I never go out anymore! If I’d heard myself saying that 10 years ago, I’d have been shocked. Not that I thought it would never happen, but that I would be saying it with such delight and relish – munching into the phrase like a fine veggie burger. I’m not a hermit, by any stretch: I had a very dear friend over on Sunday. But that was my place, and therefore under the category of “in”. I went to the movies last week, and both did and saw comedy shows, but that’s work. That’s not “out”. “Out” involves heels and hair and makeup that takes longer than 10 minutes to do. I never do that anymore. Hallelujah.
My favourite evenings now involve having done a run (only 10 days to marathon! Sponsor me! Come on!), showering, enveloping myself in flannel of some kind, eating something out of a bowl (hot or cold, doesn’t matter) and hurling myself at the fiancé on the couch before cracking open a nice, chilled boxset. I can stay there for hours. I have to remind myself to check the news, or I get completely immersed in whatever world I’m watching. I’ll find myself humming the theme-tune to something intense while scraping cooked-on rice off the bottom of a saucepan. It makes it more exciting if I’m a serial killer from another dimension, or a spaceman from the past.
My friends are amazingly generous and full of fun invites to parties and shows, and I’m always excited to accept. I love them, after all, and can’t wait to see them; they don’t live with me. I’m excited, that is, until the evening rolls around and I realise the implications of going out involve going out.
I’ve never been a great sleeper, and so it was always easier and more fun to go out. Maybe I wasn’t the social animal I convinced myself I was – maybe I saw the night-time scene as one long bottle of Nytol. Maybe all I wanted was a snooze with an elaborate preamble.
Now that the 2-day-hangover is such a great deterrent to over-indulgence in alcohol (not perfect, not every time, but at least some kind of impediment to 3am limoncellos) however, being out late is – whisper it – a bit wearing. Everyone shouts. Everyone jumps around like they’ve just got out of drama school. When you’ve already done several dog-walks and a training session that day, you’d be forgiven for favouring a bowl of brown rice laced with BSG.
Or maybe you wouldn’t. I know I’ll never be forgiven for staying in because in my day I lead too many people astray. Part of the reason why I never noticed the shouting ones before is that I was drowning them out with my own “interesting conversation” and loud ideas. I was the one who suggested strangely coloured liqueur night-caps and going on somewhere else. In 2006, the people I was doing a show with in Edinburgh nicknamed the Loft Bar “Flynn’s”. I’ve had to hand my title over, and I have no idea to whom.
The most shocking aspect to all of this, is that I don’t care. I think of them, out there, tottering around in heels, unable to get a taxi and fighting in the back when they do. I don’t miss it at all. I’ll do it again – soon, I’ll be in Manhattan next week, for god’s sake – and I’ll enjoy it. It’s just that all the while there’s a couch in North London with my name on it. Well, not my name, but certainly an impression of my butt-cheeks that can easily be traced back to me. It’s amazing what they can do with forensics these days.
