From where I sit all is grey and all is wet. The horizon but a smudge. A chopper circles. A gull drifts. Faint shapes loom. Tentative plans. A midweek drink. Lunch, possibly? Family dinner pencilled in. The only certainties: a dental appointment; a school trip to the zoo. Save me. For I seek some thrills. Good times. Happy days. Big nights. It is winter, one-third in, and we have need of gladdening. Of something to look forward to. An outing. A bash. A do. Pockets of joy; I file them away in my diary. Book people in, come around, come over. It'll be fun, easy. And then it rolls around and it is too much. Oh the faff. The bother. Who can be arsed? We are social beasts. And even more contrary creatures. It is winter, one-third in, and we long to retreat.
Two weekends ago we hosted 17 at ours on the Friday, drove to Ngatea for my grandmother's 101st birthday the next day, drove back in the rain and the traffic to make a ninth birthday party that afternoon, went over to friends' to watch the rugby, dropped our son the following morning at a 13th, picked up our daughter from her sleepover, picked up my brother who'd come from out of town to stay the night, and, mercifully, canned the scheduled get-together with friends that evening. And somewhere along the way the fun ran dry. Somewhere my anticipation turned to dread. At some point I just wanted the TV and the couch, a cup of tea, a line of chocolate, clean sheets and the electric blanket on 2.
I have friends with the most quenchless thirst for going out. Baby shower/film festival/product launch: they're there. And then there are those friends who must be coaxed from their lair: the pub has an open fire, he does an amazing espresso martini, we can Uber together, that cow won't be there, you'll be in bed by 11pm. Rather tediously, I have come to realise I am neither one nor the other, neither total party animal nor complete homebody. For me, a maximum of four occasions in any given week is optimum, with preferably nothing on a Monday or Tuesday. Whatever shape or size it may take, however, most of us need some excitement on our horizon. Plans are what keep us going. There is dissension among the medical fraternity as to whether willpower or more pragmatic factors are to blame for the spike in deaths among the ill and elderly after Christmas Day, but it seems to me entirely credible you might hold off death in order to celebrate with loved ones a final time. I am reassured as to my grandmother's continued longevity when there is another great-grandchild forthcoming or another milestone to mark. We all of us require something to live for.
As with everything, however, wellbeing lies in striking the right balance. After our weekend of excessive socialising I looked forward to last weekend's comparatively empty calendar with relief-edged glee. Yet as Saturday awoke, I felt unsettled. Two whole days fanned out before us, disturbingly unstructured. When anything was possible, everything seemed impossible. Just go with the flow, pleaded my husband. I can't, I said. Let's go for lunch, he said. No, I said. Let's sort the attic. It's a shambles; we promised we'd tackle it before winter is done. No, he said. Like all longtime married couples we are versed in the art of compromise, which is why we found ourselves at The Warehouse deliberating over 60 and 90 litre plastic tubs. We need a system, I said. Yes, he said, camping bedding in one, Christmas decorations in another etc. We compared prices at Mitre 10. Returned to The Warehouse. Stacked the car with the means to organise the chaos in our ceiling cavity. Can we go, he asked. Yes, I said. But nowhere nice, I'm in my track pants. Which is why we found ourselves at the bakery buying pies and cream doughnuts. There must be more to life than this, he said. Yes, I said. Game of Thrones Season 7 starts in two weeks. Fill your boots.