JUST call me Eleanor. Or, if you prefer, Ms Rigby.
During the last few days of the Easter school holidays, owing to The Princess going to stay with her dad for four nights, I briefly joined the ever-growing ranks of lone householders.

You may have seen the recently-published figures which show that more and more of us spend a lot of time alone.
According to the research, more than seven million people in Britain live alone now, compared with three million in 1971.
And, of course, the number of lone parent households, where only one adult lives, has also increased dramatically. Nearly a quarter of children in the UK live with only one parent nowadays, and nine out of 10 of those households is headed by a lone mother.
As The Beatles rather wistfully sang: “Ah, look at all the lonely people.”
I’m not sure what else we’re supposed to do with them, but looking at them seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?
You know, you’re walking along the street with a bunch of mates after a night out, full of cheap lager and bonhomie, when you come across an underpass full of down and outs – obviously some of the loneliest people on this earth.
So you stop and point. “Look at all the lonely people,” you cry, before moving on in search of another beer.
I mean, shouldn’t you make an effort to engage them in conversation? Share a beer with them?
Personally, I find a bit of a paradox in being alone.
On the one hand I quite enjoy my own company. I like being responsible for myself, and love being the only one who has a say in what I do.
On the other hand, there’s not much fun in having no-one to talk to for any length of time (I find strangers think you’re deranged if you ever try to talk to them.)
Where’s the excitement in seeing something special if you’re the only one there?
Picture the scene – you’re walking solo through a stunning vista; the most beautiful place you’ve ever been. Yes, you go “wow” – but who to? Who do you turn to in order to point something out?
Don’t tell me you’re not going to show the pictures to someone when you get home.
“Wish you were here” indeed.
So it was with more than a trifle trepidation I found myself spending a lonely few days, staring at the telly, looking for jobs to do in the house, seeking out friends and family on the phone, not wanting to appear needy but in reality needing company.
When I was a young child, I remember being struck with terror – real terror – at a realisation I had had. I must have been 8 or 9 and, for no reason I can recall, I suddenly understood that we are all, ultimately, alone. That no-one can ever get inside our heads, just as we cannot enter theirs.
That however close we may be to our parents, family, friends or, in later life, partners and children, we can never truly understand them.
Inside, we are all born alone, and that is how we must stay.

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