I used to make my own food and ate on my own in my room.

Host: The evening light slanted through the window blinds of a small London flat, striping the walls with fading gold. A kettle hissed softly, the steam curling like a ghost above the sink. The room smelled faintly of instant noodles, old books, and loneliness — the kind of loneliness that doesn’t shout, but waits quietly, sitting at the corner of the table.

Host: Jack sat on a worn sofa, staring at a half-eaten sandwich, his grey eyes distant, as if seeing through time. Jeeny sat across from him, a mug of tea in her hands, her brown eyes warm, curious, yet heavy with empathy.

Host: Between them hung the words of Victoria Wood — simple, almost plain, yet filled with a tender ache: “I used to make my own food and ate on my own in my room.”

Jeeny: “It’s such an ordinary line, isn’t it?” she said, softly, stirring her tea. “But it says everything. The quiet isolation, the ritual of survival. Making your own food, eating in silence — it’s not just about hunger, it’s about solitude.”

Jack: “Or about control,” he murmured, his voice low, husky, the way gravel sounds when it shifts underfoot. “When the world ignores you, you start feeding yourself. You create your own routine, your own company. You cook just to prove you still exist.”

Host: The light flickered, the kettle clicked off, and the room sighed into stillness. The city outside was a blur of lights, voices, and motion — but here, time stood still.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like loneliness is a choice.”

Jack: “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s freedom. Think about it — Victoria Wood, a woman trying to make art, comedy, meaning in a world that didn’t see her yet. Maybe the silence of those meals was the only space where she could hear herself think.”

Jeeny: “But it’s still sad, isn’t it? To eat alone, to live unseen?”

Jack: “Sad, yes. But also sacred. That’s how creation begins — in rooms no one enters, in conversations with yourself. You can’t make something true if you’re always surrounded by noise.”

Host: He leaned forward, eyes catching the dim light, his shadow stretching across the floor, merging with hers.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think there’s something more to it. Eating alone isn’t always about creating space — sometimes it’s about filling emptiness. The ritual of cooking, even for one, is a way of saying, ‘I still deserve care.’”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s resignation — an admission that no one else will do it. You learn to boil water, to season your loneliness with salt and endurance.”

Jeeny: “You talk like comfort is a weakness.”

Jack: “No. I just think we romanticize solitude because it’s easier than admitting we’re hungry for company.”

Host: A car horn sounded from the street below, echoing through the narrow walls. The clock ticked, slow and mechanical, like the heartbeat of an empty house.

Jeeny: “I don’t think Victoria Wood was talking about despair. I think she was talking about becoming herself. You know, the way artists retreat — not to escape, but to build quietly until they’re ready to step out.”

Jack: “That’s one way to see it. Or maybe she was just lonely — brilliant, but lonely. There’s a difference between solitude and isolation. One feeds you, the other drains you. And sometimes, you don’t know which one you’re in until it’s too late.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the price of becoming extraordinary? To spend nights alone, making food for one, so that one day, your words, your art, your humor can feed others?”

Jack: “It’s a cruel alchemy, isn’t it? You turn hunger into art, emptiness into expression. And the world applauds, but no one remembers the silence it was born from.”

Host: The lamp buzzed faintly, casting halos on the tablecloth, where crumbs glittered like tiny planets in an intimate cosmos.

Jeeny: “Do you think she was happy, Jack? Sitting there, alone with her plate?”

Jack: “Maybe not then. But maybe she was becoming happy. Sometimes, you need to sit with your own hunger before you can feed others.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful. And tragic.”

Jack: “That’s life. Every artist eats alone before they’re invited to the table.”

Host: His words hung in the air, heavy, true, irrevocable. The tea had gone cold, but neither reached for it.

Jeeny: “You know, when I first started working, I used to do the same thing. I’d make simple meals, sit in my tiny apartment, and pretend the silence was a kind of peace. But sometimes, it wasn’t. It was just emptiness with good manners.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I understand what she meant. That solitude can be both wound and medicine. That making food for yourself is a way of refusing disappearance.”

Jack: “Refusing disappearance…” He repeated it softly, like a prayer. “Maybe that’s what all creation is — a refusal to disappear. Victoria didn’t just eat alone — she prepared herself. Each meal was a rehearsal for resilience.”

Host: A tear of laughter crept into Jeeny’s eyes, not of sadness, but of understanding.

Jeeny: “You always make pain sound noble.”

Jack: “And you always make it sound redeemable.”

Host: The room warmed. Not from the radiator, but from the quiet truce that had settled between them. The light outside dimmed, streetlamps flickered on, and the city exhaled.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what she was really saying — that loneliness isn’t just an absence. It’s a practice. You learn to sit with yourself, to feed your soul with small acts of care, until the emptiness softens.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because someday, someone else will sit at that table, and you’ll be ready — not hungry, not broken, but whole.”

Host: They both smiled, the silence between them now gentle, no longer hollow. The kettle clicked again, the steam rising, a sign of life.

Host: And as they shared the sandwich — the same one that had sat untouched for half the night — the ordinary moment turned sacred.

For in that simple act, they proved what Victoria Wood had quietly lived:
that to make your own food and eat alone is not to be forgotten — it is to learn the art of belonging to yourself,
before the world ever learns your name.