Fatherhood

  

The Women's Hour on Radio 4 was running a series about absent fathers. After I’d caught a bit of it on air, I thought it was an interesting coincidence. In recent weeks, I’ve been thinking about Dad a bit. And I am watching my husband father, too.

As a mum, I am always there. Nobody questions it. Fathers are different in a way, even though the expectations should be the same.

This year, I have visited my birthplace after a few years. Part of the tradition is a visit to the cemetery and a stop by the little window that houses the urn with my dad’s ashes. It is the place of his final rest and a reminder that he is no longer alive.

My family wasn’t special; we were average in many ways. Mum, Dad, two daughters - parents with jobs average for their area, a quiet family, well-behaved children. It didn’t occur to me how rare that actually was and still is, to have two functioning adults who looked after us, took care of us, and wanted us to have a good start in life. Our family was around, some near, some further away, but we were part of them. I grew up surrounded by people and their history. Life might have been boring at times, but it was steady, stable, and safe.

A friend across the road grew up in a house where various boyfriends came and went; some wanted to be part of the existing family unit, some didn’t really care about the boys in the flat. My friend’s mum wanted to have a relationship, but she also wanted to give her sons everything, including a father-figure. She was trying very hard to make it work. I didn’t see it as wrong or bad; it was just a different kind of family. Only later did I think that there were actually many blended or one-parent families around me and I believer they are now increasing.

Another boy in my class once remarked how lucky my sister and I were. Our dad was always around; he did things with us, took us places. We participated in everything that was going on in our little town – all special events, or the regular ones, or sporting events because they interested Dad. He took us on little trips. Dad wanted to spend time with us; he wanted to do things together. I thought it was normal. Only after that remark, looking around, I realised it was actually special.

Dad also spent a lot of time lying on the sofa ignoring us, not keen on checking our homework, preferring to read newspapers. Of course, he was only human. But, again, he was there. He didn’t take off and sit in a pub with his mates. He was there for us. Made us dinner. Answered questions.

Dad was decent, polite, and quiet. He didn’t hammer things into me, didn’t give me big speeches, didn’t make demands, but I somehow knew I should try my best, work hard, strive. I wasn’t good enough; he hardly ever complimented or praised me, but he did instil a certain ethic in me, perhaps without knowing.

Only as an adult did I realise that he was happy to spend time with his kids because it was a good excuse to be out of the house that was sometimes heavy for all of us. It wasn’t as harmonious as one might have thought, but again, nothing out of the ordinary. Nineteen years of living with my partner/now husband had taught me that relationships aren’t easy. So, yes, many things were on his terms; we may have spent a lot of time standing around finishing lines at the running events he was taking part in after we’d finished the kids’ run (me doing alright, my sister hating every minute, none of us being praiseworthy by Dad), holding his jacket, waiting. Still, it was better than being stuck at home. He dismissed many things that interested me because they didn’t make sense to him. He found faults in me easily. Mother saw only faults. I could have been a very unhappy child. And yet, I was alright. A little quiet and weird, perhaps, but even though they weren’t happy with me or with themselves, they still managed to make me into a functioning adult, motivated and keen to live the best life. They did a good job.

I wasn’t close to my parents. I couldn’t wait to leave the small town, live independently, and travel the world. I was adamant about doing and trying all of the things they said were a waste of time – playing a guitar just for the sake of doing it, modelling even though it wasn’t a real job (but you got paid, so it was real and a job), dancing, skydiving, and many other things. It wasn’t even rebellion. I was simply living my life. Because they had made me a person who made it possible. Perhaps not because of them, but in spite of them, I have become the person I am today. Yes, I wasn’t the ideal daughter they wanted, but, again, they didn’t really tell me or show me what they had expected, wished, or wanted.

A long distance relationship worked for me and my parents. I knew they weren’t happy together, but they were somehow dependent on each other. I thought I would do much better in that sense. Well, now I see how hard it is. Perhaps there is a happily ever after for some. But perhaps that comes after actually seeing a happily ever after in real life first. I wasn’t so lucky. I don’t have cherished memories of my childhood, I wanted to be a grown-up. I was at my happiest when I was single and independent. I don’t think that the way society functions is fair to women. Us being single and happy to be so is seen as weird and wrong. Because we are meant to look after men – that is literally our role (according to society). If I had stayed single, I wouldn’t be a mum, and that would be a loss. And there are good times in family life, too. I would have missed out on that. I am lucky because I have experienced it all; I wasn’t stuck in one relationship after another. In many ways, I am blessed.

I knew that I wouldn’t have a child with just anybody. I didn’t even think about being a single mum. The urge to have children had not been that strong in me. It was all or nothing; my child would have to have a father in life. Not a weekend dad or someone only written on the birth certificate. I always knew that I wouldn’t deny my child a father. My dad managed to stamp that belief in me. Children need both parents. Mums are awesome. They can do it all. But they shouldn’t have to. Even though my husband wasn’t there properly for me because he never understood how much help I really needed before and after the birth of our child, when the time was right (the child was bigger and responsive, basically), he was there for his child and is still there for us. I have my dad to thank for that. However imperfect, fractured, and weird our family might have been, they instilled many good things in me, and I have managed to find the right dad for my child in the end.

So, yes. Family is the thing that holds society together, and it comes in many forms. Even though they mostly don’t know what they are doing or how they are making it work, parents keep on going because it is what they do. And as long as they keep trying their best, they are doing a good job. And we will never stop learning.

Summer is over...

  

I have survived the family holiday. Good on me. It is more challenging than one might expect. For a big part of the year, we are massaged by advertisements for holidays, showing us happy families enjoying their time together, relaxing, frolicking, and having the best time they can get. How comes that the pools, beaches, and restaurants are always empty, pristine, and perfectly lit? How come extended families or groups of friends all get along aimlessly, and nobody is annoyed by having to wait for everyone else to get going or doing what the majority decided?

I used to enjoy travel much more, I have to admit. Airports used to be special places where one was suspended in a no one’s land, and could imagine being somebody else while busy people-watching or looking at the list of destinations and dreaming up the possibilities. Then more security, shops, and budget flights moved in, and the atmosphere shifted somehow, with airports being like shopping malls and trains seeming more luxurious than crammed planes where the shopping pressure continued and the enjoyment of flying was gone.

While I was younger and single, I travelled for work. and holidays were different, often mixed in with work destinations, spontaneous, and carefree. The world seemed to be a big, open adventure. Even for a few years after 9/11, it felt welcoming and safe. I could safely navigate the globe, playing it by ear, because I had no responsibilities other than myself, and I knew how to keep myself safe. I didn’t realise how free I had been back then, but I will never forget it. The slightly hectic and unpredictable lifestyle had taught me that solo travel is the best way to go. I could rely on myself, set my own schedule, and get to know many interesting people. I was on my own, but I was never lonely. Sure, I missed out on some nice photo opportunities, but that’s okay. Snaps from my camera were about places, not about me in them. (Because I happened to travel a lot in the time before smartphones and selfies.) When I happened to fall into a group, it often brought very nice moments and interesting interactions, but in the long-term, I always enjoyed some time on my own. I think these years made me who I am and gave me the confidence that would be hard to build up otherwise.

When I became half of a serious couple, it brought some changes. In the beginning, of course, I wanted to travel with my then boyfriend. I thought it would be the best thing. Well, not really. I realised that I would have to compromise, plan to sync our schedules, and that my favourite places might not be his favourite places. That showing him where I’d grown up would mean enduring similar tours, having to meet many new people, and while having some good time and seeing new places, the freedom I’d been used to would be gone and moments alone would be fewer to come by, and mostly stolen. On the one hand, I had different experiences; on the other, I had to let go or postpone some of the things I wanted to do. Life changed; it is normal, so I accepted less travel and adventure as one of the facts of adulting.

And then came family. Travelling with a child is, of course, a very different game. And playing it by ear doesn’t work very well. Unless you are lucky. Travelling with a baby is a challenge different to travelling with a toddler, young child, or a teenager. At least you need less stuff, and they can carry some of it themselves as they grow up. You can go the whole way and move to all inclusive and theme parks way of travel, or you can pack your child and travel as you used to, while incorporating some child-friendly activities as you go along. I tend to be in the latter group.

After my first summer with a teenager, I am noticing how much life had changed and how different everything is. The little child who would follow along and could be placated with a supply of ice cream and one day at a water park is no more. Instead, the young person next to me has opinions, demands, and, most of all, moods. But at least I can spend time with the teenager and get to know them on the move, in unfamiliar surroundings, out of routine. It is special.

Relationship with a partner, however, gets a beating. The cracks deepen, differences are confirmed, and it is hard to stay polite. Thinking back to the history of our travels, the signs were there from the start. Only in the beginning, one doesn’t believe in them; then, one is willing to overlook them, and, eventually, is willing to accept them as the price of peace. Year by year, that limit of family travel is getting shorter. Soon, the teenager will not be willing to participate in family trips. And I am looking forward to the return to freedom. As life settled and Child grew up, stealing a few days or half-days for a little trip, even locally, had been the one thing that recharged my travel batteries more than anything else.

So, yes, I will do the planning, preparations, packing, and organising for the family trips, but I will also continue being me – the solo-traveller who won’t be tamed.

Under the Spell

  

A magical thing had happened last night: I was dreaming about my characters. The people I have been wrestling on the page have become quite important, and now they were in my dreams, playing very random roles, being as real as anything and anybody else that appear in the sleep state and are hardly remembered. The dream itself wasn’t significant and didn’t mean much, but I was very happy when I remembered it.

It just shows how much stories mean to us, and how writing is a part of us. Writers are readers, and we care about our characters. As writers, we see them becoming truly a part of us. I have written a few books and have spent my time thinking and plotting, being connected to my characters, building a relationship with them. Some are more important than others, I suppose. We can’t help but have favourites. They are real to us. When the book is done, we see our characters off, and we wish them well. The story ends there for some, but we keep thinking about others, wondering what they have done next. Perhaps it is a little seed for a future book.

As a reader, I have always had a connection with the story. I see it in my mind, I imagine the places, homes, surroundings, and, of course, the characters. Sometimes it is annoying seeing them in their film form, because they are too different. Sometimes, the choice and interpretation work, but still, I will keep seeing them my way when I revisit their stories.

So far this year, I have had two very opposite encounters with book characters. The first is Lyra and the long-awaited final book about her – The Rose Field. We have waited a long time for that. I haven’t looked at any reviews or articles, because I don’t want to find spoilers or cloud my judgement, but I am conflicted.

I love Lyra and her world. His Dark Materials holds a special place in my heart; it is one of the books that I will happily come back to and read it again. I listened to it in audiobook, too. I loved the BBC series; I think it was very well made. When the next stories were announced, I was intrigued. And then disappointed. I wasn’t sure why we needed La Belle Sauvage, but I gave it the benefit of the doubt. The second book was at least happening after His Dark Materials, but, again, I can’t say that I liked it. I cared about the story, I wanted to know it, but I didn’t like it. Why would Pantalaimon leave? Why now (besides, of course, to serve the narrative – he had to leave in order for the story to happen)? I struggled through, but I wasn’t happy. Especially after what had happened to Lyra on the train towards the end of book two.

If La Belle Sauvage or The Secret Commonwealth were stand-alone novels, I would probably still read them, but wouldn’t think much about them and wouldn’t be considering any further stories for my list. But I am invested in the world and the characters, I want to know what happens, even if I don’t like it. So, I am disappointed, but I will keep coming for more.

Right now, I am slowly working my way through the third book, and it is more of an obligation than a pleasure. I will see it through, but I cannot imagine taking so long with any other beloved character. And it is a little bit sad. For me, the second trilogy doesn’t hold the same magic. I don’t always understand what is happening and why and whether it even matters. I find the story a bit complicated, scattered, and confusing, although it might be because there was a long time between the publication of the second and third book and I have forgotten quite a few details and characters. I am, however, not willing to re-read the second book at the moment. I won’t say never, because Lyra and Pantalaimon are very dear to me. However, I am not sure that they needed this trilogy.

It is therefore refreshing to find something very different in times of such reading despair. I speak now about Butter by Asako Yuzuki, which I sandwiched in between reading The Rose Field, when I simply didn’t want to read it, but wanted to read something. I don’t usually read more than one fiction book at a time, but I think I have explained why it would have happened now.

If I were losing my will to read and streaming services were calling to steal my time, Butter brought back all the reasons why to read books a thousandfold. If The Rose Field feels like a chore, Butter was like going on a special date every evening when I settled with the book, hoping that time wouldn’t fly too fast, and I would manage more than one chapter before bedtime. Butter is a genius of a book, and Asako Yuzuki is my favourite Japanese writer right now. That book is so difficult to describe or put into a simple category; it is uniquely special. When I read something like that and think about someone thinking it out of nowhere, I feel awe and happiness that we can do that as a species, that we have imagination, fantasy, and a way to make stories. Even if Butter won’t have a sequel, I wouldn’t struggle to remember its characters or story a few years later, because they are unforgettable. Butter cemented my love of reading and storytelling when The Rose Field somehow diminished it. It made me as happy as only a book can make a book lover happy.

The Idea of Austen

 

Books and stories find us at the right time – whether to be written or read. This year, I am enjoying a backwards relationship with Jane Austen, and I am having a marvellous time discovering her. Of course, I knew about her for years. I’ve learnt about her in school. I took her existence for granted – she is one of the classics. I didn’t question how remarkable it was for a woman of her time to become a writer, or why there weren’t more women writers. For a long time, I was shaped by the view of the world that it was men who did, created, and invented things, and that was that; only sometimes, there would be a woman who would somehow manage to be almost as good as the men. How little did I know.

Therefore, when I was going through the phase in my life when I was reading classics, I did try to read one of Jane Austen’s books. It was Emma. And I didn’t like it. It didn’t grab my attention. I thought it was just a love story, that all of her books were love stories, and that it wasn’t for me. Did the women have nothing better to worry about than men? I liked to read about more than just relationships. In my twenties, I didn’t have the patience and understanding that I have now. I didn’t understand how much women needed to have the right relationship – I was a young woman travelling the world, doing as I pleased, not thinking about how recent and unusual such a privilege was. So, Emma was lying at the back of the bookshelf ever since, and I never returned to her.

Then, I watched the film Emma, the one with Gwyneth Paltrow, and it only confirmed that it wasn’t for me. I simply didn’t get it. I didn’t get many films with Gwyneth Paltrow (Shakespeare in Love was definitely not worth an Oscar for her, especially not in the year that Elizabeth with Cate Blanchett was nominated), but I still put the blame at Jane Austen’s door – it was a story about people going around and talking too much about relationships.

I was resolute that I wouldn’t be reading Jane Austen’s books and wouldn’t have to bother watching any adaptations. Yes, she is great, but not for me.

So, this year, when there has been so much talk about Jane Austen and her big anniversaries, I thought I would just let it go by. But then, I had nothing to watch. And the Pride and Prejudice TV series was on the BBC iPlayer, and I heard it mentioned so many times that I wanted to know what the references (and fuss) were about. I watched it and it was good. Not my favourite story, but good and interesting. I thought that I may as well watch the other adaptations and then not have to read any of them, but know the storylines and understand what people are talking about when mentioning plots and characters. With my child starting secondary school, it was good to brush up on things that would eventually be encountered in the curriculum.

I’d seen the TV adaptations of Pride and Prejudice as well as the movie because Alan Rickman is simply great in anything. I’d also watched everything else on the BBC that was on offer. Some older adaptations like Persuasion and a very weirdly made Northanger Abbey, which I had to finish out of sheer dedication, but am very thankful that it wasn’t the first one to start, because I would never have gotten into Austen if it had been. Also, I finally know what Emma is about; the TV adaptation had done a much better job at keeping me watching and staying curious, although the character of Emma is indeed hard to like.

While at it, I also watched the lovely new series of Miss Austen and got a little more knowledge of the background and perhaps sources of inspiration. Then, I thought that I was done with Austen. But I got the bug already.

I was happy to find a documentary Jane Austen: Rise of a Genius and it was fascinating to learn all the details. Thanks to my age and experience, I have already been more sensitive to the plight of women through the ages (and now, of course) and have a better understanding of their obsession with marriage and social standing. Women in Jane Austen’s time had so few options and freedoms, and many of the things that would annoy me years ago were now making perfect sense because I get it, I understand it better.

But learning about Jane and her willpower, combined with the luck that the man in her life – her father – was supportive and encouraging of her being a writer, was what made me fall in love with her. Learning about her trying to make it on the market and facing refusals simply because she wasn’t known, didn’t have any connections, and was an outsider, was a reminder of the publishing world today, where connections and marketability are so very similarly important as back then. A struggling writer must like another struggling writer.

During that time, I’d also noticed that our local theatre was showing Pride and Prejudice this spring. Of course, I had to go and see it. And it was marvellous. Funny and enjoyable. The whole day, for me, which I’d spent in town by myself, was like being out on a date with Jane Austen.

So, I finished the documentary, wondered what would have happened if Jane Austen weren’t so ill, and then I went and ordered her complete works and am happy to read them, helped by them being so well incorporated into the story of her life in the documentary. The books she had written were shaped by her experiences, just like most of the books we read and write. That is why I think that I have a backwards relationship with Jane Austen. Most things I really like, I find the book first and then see the adaptation on TV or film.

I can report that Northanger Abbey, as a book, is good. Now I’m enjoying Pride and Prejudice, and again, I’m looking forward to the evenings when I can have a bit of reading time. I have gone full circle. I now consider Jane Austen as an author very much for me, I am proud to know her and happy to read her.

About Reading

 

Children aren’t reading for pleasure, says research. An unwelcome finding for a writer and a parent. The tween in our house is generally frustrated by parents who aren’t giving in to trends and refuse to provide her with a smartphone. Everybody has one. That’s the thing.

In a few years, we have been conditioned into thinking that we must be constantly connected. We don’t question it. Or, we do, but a little too late.

Perhaps I am one of the lucky ones. I have always been suspicious of fads and fashions. Not an easy consumer. I have been frustrated for years by people dumbed down by their ‘smart’ phones. Suddenly, the devices are glued to their hands. They are the first to be answered and acknowledged, deeming face-to-face conversation less important. They are the first and last thing users want to see each day (and most hours in between). They ought to confirm what is true. People experience things through them. They no longer look at what is happening in front of them, instead, they film it, watch it through the screen, and unless it is uploaded to their social sites immediately, it doesn’t really matter. So, they must chase more, better, crazier, and shinier content to keep up with their feed.

It was obvious that reading would suffer. Instead of getting lost in a book, you can scroll till the battery dies.

For years, I have been having a deteriorating relationship with Husband. He is no longer pretending to be interested in reading. He makes it clear that communication in his online groups takes precedence over conversation with me. When out and about, he will show me what his mates are up to instead of simply being in the moment, watching the little things that happen around us. Of course, he also has to update people on his endeavours. He no longer takes pictures of me because he wants to capture a moment. Throughout our child’s life, he has never been with her without a phone in hand or in a pocket, ready to use. When I don’t like it, I am reprimanded – am I denying potential updates for Grandpa?

I still don’t believe that communication must be constant and updates instant. I also don’t appreciate having hundreds of snaps dumped on me; expected to react to them immediately. I still look up things in books, they are my favourite point of reference. Of course, I google things, we all do. But for in-depth research, I like to read up on things. I use cookbooks and reference books, I like to buy guidebooks for new places I am visiting even though I do research and bookings online. When I want to truly learn and understand something, a book is the thing to use. The information gained through the internet is helpful but somehow superficial. When I travel or go somewhere interesting, I don’t want to be glued to a screen while standing in a place I’ve come to see. I also bring a digital camera. Sure, smartphone cameras are now often superior. Doesn’t mean I have to see the world through it. People I know don’t need to know where I am at this very moment. I’ll let them know when I talk to them. Or not – most of the time, it won’t matter to them.

I have been reading to my child since the very beginning. I have been giving her books every Christmas and birthday. I have been visiting libraries. I still help her to source and reserve books. I miss reading time. We still occasionally do read together, but, after twelve years, the bedtime ritual is changing.

However, books have a big role in our lives. So, perhaps, my child is privileged. She sees people reading around her. She has not only story books but also reference books and enjoys reading them, some are picked up very often. When I want to support an interest, I look up books about it. We have books on dogs and cat breeds and how to care for them, books on common birds, trees, and insect, we have books on history and geography, and, of course, the wizarding world. We have books I used to enjoy as a child and new books we’ve found together.

A few weeks ago, I was out with my child and we spotted an unusual, interesting bird. We watched it closely while we could (we were lucky, this one was quite a show-off). Later, we went through our book and found out what it was (a nuthatch). A few weeks later, on a walk with friends, Husband downloaded an app that identifies birds by sound. Immediately, the kids got hold of their or their parent’s phones and tried to find more birds, wandering around, phone in hands, interested but looking at a screen, ignoring the nature around them. I was a little sad. Yes, I didn’t identify all the birds around me while I was observing the noisy and interesting nuthatch. But I could also tell that I was surrounded by the usual mix of blackbirds, tits, pigeons, and robins. And I was fully present during my interaction with that little bird. The app is good when you hear but don’t see the bird in question, but, isn’t just listening and looking around more than enough?

A few evenings ago, my daughter took Anne of Green Gables from the library shelf and got into reading. We have been reading this book on and off together. I’d bought it years back when I was compiling books that I wanted to introduce to my daughter. I got a big book that has all of Anne’s stories together, it is big and bulky. The story got its spell on me again. Daughter also admitted that it was good. With end-of-year exams and sports clubs, we have been slower in reading and not always reading together. But, eventually, my daughter found her way to the book again and is reading it without my prompts or assistance on most evenings. Perhaps not all is lost. Perhaps when a child knows that a good story is there, the child will eventually tire of YouTube and will reach for the book. Just as with interesting birds, I just have to be patient and ready for a surprise.

Antisocial Socials

 Dear Readers and Writers,

I have been quite busy and didn't go on my Threads for a long time. I didn't even look through the feed, simply dedicating the little spare time I have to other things (I have read some awesome books, though). In the last few weeks, I have been trying to return to Threads and give it another try, hoping that this time my enthusiasm would last a little longer.

However, I am unable to access the account. I keep getting locked out, sent back via Instagram, notified about unusual activity, prompted to change a password, over and over again. Threads won’t let me go in at all and Instagram only sends me through changes of passwords, retrieval of security code, then a new sign-in and a prompt to change password. Annoying. There has been no unusual activity, dear overlords of internet wisdom, because there has been no activity! Nothing. I am not dead, but I didn't need you - hard to believe, I know. Of course, one can’t contact anyone to ask and the so-called help pages are very unhelpful. Not even an annoying chatbot to vent to. Oh well.

Is it a sign? A message that I should give up on my futile attempts? I am very obviously unable to make friends in real or online life. I very clearly don't care – it doesn’t change my life at all. The only reason that I am trying to be active in the writing community is because I like it. This year, NaNoWriMo is closing down. Amazon is being boycotted, and, also, using our hard-worked-for manuscripts for AI learning (allegedly). I don't know any writers in real life. While I am now braver and might consider a writing group, I am also working and therefore don't have much time to dedicate to such an activity. What to do?

I won't stop writing. No way. But how do I show up my books and make them read by people unrelated to me? How do I sell books without a massive (I think I reached 35 followers after almost two years on Threads!) online following? Most readers of independent authors are other independent authors. I can’t find out about books from people I followed because I didn’t plan to leave, so I didn’t make a list. We all hope that what we have written will be talked about and that reviews and word of mouth will help us make it. Hard work. How can I participate when I’m not able to take part?

Some people are good at talking themselves up, connecting with others, having general chit-chat, and sending updates. I will probably never reach the state of online native. When I see something interesting, I don't have the impulse to snap and update. Phones annoy me. I don't have it on me all the time. Yes, I am weird, I know.

So, I may simply give up on trying and see what else I can do. Perhaps there are more of 'analogue' authors like me out there? Perhaps I will find my niche? Or, in one last push, I may try the last option: Bluesky. Threads worked out better and nicer than Twitter. Maybe the uphill trend will continue. Who knows, the participants there might tolerate quiet people better.

Wish me luck. I shall update my profiles for a new contact. Or print 1000 paperbacks and open a stall at the next church fair near you. No AI will find me there.

The Joy of Being Alone

I am haunted by the scene from the movie Maria, where Maria Callas – played by Angelina Jolie – walks near the Eiffel Tower and the crowd around her comes together and breaks into an aria from Verdi’s Il Trovatore. The whole movie was beautiful and sad, but this scene keeps coming back. A few days ago, I’d heard the aria again, in a different setting, and ever since then, I have an earworm. It could be worse, this one is at least very sophisticated.

Given that I’d more or less stopped listening to music and listen to spoken word radio all day every day, it is a little bit unusual to look up music on YouTube, search for CDs and print out lyrics. Instead of keeping with current music trends, I am going well back. At least I know that I don’t have a mid-life crisis, I guess. But I have an urge to learn the lyrics.

Going to the cinema the weekend before last had been a special occasion. It was my first solo trip in many years. I used to go regularly in my twenties. I wouldn’t think twice about it. Every week, I would look up the schedule, consult my shifts, and write down dates and times. I kept up with new movies and caught up on some good classics. It didn’t even occur to me that I was quite unusual in going alone. Instead, I always had a very good time. When I travelled a lot, catching up on movies was my favourite part of time between trips. I even wrote letters to magazines about movies, got a few ‘star letters’ prizes, and dreamt about being a film critic. I suppose that if it was happening now, I would have a movie-related blog, active login for IMDb, and my socials would be full of movie links.

When I’d moved in with my now husband, we went to the cinema together, but it wasn’t the same. I was working shifts and we lived far from the city, so, it was a major trip. Besides, our tastes were very different. I still remember our heated fights in Blockbusters on Friday evenings. When he made the choices, I had to watch some drivel. When I made the choice, I ended up watching alone – no problem for me. Eventually, I was again going to the cinema by myself, safe in the knowledge that it was better for the both of us, remembering the time, earlier on in our relationship, when he made a massive scene because I forced him to sit through a foreign language movie with subtitles that were not in English. I had asked him in advance, had given him the option to go and do his own thing, he had insisted on being an enlightened best boyfriend in the world, had sat through the movie (that I enjoyed) and then, on the way home, he had thrown a massive tantrum about my selfishness. How dare I not put him first? Considering the amount of time that I had stood around waiting for him, sat around waiting for him, and sat through dinners, parties, and occasions, I thought it was quite rich, but, of course, waiting for him was always okay... It is always about the man, isn’t it?

After the conundrum of low income, motherhood, pandemics, housewifing, and back-to-working, my only visits to the cinema were for family movies. And they were great. It was nice showing my child what an adventure a visit to the cinema is.

But now, with some freedom, transport, and income, I can once again go and see what I want when I can (when I want is probably no longer an option, but that’s fine). Seeing the trailer for Maria, I knew that it was meant to be seen on a big screen. And the showing times in the local cinema were good, I had a Saturday off, the family was sorted, so, I went out by myself. What a treat. We are always meant to be in a group or with a family, it is assumed that it means that we are having a good time. No advert promoting a leisure activity shows people on their own having the best time ever. But ask any mother and she will hopefully admit that having only yourself to look after and please is the real treat. Yes, sometimes it is having a bath and lying down with a good book, but, sometimes, taking yourself on a date with yourself is the best thing you can do.

I took the bus and looked at the familiar streets from a different angle. I brought a book to read. I bought a glass of wine in the bar. And I went to see the movie. The small room filled with women. No man was interested. There was definitely a vibe. Look at us, I thought, we do manage to treat ourselves sometimes.

The movie was beautiful. And sad. And, once again, it showed that men come into our lives and don’t make them better. Instead, we change, accommodate, and care. The movie reminded me that I used to like music. I will listen to it again. Perhaps I will dance again—when was the last time I danced? But, most definitely, I will take myself out on a movie date sometime soon. I think I have already picked up the next movie to see!