Plus, I’m feeling inspired. You see, the previous week I’d been tempted to Shoreditch House (I know, don’t judge me) to use the pool facilities. Though despite the fact that some people (not me, obvs) pay thousands of pounds for the privilege, these days you have to queue. Forty-five minutes later, just as my blood was turning from a light simmer to a rolling boil, a singleton is called forward, sweeping in front of the rest of us in twos and threes with smug delight. Fifteen minutes later, when my blood pressure had resumed its normal state and I was sipping a Paloma poolside like a pig in Nick Jones’s (er, rather nice once you’ve got a seat, actually) shit, I got to thinking: is that the ultimate payoff for flying solo? For having to endure the looks that say ‘Poor you, you’re still single/don’t have any friends?’ As a Brit, skipping the queue is unthinkable. Obscene, some might say. But also, delightfully devilish. Devious, even. Perhaps, going it alone is the cleverest way to bag a cheap thrill; to swan right in.
