‘Still,’ I say, to no one. ‘Nice day for it.’
My wife is on holiday in Spain, riding horses with a friend. I’ve been on my own for about 24 hours, and I have already started talking to myself. With no one in the room to look up occasionally and say, “What are you going on about now?”, my exterior monologue has become a ceaseless narration. The dog thinks I’m talking to the dog. The dog is wrong.
On Saturday morning I find myself alone in front of the TV, watching preliminary coverage of the royal wedding. I find it particularly compelling because absolutely nothing is happening. There are still almost two hours to go before kick-off.