I’m off to see Groundhog Day, the musical, at the Old Vic in London. It’s based on the 1993 film in which Bill Murray’s character relives the same day over and over. Although I’m sure it will be great, it involves one obvious drawback: having to leave the house. These days, I have less and less appreciation of how the outside world works. Having to interact with anyone or anything outside my normal daily routine leaves me with a feeling of cold dread.
It turns out that I’m more than happy in my own little groundhog day. I wake up, work all day at my computer in my kitchen (the nearest working space to the kettle), probably pop to the supermarket at some point, maybe fit in some exercise, watch telly, go to bed, rinse and repeat. My life is a predictable triangle. Leaving the boundaries has become increasingly stressful.
Like many people, my job turned 95% Zoom during the pandemic and never really switched back. I recently received a meeting invitation that included an initialism I had to look up, IRL – in real life. Five years ago, who would have thought it would be necessary to point that out?
The other thing about going out is that when someone else – invariably more organised than you – books the tickets, it tends to be so far in advance that you are not convinced the day will ever arrive. I don’t know what I’m going to have for dinner tonight, so who knows what I’ll be up to one evening in five months’ time? A lot can happen in five months. Bands split up, theatres close down and festivals get cancelled. In my pessimistic mind, it probably won’t happen anyway. Plus, the ticket buyer is the chump who has to stump up all the money upfront. Surely the etiquette is that they invited you, so you don’t have to pay them back? At least, that’s my excuse.
Let’s not forget the whole miserable rigmarole of going to the theatre. I traditionally spend the first 30 minutes mortified that live actors are performing on stage, seemingly unaware that there is a crowd of people watching. Why don’t they acknowledge the audience? You get a “Hello” or “How you doing?” at the most monosyllabic of live gigs.
If it’s a musical, I practically hide under my seat with embarrassment. These people are singing. Singing! Have they no shame? I play a game where I try not to look at my watch, then guess how long it is until the interval, then how long until the end. I can’t wait to get out. Speaking of the interval, unless you ordered a drink beforehand (who remembers to do that?), you spend the entire time queueing at the bar. That’s if you have had time to go to the toilet. The last time I went to the theatre, squashed at a tiny urinal, already suffering from stage fright, I found myself standing next to Danny Dyer. My bladder had no chance.
I once saw Trainspotting, the play. My brain simply couldn’t comprehend that it wasn’t the same actors as the film, let alone what they were saying in the thick dialect of the script. All theatre reminds me of that bit in Peep Show when Mark and Jez are on a double date, watching some awful play. “I’ve got Heat on DVD at home. We’re watching this when, for less money, we could be watching Robert De Niro and Al Pacino.” “I’m going to pretend I am watching Heat.”
But escaping our personal groundhog days, even if human nature means we would prefer not to, is what life is all about. It’s what Murray’s character, Phil Connors, spends the whole of Groundhog Day trying to do. According to fan theories, Connors spends 33 years stuck in the same day, before escaping by finding love with Andie MacDowell’s Rita Hanson. I’m not quite 33 years into my adult life yet, so I suppose I need to keep pushing myself: I don’t want to turn into a complete Phil.
I have other concerns about abandoning the comfort of my routine. I might have forgotten how the tube works. What you are supposed to wear to the theatre? (Surely shorts are OK; it’s dark.) How do you talk to people? But leaving the house and mixing with friends who are probably just as anxious about abandoning their own groundhog days is important. Even if, in my heart of hearts, I agree with Homer Simpson when he says: “What’s the point of going out? We’re just gonna wind up back here anyway.”
• Rich Pelley is a freelance writer. Adrian Chiles is away
