I was sat alone in a restaurant the other day which is something I’ve never done before. I’ve been known for excessive take-away food through the modern marvel that is Deliveroo but to go in and sit there on my lonesome is something new. On the positive, the humble Carluccio’s was very good and the staff were extremely attentive – probably because I was the only one there at midday on a Wednesday. On the negative, it reminded me of my second biggest regret in life being that I never took the trip to mainland Europe before I went to university that my dad gave me money for. Instead, the five-hundred-pounds went towards a very busy fresher’s week where strangely I proved popular with the opposite sex – which soon stopped when the realisation was made that I’m more Michael Cera than John Hamm.
Weirdly, the taboo of sitting in a restaurant alone was a good experience. Naturally I had to do the obligatory fucking Snapchat update since it’s 2017 and I hate myself. On the larger though, it really made me wonder why people don’t do things on their own more often. At least in the circles I move in, it’s relatively unheard of to be solitary. My grandmother goes on holiday by herself all the time and every time, my mother frowns just a little bit. Yet isn’t there a level of safety in doing things with other people?
There’s a safety in not having to carry everything yourself or say if you forget the room key, it’s okay because someone else has it. Even on fundamental level you have that someone to talk to at the table when you’re chowing down on the continental breakfast instead of making sad, awkward eye contact with the guy refilling the orange juice. On the flip side of that argument, is there such a thing as being too safe? Like bathing in anti-bacterial hand wash.
You never hear about the great adventure that you go on when you’re on an all-inclusive holiday with the family. It normally extends to someone taking the sun lounger before you manage to get all the things from the room and a passive aggressive fight ensues. Where’s the oddly tranquil moments in a Parisian coffee shop overlooking the Seine? Maybe not exactly exciting but there’s a nugget in there like a beginning of a classy thriller with Pierce Brosnan.
Totally fucking pretentious to a point of insanity but who wouldn’t want that? The last family holiday I went on there was a piss-on-floor incident and an incredible amount of angst over the children’s entertainment. None of that would come from an espresso and perhaps a croissant on a terrace or even a MDMA fuelled spontaneous trip to Dublin, I don’t know. You don’t need the safety of a herd when you have the best wing-man that you can have. The voice in your head that says ‘yeah, fuck it, allons-y’ like slightly tipsy David Tennant’s Doctor.