Image: Canva.
There’s a line I often quote from Bridget Jones’ Diary. Bridget, a single woman living on her own in London, laments that she may die ‘alone, and be found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians’. I recite it for comedic effect, as is intended by the author. It is dramatic and maudlin, but there is a truth in it. Fear and loneliness make the best of bedfellows and, like all of us, I cosy up with both on occasion.
This January I returned to Melbourne after three years away. I was welcomed home by family and close friends. But as I settled into my new apartment, I found myself often solo. Many in my close circle had partners, children and careers taking up their time. Single and in my thirties, I felt my old friend loneliness knocking on my door. I felt like a stranger in my own city.
Fear and loneliness make the best of bedfellows.
As I did when I was living abroad, I have sought out places to add to my routine and punctuate my days. Usually, it is a seat at a local wine bar or pub where, over the course of time, my face has become familiar to the staff and other locals. I have evolved into a ‘regular’. It takes me away from the limp dissociation of my phone and connects me to the world without asking too much of me. It is casual support with no expectation, except that I pay my bill. Something that is getting harder to do in the current economic climate.
In the 1989 book The Great Good Place, sociologist Ray Oldenburg introduced the term ‘the third place’. He described it as ‘a generic designation for a great variety of public places that host the regular, voluntary, informal and happily anticipated gatherings of individuals beyond the realms of home and work’. From the ancient agora to the modern cafe, Oldenburg maintains that these spaces offer a sense of neutral territory. One does not need to be of a certain status to be there, the main activity is conversation and regulars set the tone. They have played a key role in civil society as easy arenas for public relaxation, culture building and political discussion.
While third spaces offer somewhere for people to meet with people they know, a key aspect is that they can also offer the potential for new connections. I have found this kind of easy and light engagement with the community a salve on quiet nights when my lack of a live-in ‘family unit’ leaves me feeling isolated and impromptu catch-ups with people I know aren’t possible. Though online spaces are arguably easy and free places of connection, they have never satiated me in the same way as face-to-face interaction. While my friends with partners, children or housemates can turn to those people for incidental connection, I turn to my local haunts. I readily agree with Oldenburg when he asserts that ‘to have such a place available whenever the demons of loneliness or boredom strike or when the pressures and frustrations of the day call for relaxation amid good company is a powerful resource’.
My face becomes familiar to the staff and other locals. I evolve into a ‘regular’.
In her 2016 non-fiction book The Lonely City, Olivia Laing asked the question: ‘What does it feel like to be lonely?’. She described the state in visceral terms:
It feels like being hungry: like being hungry when everyone around you is readying for a feast. It feels shameful and alarming, and over time these feelings radiate outwards, making the lonely person increasingly isolated, increasingly estranged. It hurts, in the way that feelings do, and it also has physical consequences that take place invisibly, inside the closed compartments of the body. It advances, is what I’m trying to say, cold as ice and clear as glass, enclosing and engulfing.
The paradoxical truth is that we are not alone in feeling this way. A 2023 report by the national organisation Ending Loneliness Together states that one in three Australians experience feelings of loneliness. The research notes the serious health impacts, revealing that people who are lonely are five times more likely to suffer from depression, four times more likely to experience social anxiety and two times more likely to have chronic disease. These effects can create a mental barrier to engaging in the world outside, so people who are already struggling to have their social needs met face added hurdles. For myself, when feeling particularly down or anxious, organising social activities or attending events can feel overwhelming. The low-stakes casual interactions I have with those at my ‘local’ are more accessible precisely because of the lack of expectation. The rules of engagement are clear and no one will mind if I stay for one drink or three.
These places, however, come with a price tag that is steadily increasing. Following the economic pressures created by the COVID-19 pandemic, bars, cafes and pubs have had to handle the rise in costs, which inevitably get passed on to their customers. Reports show that Australians are shifting their spending from cafes, bars and casual restaurants to the cheaper options of fast food and instant coffee.
There is a danger of third spaces becoming a luxury that people cannot afford. As recently articulated by Alexia Cameron in Overland: ‘Paradoxically, cafes are needed even more in this unforgiving monetary and social climate that chides us for our spending habits. Life can be paused in cafes. Cities can be defined by their cafes.’ Just as many believe that the arts are crucial in hard times as they remind us of our shared humanity, so too do spaces for public relaxation and conversation. Even small talk is shown to add to greater life satisfaction. During this time of global political upheaval, environmental collapse and financial strain, we should consider what it means to the general level of happiness in the community that so many are prohibited from experiencing the small joys of renting a seat in an establishment for an hour or two.
There is a danger of third spaces becoming a luxury that people cannot afford.
In contrast, the right room can bring together people from different walks of life. In my many years working in hospitality, I have seen how a local drinking hole can offer a space for secular communion, tempering the sometimes divisive effects of social and political differences by making people feel welcome. I used to work in a pub where two regulars would come in most nights for a beer and a chat. Tom worked in the city and wore a corporate uniform: chinos, RM Williams boots and a vest. He was loud, stood straight and everything from his haircut to his watch looked expensive. In contrast, George was a spindly older man whose beer often went warm because of how much he talked. He had wild grey hair and would turn up on especially cold nights in his dressing gown, wearing thick socks shoved uncomfortably into a pair of thongs. Their differences were obvious, but they were on common ground. They disagreed on many things but did so in a jovial manner—only ever butting heads for a laugh.
I cannot, strictly speaking, afford the bar and cafe that I have incorporated into my weekly routine. But I need them. Yesterday, I spent my day holed up writing this piece. By sunset, I was feeling somewhat lonely as a result. I ignored the email telling me my internet bill was overdue, put on my coat and walked around the corner. Sam greeted me when I walked in. We did the dance of regular and staff. A casual conversation. A friendly smile. The lights were dimmed, and a record player set the tone, pairing with the hum of voices. I chatted with the lady next to me and discovered she lived in the house round the corner with the magnolia tree I often admired. When I finished my wine, I felt nourished. I had stepped out of my head and into the world, though gently, and was restored. As Laing explains: ‘Loneliness is collective; it is a city. As to how to inhabit it, there are no rules and nor is there any need to feel shame […] What matters is staying alert, staying open, because if we know anything from what has gone before us, it is that the time for feeling will not last.’
Sam and I exchanged nothing more than a nod and wave as I left. I pulled my coat around me in the darkness and smiled at the thought that popped into my mind: if I failed to show up for a week or so I’m sure he would ask around to make sure I had not been half-eaten by Alsatians. Amused as I was, it comforted me as I walked the empty winter streets home.
