I once went on a date with Danny Boyle, the film director. Well, yes, obviously now I wish I’d slept with him – it would have made for a much better anecdote, if nothing else. At the time – the Bangor University Reichel Ball in 1976, to be precise – it was, however, nothing more than a pleasant, if unsuccessful, conspiracy to get my shy friend off with Danny’s clueless mate. I haven’t ventured into the matchmaking business since and, to be honest, I’ve scarcely been on what you would call an actual “date” for about as long either.
Yes, I really am that old. Yes, I really am single. Yes, I really have been single all the time. Yes, I really am happy, too: no secret childhood traumas, no self-loathing sexual identity crises, no closet lesbian affairs. Yes, I have friends. I go out – I’m single, not Amish (sorry, Amish, you know what I mean). Boringly happy single me. There are such people, you know. Think back through your own family tree. Everybody used to have a maiden aunt or two in there somewhere. They make for the best family anecdotes (aunts really aren’t gentlemen, as PG Wodehouse noted. I always fancied being a Wodehouse aunt. Aunt Dahlia, for preference, although I’d take Aunt Agatha.)
Most of the time I don’t engage in this kind of existential pondering about my single status, but we are coming up to one of the two great worthlessness festivals of the year. The most well-known worthlessness festival is, obviously, Christmas. You’re only allowed to be happy in one way at Christmas. You haven’t got four generations of blood relatives, preferably including some photogenic toddlers, all sitting round a giant festive table groaning with food? Bad person!
But now it’s time for the other great worthlessness festival of the year: Valentine’s Day. You need to collect the full set of four plot tokens: (a) a card, (b) some flowers, (c) some kind of gift, (chocolates or jewellery or perhaps underwear), and (d) some kind of romantic dining experience, in order to be considered truly exempted from the day of singleton worthlessness and I’m not going to take it any more. From the Archers plotlines (Lilian weeping over her collection of Parisian shoes, her portfolio of rented properties and her absent partner: “I’ve got nothing!” Seriously? I’ll trade), to Heston bloody Blumenthal and his frozen chocolate hearts, we’re being softened up for Valentine’s Day on Saturday.
Look, I know florists and confectioners make a good proportion of their annual turnover in one weekend. Confectioners, you’ve had enough money out of me on a week by week basis: you don’t have to put it in a heart-shaped box, thanks. And florists, well, you’ve painted yourselves into a corner there, haven’t you? I’d happily buy myself some flowers. I like flowers. Only you’ve made buying your own flowers into a sad-person indicator, so I only buy them when I’m feeling particularly kick-ass about life. So, yes, advertise your chocolates, flowers, cards and heart-shaped tat for the weekend, but show a little heart while you’re doing it, please. Some of us think you can last several decades as that partnerless fish without actually keeling over for want of a bicycle.
And Danny Boyle? I wouldn’t exactly say we kept in touch, although he was incredibly kind when I was teaching theatre studies and invited one of my classes in to watch him work. I last saw him when he was directing Frankenstein at the National. He’s still a lovely guy. Bastard didn’t invite me backstage and introduce me to Benedict Cumberbatch, though.
