The Concept of Having Fun – An Internal Monologue

They say it is fun. To show up. To be here. To leave the house, put on something vaguely appropriate, accept an invitation, stand in a room full of people who seem to have received an instruction manual for enjoyment that somehow never made its way to you.

So I am here.

Everyone appears brighter than usual. Glasses sparkle in their hands. Golden fizz, red wine, something pink with fruit floating in it. The smell of alcohol drifts around the room with great confidence, as though it has arrived before everyone else and made itself comfortable.

I stand near the edge of the room. Standing, I have noticed, is hesitation made visible. Sitting says you have settled in. Dancing says you have committed. Holding a drink says you know what is happening. Standing alone with your hands loosely folded in front of you says: I am still deciding whether this was a mistake.

Right. I should do something.

There is a pool table near the back of the room. A small group gathers around it, leaning in with the seriousness of surgeons preparing for a delicate procedure. Someone rubs chalk onto the end of a cue, presses it against their thumb, bends low, and sends a white ball rolling across green felt.

Clatter.

A ball disappears into a pocket.

Everyone cheers.

I watch for a moment, genuinely curious. How is this fun? Rolling coloured spheres into holes? Waiting your turn while everyone watches you calculate angles you have never calculated in your life?

And yet they look happy. Properly happy. Not politely happy. Not pretending-for-the-sake-of-the-evening happy. They look as though this is the best possible use of a Thursday night. I nod as though I understand.

Then I drift away. Darts are happening nearby. A circle of faces watches someone narrowly miss the bullseye, followed by cheers that seem strangely generous considering the dart has landed nowhere near the centre. I study the movement carefully. Hold the dart in the middle. Steady the hand. One small sway. Release.

It reminds me of learning a new clinical technique. Watch first. Understand the mechanics. Attempt it only when absolutely necessary.

Eventually, a dart is placed in my hand.

The first throw falls short and drops to the floor with an apologetic little thud. There is laughter, but it is soft laughter. The kind designed to let you know you have not ruined anything.

“Try again,” someone says.

So I do.

I adjust my grip. I remember the distance. I allow for the slight sway. This time, the dart lands properly.

Thwack.

A twenty.

There is applause.

I smile before I have decided to smile.

Perhaps this is fun after all.

Later, music calls everyone into the hall. Chairs are pushed back, people gather into loose lines, and a man with a microphone starts explaining the steps to a ceilidh in the patient but slightly urgent tone of someone who has done this many times before and knows exactly how quickly things can fall apart.

“One step back. Two forward. Turn. Clap.”

My colleague takes my hand and pulls me into the line before I have properly decided whether I want to join in. At first, my feet do not seem to understand what is being asked of them. Everyone else appears to have some natural ability to move in the right direction at the right moment, while I am trying to remember whether I am supposed to be stepping forward or backwards and whether the person opposite me is about to spin me or simply walk past me.

But then the steps repeat.

One back. Two forward. Turn. Clap.

After a few rounds, it becomes easier. There is something reassuring about the fact that nobody is really watching closely enough to notice whether you are doing it perfectly, because they are too busy trying not to collide with the person next to them. Someone goes the wrong way. Someone else spins too enthusiastically and nearly loses a shoe. A man in the corner appears to have invented an entirely separate version of the dance, but he looks pleased with himself, so nobody stops him.

“You’re good,” my dance partner says.

“Thank you,” I say, although I suspect she is being kind.

Still, I can feel something shifting. Maybe it is endorphins. Maybe it is simply the relief of being given clear instructions and discovering that everyone else is also only half sure what they are doing. It is nothing like the nightclub I went to three years ago, where the music was so loud it felt physical and the room was dark and crowded and full of bodies pressed too close together. That had felt less like fun and more like being trapped inside a washing machine with flashing lights.

This is lighter. There are steps to follow. There are claps at predictable intervals. There is a beginning and an end to each dance. Maybe I like this kind of fun. Maybe fun works better when it comes with instructions.

Eventually, I step away for water because I am warm and slightly breathless, and because the idea of standing still for two minutes feels suddenly very appealing.

“You were amazing,” my dance partner says again as I leave the line.

I smile, take the cup, and drink. The water is cold and uncomplicated, which feels like exactly what I need. Around me, the room has become louder, but not in an unpleasant way. People are flushed from dancing and talking over each other. Someone has started setting up beer pong with the concentration of a person preparing a scientific experiment. A card game is happening near the window, and every few minutes there is a sudden explosion of laughter from people who clearly understand the rules but are making no effort to explain them to anyone else.

At the snack table, crisps and sausage rolls are disappearing at a rate that feels slightly competitive. Someone is trying karaoke now, singing Oasis with great confidence and very little regard for the original melody. Nobody seems bothered. In fact, everyone joins in for the chorus, which is probably the point.

Then a stranger starts talking to me. She has flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and the particular level of friendliness that makes it seem as though we have known each other for years, although I am almost certain we have never met. She begins telling me something about her job, or perhaps her ex-boyfriend, or maybe both, and the words come out so quickly that I cannot keep up with all of them. I catch fragments. Someone went to Ibiza. Someone said something unforgivable at Christmas. Her manager is impossible. Her sister is getting married. There may be a dog involved.

I nod at what feels like the appropriate moments. I smile when her expression suggests she is waiting for a reaction. I say “Mm-hmm” every now and then, usually just after she pauses for breath. She does not seem to mind that I am not contributing much. She seems happy to speak, and I am happy enough to listen.

It occurs to me that this might also count as fun, although perhaps not in the way people usually mean it. I am not having the loudest evening. I am not winning beer pong or singing karaoke or making new best friends beside the coat pile. But I am here. I have danced. I have thrown darts. I have been pulled into conversations and made it through them without needing to hide in the bathroom.

People are gathered in small groups around the room, talking about travel, work, children, holidays, the weather, and then somehow the weather again. There is something almost comforting about it. Nobody is saying anything especially profound, but everybody seems relieved to be saying it together.

By the door, a pile of coats has grown taller. Scarves are slipping down onto the floor. Someone’s glove has ended up underneath a chair. I look at my bag, then at the exit, and feel the quiet certainty of a decision forming.

I have had enough.

Not in a bad way. Not in the way that means I am miserable or desperate to leave. Just enough in the way you feel after a full meal, when another bite would probably be unnecessary.

I find my coat, say goodbye to the people nearest to me, and leave before anyone can persuade me to stay for one more dance. Outside, the air is colder and calmer. I am feeling quite pleased with myself. I stepped out! I walk home thinking that perhaps I may have been measuring fun too narrowly. But then again, this has wiped out all my energy and I am very happy to repeat this in say… a year or two.