If talking to oneself is the first sign of madness then I am truly past help. I talk to myself all the time, I argue with the television, but best of all I can watch the tennis and scream, cheer, jump up and down, do whatever I like. The first time I met my future in-laws was in 1966, the day of the World Cup. I was invited to their house to watch the match as I didn't have a television in my bedsit. I am not a huge football fan, although I had always shown a tepid loyalty towards Pompey, even though they were a pretty dismal team, but my future husband (I didn't know he was then of course) was a very keen Arsenal supporter so I felt obliged to show enthusiasm.
All was well. I met my in-laws, behaved myself, offered to wash dishes and generally gave the good impression I was aiming for. We sat and watched the match, which seemed to go on for ever, and then there it was - a draw and finally penalties. After 90 minutes or so it was suddenly exciting. Having sat demurely throughout the match, I couldn't contain my excitement. I started shouting and jumping up and down and when that last penalty hit the back of the net I leapt onto the settee waving my fists and yelling with joy. The others looked from me to my future husband with dismay. What had he brought into their house? Did he really want to go out with this mad woman? And she had seemed such a nice girl too. I slid quietly back into my seat trying to recover some of the dignity I had displayed earlier but it was too late. I had blotted my copybook. And their son a diplomat too. She would never do.
Now, during the pandemic talking to oneself has taken on a new dynamic. It is a fact checker - is it Monday or Tuesday? What did I come upstairs for? Where did I put my glasses? or a morale booster - you have gone through much worse times before, in three weeks time we could all be rid of Trump.
There is nothing wrong with talking to yourself, just don't do it in the supermarket.
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