There's no place like 'Home'

I am currently in the middle of the first weekend in a month when I have had no plans. Nothing. Not dinner, not drinks, not brunch, no parties, no gatherings, no dates. From lunchtime today until dinner tomorrow when my housemate comes back, it's just me, myself, and I.

Apparently, to many, this is a terrifying concept. I was telling my friend SK, who stayed over for a Girls Night In on Friday, how much I was looking forward to my solitude, and she practically recoiled. 'But what are you going to do? Won't you be lonely?' SK is one of those who, as a matter of course, flood out of London on a Friday night on a crowded train from Paddington and go Home to the familial stronghold for the weekend, to avoid the sheer horror of two whole days, in the city, alone. Now, to be fair, I do this when I've been particularly stressed and want a nice home-made chicken pie, and when I feel that a little bit of countryside might be good for my soul. Sometimes, it's great and I feel rested and refreshed. Other times I come back on a Sunday evening to a slightly musty-smelling flat and a giant pile of laundry, and wish I'd done the sensible thing and stayed at home (small-h) in the capital.

At first I thought that the tendency to return Home at weekends was the preserve of the single girl with family in the Home Counties (pun not intended - I promise), but no. My housemate is happily coupled-up, but still makes the trip about twice a month. My friend R's family are in Scotland and Ireland, and yet she still disappears to spend weekends with them whenever she can. Best Friend L goes home every week as a matter of course, and did even when she had a boyfriend in London.

Now, I quite like my family. I like to visit them, I like spending time with them (for the most part). But I enjoy the solitude of being on my own in the city, and the time that I have to do exactly what I want to do. I can go for a walk, see a movie without negotiating which one, fall asleep on the sofa, read for hours with no interruptions...I mean, I spend most of my week at work surrounded by people, so why is it odd that on occasional weekends I want to spend time all by myself?

This Home-visiting feels to me like some kind of retro throwback, like something out of 'Girls of Slender Means'. The single girl (i.e. without a live-in partner) is still tethered to the family she grew up in. My married friends are not forever going Home for the weekend, because they've established a new one together. Without a resident Significant Other, the single girl who's staring down the barrel of 48 hours with not much to do simply decamps in search of comfortable company.

Actually, maybe the love of weekend solitude and the weekend Home-visiting are just two sides of the same coin. Potentially, one day, all of us single girls will be married with children, and with huge demands on our time from the Home that we've created. Maybe choosing to either go back to the nest or to stay home in our sweats is to be enjoyed now as never before because we can see the day on the horizon when our lives won't be our own anymore. Saturdays will be spent in Ikea, dragging around a screaming three-year-old who refused to leave the house in anything other than a Batman costume. Sundays will consist of sitting in various motorway laybys whilst peering at the map with our spouse and arguing about whether we've missed the exit for Scunthorpe and whose fault it was that the satnav got left behind. And, my worst nightmate, entire Bank Holiday weekends will be spent sitting on a beach in cagoules, in a force nine gale with the rain pouring down, saying cheerfully to our weeping offspring and sulking husband "Aren't we having FUN?" as we picnic on wilting sandwiches and crushed crisps.

You know what? I feel a need for chicken pie and a nice walk on the Ridgeway...