THE COMFORT OF ROUTINE IN AN UNCERTAIN WORLD

I have always railed against routine of any kind and confess to having been rather contemptuous of those who rule their lives with a rod of iron, sticking rigidly to routine, whether it is related to mealtimes, holidays, work or play.

When Christmas comes around, I am forever grateful for not having to take part in the ‘whose turn is it this year’ merry-go-round.

Living alone, without the burden, or the pleasure, of family, I can do as I please, when I please, and I have always taken full advantage of this. For me, the familiarity of routine just breeds contempt.

For those who enjoy routine, this last year has been particularly difficult, as I know from speaking with friends who feel all at sea, with their ordered lives thrown out of kilter.

During my 60+ years I have known many people who go to bed and get up at the same time each day, clean the house on the same day each week, and take their holidays at the same time, going to the same hotel, and often occupying the same room, for years on end.

For them there is comfort in the predictability of routine, knowing how the land lies.

On the contrary, apart from the obligations of work commitments, I have embraced waking up each day with no firm plan. Being able to revel in the joy of impulsive behaviour has been life-changing for me, where routine would have deprived me of so many fantastic opportunities, almost all of which have been linked to a lack of routine to hamper my spontaneity.

Food is really important to me, and it is beyond my comprehension to consider having meals at a regular time, or to eat the same thing day in day out. During my years of cooking for a living I recall one very wealthy businessman who had the same breakfast at the same time (5am), set out on the same tray, in the same way, every single day. Maybe this was the key to his success, but he was not a happy person.

For me, breakfast can be taken at any time of the day consisting of pretty much anything that takes my fancy; it might be just a yoghurt, or eggs Benedict, or devilled kidneys, or a bacon sandwich. In a moment of nostalgia, I have been known to have Vesta Chow Mein. I relish the mental process of self-indulgence, deciding just what I might be in the mood for at that moment.

I still recall, as a young adult, the routine of weekly meals followed by many households, in part I suppose in response to economic instability and harsh years of rationing; roast on Sunday, cold on Monday, cottage pie on Tuesday, chops on Wednesday, sausages on Thursday, fish on Friday (of course!) and mince and beans on Saturday. This last will forever stick in my mind, as it is what was served by my mother-in-law every single Saturday lunchtime, and something that I continued to do once married.

As I get older, and am beginning to adjust to a slower pace of life, I am starting to appreciate the benefit of routine; just a little.