Gordon MacRae Blog

In the coffee shop, P greets me like we saw each other yesterday. In reality it’s been three months. I haven’t been to the spin studio since before Christmas.

I’ve been swimming more and I don’t go cycling in the winter. I just can’t deal with the gear. The two baristas discuss the fact they haven’t finished preparing the class for tonight.

“I’m just going to wing it on Tuesday’s class. Chances are nobody will notice it’s the same Taylor Swift playlist.”

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Reading Sally Rooney’s interview in the Paris Review I make notes throughout.

I don’t think people are boring. I agree “every person is intrinsically interesting” but what gives characters power is their relationship to others. Sometimes we don’t ask the right questions of others to uncover what makes them interesting.

I read the other day (and I now can’t find it) that characters don’t make interesting stories. You often hear people say “his story would make a great book”. But it’s rarely true. Stories about individuals are rarely interesting.

Relationships and how those relations change is interesting. That’s what makes a great novel or story. The relationship becomes the plot.

At a Wednesday night showing of The Years – Annie Ernaux’s play at the Harold Pinter – the front of house stops the show halfway through as someone has fainted in the Royal Circle.

“This happens all the time,” a woman to my right says to her neighbour.

The play has been paused mid-way through a graphic scene of the protagonist having a miscarriage after a back-street abortion in 1960s Paris. There is stage blood everywhere.

The actors (five women) stand silently in the shadows of the stage, heads bowed, while the audience member in the Royal Circle is escorted out. Several other people in our section also get up and leave, pale faces hidden under scarves.

After about five minutes the play resumes. The actor resumes her monologue without a beat missed.

After the show, R shares she heard a rumour the stoppage was staged.

“Think about it, the running time is one hour fifty five minutes. Tonight’s show was 1hr 55 minutes but we were stopped for seven minutes, I counted.”

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Simone Stolzoff examines why “what do you do?” Is such a dreaded dinner party question.

Stolzoff offers three practical steps to help us ‘diversify’ our identities: creating time sanctuaries where work is forbidden, filling those spaces with activities that reinforce alternative identities, and joining communities that couldn’t care less about our professional achievements.

It’s blindingly obvious advice, though it feels almost radical in our achievement-obsessed culture.

And here’s a bit of dinner party advice that might just salvage our collective sanity: rather than asking ‘What do you do?’, Stolzoff suggests adding two small words: ‘What do you like to do?’