Words: Holly Murray
Image: Stephen Leslie

It was with the realisation that I was actively looking forward to having my legs waxed that I realised things had taken a dire turn. For a period of about an hour I would be a) in a nice place that smells of expensive scented candles, drinking coffee b) not forced to speak to anyone unless I so wished. Having body hair ripped from me, it seems, is now my solo leisure time.

When I was a child we had a book called Five Minutes Peace by Jill Murphy.  It was a snapshot into a morning in the life of a busy mummy elephant and her brood of three, and her quest to have just Five Minutes Peace. The front cover shows mummy elephant in the bath, slurping a cup of tea through her trunk with her baby elephants all around her, dropping things in the bath, poking her and generally being very annoying.

This was one of my mother’s favourite bedtime story books, which is probably why I remember it so well. I was one of three and my poor Mum clearly identified with this put-upon elephant.  I remember being vaguely miffed. Why would she even want alone time? WHY? What could be better than being with your children all the time?

Generally, I have never really had the need to spend time by myself. In fact I spent most of my life being allergic to it. All through my teens and twenties I made a great deal of effort to hardly ever be alone, living in shared houses and surrounding myself with people to hang out and do things with all the time.  When I didn’t have a boyfriend, I spent my weekends in the pub with loads of people. When I had a boyfriend, we spent our weekends in the pub with loads of people.

When I met my now-husband I was surprised by his need for Alone Time. He would happily spend a whole Sunday on his own at home ‘pottering’. I HATED pottering. What is the point of pottering?

We moved in together, and later we got married. I still continued to fill my diary until there wasn’t a single blank space for at least six weeks ahead. This would make him panic: “I just need to know that I’ve got some unscheduled Alone Time”.  BOR-RING.  He’d attempt Alone Time when I was at home. I’d get right up in his face and actually say the words “pay me attention”. Poor husband. The fact is this, he enjoys his own company; he’s happy and confident spending time by himself. He’s a rounded individual who likes to give himself space to think. He quite enjoys going to the pub for a solo pint with the paper. He’s an adult. It turns out, all along I was mistaking solitude for loneliness.

Solitude, I have discovered, is pretty good for you. A bit of thinking time, a bit of quiet, helps to improve concentration and increase productivity – unless of course you are spending your alone time smoking bongs.

All the clever dudes dig a bit of alone time. A bit of rudimentary Googling on ‘Solitude’ show that philosophers, poets and thinking types hang out solo all the bloody time. And write lofty things like “If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.” (Thanks, Sartre.) But then Woolf and Bronte (other AT advocates), while they had their own problems, didn’t have to be actual time travellers – both getting to the childminder before 6.30pm, while not leaving work until after 7pm – so bully for them.

The opportunity for alone time, now I have discovered how crucial it actually is, has tragically gone. Suddenly I am that fed-up elephant mum. How foolish I was to squander all those years where peace was so easy to get. What would I give for a bit of meditative silence? What I would give to have a shower without a toddler trying to drop the remote control in the loo.  Dear Lord, what I would give for a solo flight to Australia.

The lost art of solitude is a common problem. You don’t have to be a parent to never have any time to yourself, but there is no denying it makes it harder. I run to work now. Not in a healthy jogging way; in a desperate out-of-breath way, with a heel that is slightly loose. Can I go for an impromptu wander around Topshop after work? (This is valid alone time of the Virginia Woolf standard, in my book.) NO I CAN’T.

It turns out our offspring is a bit more like me and a bit less like his dad. People talk about listening to their babies coo and play by themselves in their cot “happily for ages”. Not mine. Eyes open and immediately he shouts: PAY ME ATTENTION. He can’t actually say that yet, but by God he can communicate it. It’s payback. (Obviously I wouldn’t change him for the world, blah blah. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, etc. But still.)

So, this is a lament for the Alone Time I let slip through my fingers. This is a message to those of you for whom it is not too late to go for a few country walks by yourself, go to a café and read a book on your own, just potter (I still hate that word) at home, turn the TV off. Ditch the Internet for a few hours. Meditate. Eat toast and paint your nails. Whatever.

As Honoré de Balzac said, “Solitude is fine, but you need someone to tell you solitude is fine.” Please, allow me. Solitude is fine. Now, could someone please explain that to the one year old?

@MsHMurray