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On eating alone

by | Feb 7, 2019 | carlalouise, Solo Life | 3 comments

People often ask how I can bear to eat alone most days.

They say mealtimes are social, a time to catch up, go over the day, share stories.

But there is a quiet ritual to my mealtimes, especially in the evenings, and even more so now I’m self employed.

A table set for one, with pasta and a drink, and a tea towel featuring pink teapots.

Photo by Elli O. via Unsplash

In my working days, mealtimes were a pause – a sort of peace between the hustle of the day job and commute, and the quiet, determined industry of my evenings spent working on my then fledgling businesses.

Now, they are a reminder to stop, to nourish and take care of myself. Mealtimes are a chance to catch up, and to go over the day – but with myself, not with a cacophony of other voices and experiences.

The act of cooking, and then sitting down to eat (yes, alone), is one I find deeply soothing. As a child we almost always ate at the table rather than on our laps, and I try to make sure that happens at least a few times a week.

Though indulging in my favourite films while eating on my lap is also one of the many pleasures of living alone. This evening’s was Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes.

I like my solitary meals, and I love my own company. And, should I crave chatter and voices to accompany my food, I’m never lacking in friends to eat with.

The choice is the thing – one of the many parts of singlehood I find magical in spite of others’ misplaced pity.

Do you eat alone? Is it joyful or do you find it strange?

Why living on your own isn’t lonely

by | Sep 5, 2014 | At Home, carlalouise, Life Magic, Memories, Popular | 18 comments

If you live (or have ever lived) by yourself, chances are you’ll have heard the following at least once.

“But don’t you get lonely?”

“I couldn’t live on my own, I’d get so bored”

“What about the creaks and strange noises? You can’t automatically dismiss them as the other person in the house – I’d find it creepy”

“But you must miss having people around you”

“How antisocial!” (usually followed by a fake laugh)

With the very occasional

“I wish I could decorate my house however I wanted”.

book-tea-bed

 

Since I’ve lived by myself, in my little house in my riverside village, I have come to recognise that you can more or less split people into two camps: those for whom living alone is a Wonderful Thing, something to aspire to, luxuriate in and enjoy; and those for whom it is The Worst Thing That Could Possibly Happen.

The two camps do not understand the other’s point of view, though in my experience, the older the people, the more they are likely to live and let live, and not evangelise their preferred way of living.

I think it is partly linked to introversion and extroversion preferences, though I won’t go into that in any more detail here – there are umpteen books and courses and blog posts on the subject written by people far more knowledgeable than me on those traits.

I want to share my own experience of living by myself, and how it happened, and why I love it, and I don’t think lonely really comes into it.

Back in 2008, when I finished university, I was at a bit of a loose end. I’d never particularly planned to live anywhere other than with the boyfriend, but as our seven-year relationship dissolved at the end of 2007, clearly that wasn’t going to happen.

To complicate matters, my parents had moved from my hometown up to the north of Essex, where my family were. So I packed my life into a storage unit and trundled to my new home, finding solace in my extended family’s horses and hens and dogs, and space to mend my broken heart in the North Essex countryside and woodland.

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