Anyone for stamps?
I have always especially hated the word hobby. It's just a senselessly sad word. When people occasionally ask me what my hobbies are, which they do, from time to time, I suffer a sort of spasm of disbelief, and a confused grimace comes over my face, for lack of a suitable reaction. But people always ask the question very innocently, for only the sad, the stupid and the innocent can actually think in terms of hobbies.
"My hobbies?" I stutter. "Um, does frequently staring out of a window constitute a hobby?"
And yet in a strange way I almost admire those people who pursue hobbies. Whether it be collecting stamps, or fishing, or knitting, or photographing oneself in flagrante, I admire the way in which people can find comfort in habitually doing something so senseless.
Hobby is such a cutesy, diminutive sort of word that reduces people's "free" time to a pastime, or no time at all, if you think about it. Not that there's anything wrong with it.
Being such an open-minded sort of person, I have often thought that I should take up a hobby, as the saying goes, just to try and see what it's like. I could even give my hobby a name, such as Bobby, Bobby the hobby, for example.
I could try ice fishing, or coin collecting, or bird watching, or train spotting, I don't think it really matters much. I would pack a tidy stack of sandwiches, lovingly prepare a flask of hot coffee, and set off with a bound in my step.
It all seems rather lovely, in a sad sort of way, which is why I'm always strangely touched whenever people tell me about their hobbies.
I remember watching the film "Italian for Beginners" and being deeply moved by it. The film is basically about a group of sad, lonely Danish people who take up an evening class in Italian so that they can feel a little less sad and lonely for an hour or two. Now that's a hobby, I thought.
But for now I will simply continue to find comfort in habit, rather than hobbies, although the difference between them is slight.
