I always claim that I detest “going out”, maintaining that the thought alone of leaving my home for a few hours to be in the company of others is enough to give me a fit of the screaming ab dabs. On reflection, I realise that it’s just the thought of going out that gives me an anxiety attack, rather than the actual going out and spending time with people. I love spending time with people, I revel in it. Being with people gives me the opportunity to… do what humans are supposed to do: interact with each other; share stories, conversations, experiences; recall misguided features on Blue Peter about people with cerebral palsy; get silly; be serious; have fun.

The stress of going out stems from the days when going out was something special that meant dressing up in a frock. Dressing up. In a frock. Being somebody with a very negative self image, I’d always shy away from things that attracted the attention of others, be it an outfit that was unusual for me, a new haircut, or a dazzling sombrero (even thought sombreros are the ultimate in high fashion, we all agree). Any situation that stimulates the “what should I wear?” conversation with myself = BAD. Very bad indeed.

Considering the recent adoption of American-style school proms here in the UK, I am so very glad that I grew up in the 1970s and 80s. Putting somebody like me in that situation would have had me in therapy. It would have been like Carrie, only so much worse, in my own mind at least.

On the other side of the coin, put me in a situation with friends, where I’m allowed to carry my usual appearance of somebody who’s just crawled up an embankment after a train derailment, and I LOVE IT. I do not excel at introducing myself to new people and I find it uncomfortable to strike up a conversation with a total stranger unaided by the presence of a mutual friend. There’s that strange awkwardness of the first few minutes while you try to suss them out, well for me the strange awkwardness of the first thirty seconds in which I suss them out, decide that they don’t interest me, and try to find an excuse to leave that particular conversation and move on to the running buffet.

Then there are the conversations at parties that you strike up with total strangers about fridge freezers. To come across somebody admiring a fridge freezer (substitute with any appliance, gadget, car) with their partner automatically sets the “this person is safe and normal” lights flashing and I feel at ease enough to throw in a banal remark that will either go nowhere but cause no offence, or help to strike up a conversation and a booze-fuelled interaction between my then girlfriend and the female partner in the fridge-freezer couple. And thus a friendship was born.

Because I feel uncomfortable with myself, I think I hide behind a multitude of layers in social situations. The top layer is generally “tit”, which allows me to act the goat and act as if I don’t really care whether people like me or not. Do I care whether people like me or not? Probably not actually, but not in way that I’d be deliberately offensive to a complete stranger, just a little odd I suppose.

It’s just about the anniversary of the breakup with my ex. It hit me terribly hard and I guess I’m only just about at the acceptance stage of the grieving process, it’s taken so long and I still yearn for revenge. Saying that though, I’m OK. I’m actually OK when I never thought I’d get through the year. Mine is not the sort of family that talks about “feelings” and things, we just shout at each other a lot most of the time, but Mum engaged me in conversation this evening. I didn’t really listen to what she was saying because my instant reaction to that sort of thing is to go into a blind panic, cover my ears and “la-la” to myself. One bit I did hear though was her suggesting that I join some sort of social group in the area. “There’s lots of stuff going on around you,” she offered, “the church magazine advertises all sorts of activities”. Yes, like setting gay people on fire, which actually might be interesting to see whether they scream more about their clothes being ruined or being in agony from dying on fire.

Even in obvious jest, I’m probably not supposed to make comments like that. I should save them for the next party I go to in Chorlton, but that would hardly provide a mixed demographic for measuring offence levels since people in Chorlton are humourless lefties who take everything so bloody seriously. They actually believe in the Guardian and the BBC in much the same way as young children believe in the tooth fairy and Father Christmas. And I certainly don’t think any mention of Blue Peter would be wise: “Blue? Tory, more like! Tory and sexist too! Why not just call it Thatcher Rapist? It should be non-gender specific like Rainbow Bod. Actually, I’m going for artificial insemination next week and I was going to call my child Sky Mandela, but I might go for Rainbow Bod instead.” Still, I’d like to see their reaction to the mention of the word Joey.

But at the other end of the scale, what sort of social activities might be on offer in the suburbs of Bolton? EDF “knit against Islam” evenings? The Radcliffe “Ooh, I’m really not sure I like the sound of that” club? The Prestwich “Let’s fill all the parking spaces at Tesco with trolleys” collective? Or maybe even the Bury “Drive your way around Bury without getting lost and/or writing off your car” society.

I like going out, the being out bit of it… so long as I don’t have to get dressed up… or meet too many new people… or do it more than four times a year. I’m also happy staying in. Surely this comprises a healthy balance of social interaction?