by Dan Stokes

During an extended new year break this week, back in the bosom of my family, I found I had ran out of crap telly and exhausted the Sky+. Having watched Love Actually three times, the Gruffalo twice and perhaps the worst film ever made, The Triumph, I turned to mum’s dvd collection.

Other than the handful of free films from the Guardian and the Express (held on to after granddad died with some sentimental attachment), I was left with two choices: Titanic or About a Boy. The 4.5 seconds of Kate Winslet’s naked breasts were tempting, but About a Boy won the day.

I watched it in the usual way: messing around with laptop, flitting between ebay, BBC sport and the femail section of the Daily Mail website. And as I did so, I began to realise that, as Hugh Grant muses in the film, I am an island.

Just a few hours before, I’d made an excuse not to go and meet friends. And these were my childhood friends, whom I loved, whom as the years went by I only had the opportunity to see during national holidays, or more recently, weddings.

“I’m looking after my brother’s kids”, I’d said. The truth was I just couldn’t be bothered. (more…)