Children please their parents in largely the same ways. But the disappointments they provide are unique to them. (Yes, I stole that.) I disappointed my parents by refusing to take a permanent, pensionable, cheap-mortgage job in the bank. Herself did it by running off to Britain to study drama.
There are still a few of her drama books around the house. Dog-eared play scripts. A copy of Stanislavski’s An Actor Prepares. But the remnants of that time reside mostly within her. She does a cracking east European accent, and at times there’s something about the way she holds herself, the way she wields certain phrases that is distinctly, well, theatrical. Especially if she’s giving out. When she’s annoyed you can easily imagine her on a stage, under a single spotlight, her waving arms doing most of the talking. Sometimes I’m tempted to say to her: right, can we take that from the top again? But this time spit out the word idiot.
(I never do, of course.)
It wasn’t just acting. There was singing too. Notable performances include the lead role in The Little Mermaid when she was in national school. People still talk about it, apparently.
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[ I wasn’t one of the victimised boys in my school. I was luckyOpens in new window ]
But time moved on. Herself ended up working in the media. She didn’t miss acting, but somehow got it into her head that because she didn’t sing any more, she had lost the ability to do it. Which, of course, was nonsense: and eventually she came to realise that too. Just a few weeks back, she announced that she was joining a choir. Choirs are, as you may know, a bit of a thing at the moment.
She went only twice. Not because she hated it or because she couldn’t sing any more, but because she’d joined at the wrong time of the year. The choir was building up to a big concert. There was too much to learn in too short a time. She’s going to go back in January.
The thing is: I don’t want to have a hobby. I don’t like the word. A bit like how some people don’t like the word ‘moist’, ‘hobby’ makes me shudder
Still, she was a little disappointed. “The only hobby I have is going to therapy,” she said. That, if you didn’t notice, was a joke. What she really meant was that she – and I – don’t have any hobbies. Or at least, anything that we would classify as a hobby. There are things we enjoy, both separately and together. She likes audio books. I prefer reading. We watch TV. I enjoy doing DIY, but only if there’s DIY to do. We yak over a bottle of wine. We listen to music. But are they hobbies?
There’s the argument that if you like your job, then that’s in the same mental category as a hobby. And I do like my job, most of the time. But it’s still a job. I need it to pay the bills. I can’t do as much or as little of it as I feel like. Nor can I be 100 per cent sure that in the event of a massive lottery win, I’d continue on as I am now, just to keep myself busy.
(The pro-hobby lobby, by the way, argues that people with a hobby tend to more productive at work: which is clearly daft. You could just spend your hobby time at work and get the same result.)
The thing is: I don’t want to have a hobby. I don’t like the word. A bit like how some people don’t like the word “moist”, “hobby” makes me shudder. It’s too jolly hockey sticks; it smells of organised fun, it’s prescriptive: a way of filling up the time between work and sleep, to keep your mind off the screaming pointlessness of existence.
That’s a bit extreme, I know. And probably says more about me than hobbyism does. There are all sorts of people who enjoy gardening or golf or gemology and extract great joy from it; who can revel in doing something for its own sake, which in theory, I approve of. In practice, I just can’t.