Introverts are the evolved Yodas of lockdown. Sadly I'm not one of them

In his book, Art of Travel, Alain de Botton, the philosopher, makes an obvious but nonetheless subtle point about travel. On arriving at a much-anticipated island holiday getaway, he makes a grim realisation: "A momentous but until then overlooked fact was making itself apparent. I had inadvertently brought myself to the island."

I know his pain. De Botton goes on to quote Blaise Pascal, who said: "The sole cause of man's unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room." Say it again Blaise. 

This self-isolation we've presently embarked on requires that on some fundamental level we find ways to stay quietly in our rooms, with ourselves. With ourselves! Think about it!

I've spent anxious days skirting around this momentous but until now overlooked fact. And I've concluded that no, I'm not one of the world's introverts.

Let's face it — their moment has come — first came the book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain, and now an entire planet is practising their bizarro lifestyle choices. Introverts are clearly the superior beings — the evolved Yodas of our time. Floating an inch off the ground as we speak. Slightly green but so at peace with themselves and their inner dialogues that they wilfully choose this heinous lifestyle practice.

They choose, nay, they actively seek out, ways to blissfully spend their days alone so that they can — I don't know — contemplate their navels. This I can say for a fact — my navel leaves a lot to be desired. And as for my inner dialogue — I can't listen to it for more than five minutes.

Firstly it is not a dialogue, it is more of a rant. It's like Joan Rivers and Baleka Mbete are having it out in my frontal lobe. Joan has got hold of the microphone and is hogging the spotlight — maniacally jabbering away and every now and then a small woman with a glorious doek and a gavel bangs away: "Order! Order for God's sakes. Order — actually, just shut the f... up!"

If left to its own devices, the definitely non-Socratic dialogue in my head will drive me mad. If I have to listen to Joan harping on about the dust balls in the corner under the couch and the perfect way to poach an egg one more time. Oh wait — that's actually David Higg's voice on his endless IG video stream — the chap is recording so much cooking information. So much. All day, every day — and deep into the night. I imagine he's discovering what I always suspected — being alone with yourself sucks.

But being alone with yourself virtually is possibly even worse. And now with the added dimension of social isolation, this virtual life is like some sick game invented by the introverts. A terrible episode of Black Mirror we can never escape. Take that you influencers. Now we're all just influenzas — a plague on all our houses.

I remember being an only child. Not fondly. My parents would helpfully buy me games dedicated to the lonely singleton — basically colourful versions of the same game —solitaire. All I wanted was a good old endless monopoly game where more than three pieces (always the top hat, the iron and the MG convertible) made their socially isolated way around the board. I opted for hardcore guilting to remedy the situation. I took to prayer at the foot of their bed — every night begging the good lord and their loins for siblings.

It was clear to me then as a small child and now as a self-isolated adult — that I was not meant for a life of quiet contemplation. Off to the nunnery was just not an option. I need the people. Lots of them. All of them — in the messy, glorious cut and thrust of life, scrubbing up together in coffee shops and in the pen at the beginning of marathons, breathing onto each other, talking at and through and over each other. Rolling our eyes in boardrooms, cracking open the champagne to the chagrin of our colleagues over at the silent side of the open-plan office.

I like the mess of it and the smell of it and mindless jabber of it all. I like social warming.

There, I've said it. And now I am praying to whatever gods there may be — old ones and new ones and those gods in the Game of Thrones with the bleeding eyes in the trees — give me back the noise outside my head, ye gods, because life with myself in this room is agony. And this virtual crap is for the birds and the influenzas.