The Problem of Roles and Some Tangents.

Something suddenly occurred to me tonight, and I don’t know why it’s never occurred to me before. I was sitting here, alone as usual and with the prospect of several long, dark, and mostly silent hours between nightfall and the early hours of the morning before me, when I realised that I’m not playing a role.

It seems to me, you see – and I’ve said pretty much the same thing before – that everybody spends their lives playing a role. It’s as though an infinite number of stereotypes are placed before us sometime early in our lives, and based on a deeply rooted sense of our natures and an appraisal of our environment, we unconsciously choose a role to play. And then we play it for the rest of our lives, or until the role has resulted in us becoming so incapacitated that all we can do is vegetate.

Such a suggestion is highly speculative, I know, and maybe I could offer other speculations, such as the notion – favoured by some – that we choose our roles even before we’re born. Well, I can’t know where and how the process begins, but I’m quite sure that play a role is what we all do.

So how does this relate to the loner, the recluse who never goes anywhere of any consequence, hardly ever talks to anyone of any consequence, hardly ever entertains visitors, and hardly ever gets invited to visit anybody’s weddings or other celebrations, but sits alone through the long, dark, and mostly silent hours until bedtime? If I were writing a book with the likelihood of publication, or writing this week’s feature article for the Sunday Times, or slaving over the end of year figures for my company’s accounts, or even watching my favourite soap on the TV, it would be different. But I’m not; I sit here through the long, dark, and mostly silent hours trying to think of something by which to be entertained. And that’s a problem because I’m so fussy about what sort of films I want to watch on DVD, so fussy about what sort of books I want to read, and I have no interest in porn whatsoever.

And that’s probably why my life feels so flat. And it probably contributes considerably to the depressive tendency. I’m lacking a role, so now I know.

But writing the above reminded me that one of these days – and if I ever get the opportunity, of course – I must ask the Lady B why she didn’t invite me to her wedding. It amuses me sometimes because I find myself speculating as to the reasons on offer. They include (off the top of my head):

It never occurred to me to invite you

I didn’t think you’d want to come

Would you have come? (To which I would reply ‘certainly not’)

My mother would have quizzed me on why I was inviting you

My future husband would have quizzed me on why I was inviting you

I thought you probably wouldn’t have had anything suitable to wear

Your tatty little old car would have stood out embarrassingly among the Land Rovers and Volvos

You might have laughed audibly at what the vicar was saying

I knew you’d hate the music at the reception

The caterers had no vegetarian options on their list

I didn’t want you there

That’s the first eleven off the top of my head. And I’m sure they’re all wrong because most of my speculations turn out to be wrong. And now it’s time for coffee and toast again (with marmalade, I think.)

I’ve started reading The Thirteenth Tale, by the way. And I must try to get the DVD of Mon Oncle. I think I’ll understand it better than I did when I first watched it a very long time ago. The bluebottle count in the house has risen to fifteen.