The only one in the loop

It is a good move in life never to ask anyone where they are going or where they have been. It is polite, and, possibly, vital for a happy home. There are subtle ways of finding out, of course, if you must know, such as, “Could you be passing the ironmongers later on?”, or, “Will you be needing the ping-pong bats?”. But direct enquiries about geography and history — no one wants to answer those.

Mothers don’t want to be asked to account for their movements and neither do fathers; teenagers really don’t want to be asked. Singles don’t like it, the elderly won’t stand for it and toddlers hate it — for it’s awfully hard for them to keep their mystery. The busy haven’t got time to tell you and, with the quiet-living, it may be a matter of pride.

Whether you are heroic or disgraceful in your pursuits, whether you have lost the afternoon at the William Hill on the corner or have been helping at the local food bank, it is a good feeling being the only one in the loop. The Gospel of Matthew says when it comes to charity the left hand shouldn’t know what the right hand is doing but I sometimes think St Matthew could have extended it a bit.

It is exhilarating keeping one or two things hidden, even if it’s merely that you’ve nipped out at an unusual hour to the supermarket for some spray starch, or you almost did. Even if it’s only that you’re starting to wonder if tinned lychees mightn’t be a bad hangover cure. So, you’re a bit of a dark horse. It’s hardly a crime.

December is a great month for keeping secrets. If anyone expresses curiosity as to your whereabouts, you can raise your brows in a way that implies you are deep in research for the ultimate Christmas present — a gift that conveys thoughts and ideas that words simply cannot express — and if that entails multiple trips to the guitar shops of Denmark Street, then so be it. Even if the truth is you are paying a slightly wistful visit to the dental hygienist, the one who tells you every year about the time the Pyrex dish of roast potatoes exploded, lacing the golden roast turkey with shards of glass, frosting the sprouts and chestnuts, adding lustrous glass chips to the gravy, so that an emergency Chinese takeaway had to be summoned, it’s nice not to have to reveal that you saw her. I don’t know why...

Perhaps if your deeds were only noble, you’d want to shout them from the rooftop, but no, not even then. For it’s agreeable when one’s good acts are quietly discovered, especially when the slight attempt to hide them has also been unearthed. January, however, is an impossible time to keep things under your hat. In January people don’t just want to know your movements, they want something much more from you — your intentions. It’s an awful lot to ask. “In which ways do you plan to improve your character this year?” (Goodness knows it needs it, but what a question!) “What will be the high points in the spring?” (What are you, a psychic all of a sudden?) Is it any wonder you keep listening to Noel Coward singing “Sail Away”? That you keep singing it yourself?

I lived alone for most of the time between 18 and 26 and hardly anyone ever knew where I was. They knew my address, sure, they knew the places of study where I was enrolled, but they didn’t know about my four rather Muriel Spark-ish jobs, or the nuts and bolts of my routines, such as the fact I got up at 7.45am when the post came to catch it fresh, or where I bought the brown rice I eat every day. They didn’t know the soaps I welcomed into my sitting room like a second family, four nights a week, for I had known the characters since I was seven, and that’s a lot of shared history. They didn’t know what I was reading and writing, or that my neighbour only murmured “hello” to me after seven years as she was quite reserved.

During that time, some of it good, some less so, a friend said that it isn’t great in life, not having anyone that you come first with, is it, and I remember saying, “It’s not so bad. I mean, what if I had to share my bathroom with someone who had an ugly shampoo bottle? How would I bear it?”

“That, pal, is the thin end of the wedge,” she decreed.

I think I knew then, as I know now, that there’s a certain luxury in no one knowing what you are up to, even if, especially if, you aren’t up to anything at all.

— Financial Times