The Importance of Being Alone

There is a lot to be said for being alone. Not all the time of course, we all need someone most of the time and I know from experience, how sad being alone can be. When my father passed away in 2000, my mother seemed to slip into a little shell. She went shopping every day even though there was always food in her fridge or cupboard. She went to the shops to see other people, to speak with bakers and grocers and other shopkeepers before returning to her empty house. When I got divorced and came back to live with her, I like to think that me being there gave her a sense of purpose once again.

Occasional time on your own though can be good. It gives you time to think and do things that perhaps annoy your usual close partner. Playing music for instance or watching TV shows that your partner does not like. When you are alone you can eat early or eat late. You can get up early or you can get up late. You can even sit in the garden and read without any need to go back inside until you are good and ready. You can indulge in foods that are bad for you and no one will know. That cream cake that you should not have eaten is a secret between you and your inner self but you and you alone will know had good it tasted. Same goes for that Spam sandwich.

Sometimes I might get up early just for a change because together, Liz and I never get up early. Other times I might just lie in bed and read. I’m currently reading Adventures in the Screen Trade by William Goldman. Goldman wrote the screenplays for films like A Bridge Too Far, Marathon Man, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and All the President’s Men.

He gives advice on screenwriting and tells a number of film making/writing anecdotes. One I found particularly interesting was how directors want rewrites incorporating their ideas for the film. Then a big star comes aboard but doesn’t like it that his character dies at the end. New rewrite and the character is not killed. Then the star leaves the project and another star arrives. Cue new rewrite, this time the star wants to die but the director leaves and the new director wants to bring his own writer on board.

During All the President’s Men, Goldman interviewed the two newspaper men, Woodward and Bernstein, who pursued the Watergate story. After a year of research and interviews particularly with Woodward, Bernstein who was then married to Nora Ephron, put his own screenplay forward written by himself and Nora. Goldman wasn’t amused. Later he says that only one scene of the Bernstein/Ephron screenplay was used in the film but it wasn’t a scene Goldman was happy with. All along he had tried not to ‘Hollywoodise’ the story and keep scrupulously to the facts. The scene that came from the Bernstein script was one where Bernstein tricks a witness into talking. That says Goldman, was pure fiction.

Woodward and Bernstein (Picture via creative commons)

Time to drag myself up and into the kitchen. Breakfast for one is usually bacon and/or sausages cooked on my George Foreman grill. Poached egg and toast and a cup of tea.

After breakfast it’s time to write. Most of the time my laptop is full of part written stories and blog posts and my usual way of working is to write my stories in my head and then when I seem unable to go any further or sometimes when my head is just too full of stuff I’ll write the story down. I’ve got a lot of stories that start off well and then seem to lose their way.

Blog posts are a different matter. I’ve always felt that my deadline of 10.00am on a Saturday morning gives me an impetus to write. I can’t just write in my head or leave unfinished a half written blog post (although to be honest, I actually do). I must write, I must create something ready for Saturday morning, even if it involves dusting off an old blog post and re writing or re-hashing it to create something new.

The best time to write is when it’s raining. That way, particularly in the summer, I don’t feel bad about being inside writing when I should -if the weather is lovely- be outside. I remember once back in 1968 I spent a very enjoyable afternoon on a very hot and sunny day, at the cinema watching 2001 A Space Odyssey. When my mother found out where I had been she told me off for not being outside and enjoying the sunshine.

I don’t eat lunch but round about four I generally feel the need for a cup of tea and a ham sandwich. I do love sandwiches. Another thing about being alone is that I like to cook. I make pretty much the same old things, spaghetti bolognese, chilli, pizza. Most of the time I make a pizza by buying one of those cheap cheese and tomato pizzas and adding more cheese and more toppings but I do like to make a fresh pizza including making the dough. A lot of my pizzas came out a little soggy until I found the perfect solution. When using home made dough it’s a good idea to first bake the dough for a short while then take it out, add the tomato sauce, cheese and toppings and then slap it back in a very hot oven.

As I am writing this, exactly one year ago on the 30th April 2025, I made a pizza with home made dough and that was probably the first time I had made a perfect, well, almost perfect pizza. It had, if I remember correctly, cheese, onion, pepperoni and mozzarella chunks. I served it with salad for myself and my brother although he declined the salad. We had a nice evening. We chatted and watched one his favourite Bond films, Octopussy with Roger Moore as 007. I’m a big Bond fan but I’ve never liked Roger Moore as James Bond. Eventually my brother’s taxi arrived and he left.

I never saw him again; he died of a heart attack a few days later when Liz and I were en route to France.

Another thing I tend to do when I’m alone is to edit video and record my voiceovers. I’ve got a really good microphone and of course to record you do not need any background noise. When I was a school kid living on the council housing estate of Wythenshawe I was always pretty enamoured of Gatley. Gatley is a small village just next door to Wythenshawe. It’s a lovely village with nice pubs and shops and private houses and it’s a place I always thought would be rather lovely to live in. These days I couldn’t afford to live anywhere near unless I was lucky enough to win the lottery.

What I like about Gatley is that although it has changed it actually still looks pretty similar to the way it used to be, so one day I walked round the village with my video camera and then hooked up my mic and told my YouTube viewers my personal history of the village; the pubs I used to drink in, the cinema where I saw a lot of films (including 2001 A Space Odyssey mentioned above) the café I used to eat in, the chip shop I used to visit and the pub where my dad was the gardener and mum used to make the lunchtime sandwiches.

Another great things about being alone is being able to watch whatever I want on the television and not only that, to watch it the way I want to watch it. Sometimes I watch two or more programmes at once by flipping over during the advertisements or whenever I lose interest in one or other of the shows. Sometimes I’ll watch a DVD or even just watch the first half and then the second half the next night. Sometimes I stay up late and sometimes I’ll go to bed early and read a book. That’s the great thing about time on your own, you can do whatever you want.

After about three days on my own I find myself missing Liz and I pack up and drive up the M6 back to her place. The first thing I ask her is ‘have you missed me?’

She’ll look at me and say ‘missed you? I didn’t even notice you’d gone!’


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Writing, the Village and Young Higgins

Liz and I will soon be off to France in our motorhome. It’s had an MOT, it’s been taxed and has had a good wash and clean up and it’s pretty much all ready for the trip. As a writer, I try and get ready for the trip too, I like to get ahead with my weekly posts so I have a few all written and ready to be posted, even if I’m in the middle of the outback of the Loire valley. All I have to do is press the post button and I know that I will have met my deadline, my one deadline of 10:00am on a Saturday morning when my new post goes out.

A couple of weeks ago I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, I was actually three blogs in advance, a whole three weeks, all I had to do was keep writing one blog per week and then in the hoped for sunny Loire I could relax, read books, sunbathe and swim and still put out my one blog post every week. Of course, there are some writers, some bloggers whose output is considerably more than that. Even so, my one blog post per week keeps me honest as a writer and of course I do actually write more. I’ve started to recycle my old posts over on Medium.com to hopefully engage more readers and even sell more books. One day, when my royalties build up, I might even have enough to splash out on a pint of lager on our regular Thursday night pub quiz.

It was nice to get back behind the wheel of our motorhome and take it down for its first wash of 2023. I’ve already got a few good books to read packed aboard and it almost seems as though I can already taste the vin rouge and the French bread. Yes, that was a good feeling. A bad feeling though was when I realised that despite being three blogs ahead, it was soon two and then just one and as much as I looked at prompts and old posts, no inspiration seemed to come.

Parked by a lake in France

I did a post a while ago about Ideas, Inspiration and Effort. They, I thought, were the key things to any kind of writing, whether it’s a blog post, a story or a poem. The more I think about it, a better title might be Inspiration, Observation and Effort. Some ideas just come naturally. A writer is inspired, he jots down notes and then writes. Other ideas come just by observing things. A recent idea for a post came from a car journey and observing what happened during the trip and it got me talking about my former job, working as a motorway traffic officer and other ideas from my car stereo and the music I was playing. After that comes the effort, the actual work of putting together a blog or story or book.

This week it’s round about a year since I retired. I’m really still getting used to retirement. It’s nice having a free bus pass and it’s nice not having to go into work all the time. I did think about getting a part time job but I actually don’t need a job. Perhaps if I spend too much on holidays or restaurants then I might have to think about working but so far, I seem to be doing OK. When my father retired, he went out on long walks with his dog. He used to roam about the huge council estate where he lived and take in the farms or what used to be farms where he used to work in his youth. He once showed me an old farmhouse hidden in the estate surrounded by council houses. There was a large green there which he said used to be the farm’s orchard and indeed, there were still many apple and pear trees on the green.

After thinking about my father I thought that I might do a similar thing, have a little walkabout around some places I used to know well and see how they had changed.

Not far from the housing estate is a small village called Gatley and when I was younger I used to go there quite a lot. There was a fabulous model shop there and as a schoolboy I bought many a plastic model kit from there. I used to make models from scratch too using glue and balsa wood which I also bought from that shop. The shop itself was a wooden hut type of affair and walking down there the other day the shop was gone and only bushes and shrubs had taken its place. Right outside the shop was the bus stop for the 45 bus which came from Manchester, turned around in Gatley and then went back to Manchester. Today, the small block which the bus circled in order to turn round has been blocked off so the 45 bus is no more, although there is another bus which carries on through the village.

The Red Lion pub is now a Tesco store. There is still a café on the spot where there was aways a café but despite various visits recently, I have never seen it open. Further down, The Prince of Wales is still there. In that particular pub I had my first ever pint many years ago.

As I walked further into the village the traditional English chip shop I used to frequent is now a Chinese takeaway and the chip shop dining room is another shop entirely. The Tatton cinema was demolished some time ago although the builders kept the façade of the building when they built the new supermarket. Among many other films I remember seeing there was my first James Bond film, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service in what must have been 1969.

Next door is the Horse and Farrier pub. My mother once worked there at lunchtimes making sandwiches and my father too, he was the pub gardener. Once, when I was 16 and still at school, a couple of friends and I went inside for a pint. We left our briefcases outside with our school jackets and just as we bought our drinks and had our first sips of beer, who came in through the entrance but our physics master, Mr Farragher. The three of us shot out of the back door and into the gardens before going round to grab our jackets and briefcases from the front. Ever afterwards we three referred to the pub as the Horse and Farragher!

Today I often have a drink in that pub. On the outside it looks just the same as it always did and when I’m there I often think of Mr Farragher. That reminds me of Return Journey, the radio broadcast by Dylan Thomas I spoke about in last week’s post. Dylan returns to a pub of his youth looking for his younger self. He asks the barmaid about young Thomas and she in turn asks him what he looked like. He replies like this:

Thick blubber lips and a snub nose, a bit of a shower off: plus fours and no breakfast you know, a bombastic adolescent provincial bohemian with a thick knotted artist’s tie made from his sisters scarf. A gabbing, mock tough pretentious young man . .

How would I describe myself if I was looking for young Higgins I wonder?

A tall thin reserved young man wearing aviator spectacles. He sometimes wore tinted glasses even when it wasn’t so bright. A provincial adolescent wannabe writer and film director who packed in his job in an insurance company to travel through Europe and ended up as a bus conductor.

Such a shame we can’t go back and change things.


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