I’m an introvert in disguise. To those who know me this may come as a surprise. I like to chat, laugh loudly and appear, to all extents and purposes, to be a sociable being.
But it’s not true. It’s a facade. No, at the core, I’m utterly anti-social.
I need time to retreat, recuperate, restore the energies I am constantly depleting. I am always charging around, doing something – at work, with friends, and all the points in between.
And every now and then I crack. I flee. I swoon dramatically and announce in a manner not dissimilar from Greto Garbo, “I want to be alone.” I need to barricade myself in the house – every door, window, curtain shut against the outside world – and press myself into the farthest corner of the sofa. Me and my book. Perhaps some alone time with the Wire box-set.
I love social interaction. Really, I do. But for me it’s the quality, not the quantity of social interactions that really matters. And, however weird it seems to you extroverts out there, I really do enjoy my own company.
Besides, you're never alone with twitter.
So enough of your jibber-jabber. I need rest, recuperation and peace and blooming quiet.
Maybe I won’t close my doors on the world quite yet — but although I’d love to stay and chat, I’m afraid there’s a book at home that isn’t going to read itself.