, during my twenties, the lifestyle I envisaged as ideal consisted of living alone in an offshore lighthouse, provisioned with an unlimited supply of books, films and music, and receiving infrequent visits from interesting people and attractive young women. (I also wanted a couple of dogs, but they raised a difficulty. I would have been scared to allow them the run of the island for fear that a large wave might wash them away. That would have upset me terribly.) Add a then-unheard-of pc into the picture to provide access to a word processor and the internet, and the image of perfection would have been complete.
In stark contrast, however, the reality of my life during my twenties was entirely suburban, and for a few years I was comfortable with it. I was living for a while on a housing estate on the edge of a market town in the East Midlands (which, ironically, is about as far as you can get in the UK from any lighthouse) and even fraternised with my neighbour. That’s what seems oddest of all to me now.
Looking back on it, though, I recognise that there was a degree of novelty informing my sense of ease and it lasted only a few years. The main road that I drove on to go home faced west, and I often felt inclined to ignore the right turn into the estate and continue driving into the sunset instead. And the neighbour’s extremely sour breath began to irritate me and encouraged the need to keep him well at arms length. The close proximity of the unattached and rather pretty Judy Claridge, on the other hand, was tempting, but I never succumbed and never regretted the fact.
And so, from small acorns great oaks do grow, and thus it was with my reclusive tendency. And here I am.
Do excuse me being even more boring than usual this evening. When the night is dark and quiet, and pointless memories begin to swirl around an isolated mind like upland mist on a lonely moor, they tend to fester if I don’t write them down.
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