Thursday, December 11, 2003
It's So Nice To Be Insane (No-One Asks You To Explain)
When you live alone, talking to yourself is perfectly acceptable. Indeed, it's to be expected, if you don't want to turn completely bonkers. Sometimes, a decision can only be made correctly, or a thought process taken to its proper conclusion, when it's expressed aloud. Nothing wrong with that, is there?
So I've no problem with chirping maniacally away to myself like a speed-junkie squirrel, and do not regard it as the first step on that long, lonely road terminating at Funny Farm Central. With the advent of hands-free technology, you can even do it in the street these days, and no-one will look pityingly at you as though you're gaga, and cross the road to avoid you. No, they'll just think you're a prat. They'll still cross the road though.
Recently, however, I've noticed a disturbing new tendency. Not content merely with muttering softly to myself, I have now started to answer back. My vocalised interior monologue has become a dialogue. It happened last night, when I was sketching out some future blog, and debating whether I should have just one more Stella before going home. One part of me vociferously insisted I had had enough, while the other argued forcefully that another little half wouldn't do me any harm, and might even help the flow of ideas. No prizes for guessing which side won.
For the regulars at the bar, it was a bit like eavesdropping on Gollum in The Lord of the Rings, although not quite as pretty. They've always thought I was a bit of a self-obsessed nutter anyway, and now all their worst fears have been confirmed.
But that's OK. After all, two's company, they say. It's only three that's doo-lally.