Five Minutes on the Balcony
For the longest time, I thought my exhaustion came from work. Then I blamed it on getting older. Eventually, I put it down to the winter, the endless traffic, all the food shopping, cooking, laundry, family group chats, and those calls to my mumwho always started by asking why I hadnt visited in ages. But the real reason was there was never any peace in our flat.
Not literal shouting or anything. We didnt have blaring music or smashing plates. Someone simply always needed something. My wife would ask where Id put the car insurance documents. My son would shout from his room that the Wi-Fi had gone again. My mother-in-law would ring to see if Id booked her GP appointment. People at work would message after 7pm, as though shutting my laptop meant nothing. Even when no one was actually talking, my head was filled with a running list. Buy cat food. Email payroll. Wash the PE kit. Transfer money for my nephews club, since my sister was short of time again.
I started noticing something unpleasant about myself. It wasnt the big things that wound me up, but the tiniest details. Like my wife putting the tea bags on the wrong shelf. Or my son dumping his rucksack in the hallway. Or the one dirty spoon left in the sink, easy enough to wash in seconds. Id snap, then wander around the kitchen, annoyed with myself afterwards.
One evening, I was frying sausages, tomorrows soup bubbling away, laundry spinning in the machine, when my wife called from the living room to ask where her grey folder was. I said I hadnt seen it. She asked again. I answered, but louder. She came in, looking a bit miffed.
Why are you getting so worked up? she said.
That comment hit me harder than the lost folder. I wasnt getting worked up straight away. Id just been living on the edge all day. But there was no point explaining that. I switched off the hob, wiped my hands on a tea towel, and went out onto the balcony.
We had a basic glassed-in balcony. Jars full of screws, an old folding chair, a bag of Christmas decorations, the airer that we used for laundry in summer, empty in winter. I stood between the airer and a box of tools, closed the door behind me, and just stood there. Outside, someone was parking; lights glowed in windows across the street. I could feel the chill drifting upbut best of all, no one bothered me.
After five minutes, my wife knocked on the glass.
Are you alright?
I opened the door and said, I just needed a bit of time on my own.
She looked at me as if Id done something odd, but didnt say anything else.
The next day, I made a point of it. After dinner, with plates still in the sink and work messages pinging my phone, I left the phone behind and stepped out. Sometimes I sat on the folding chair; sometimes just stood, gazing down at Anne from number 8 walking her bulldog in a ridiculous jumper. Sometimes, I didnt think about anything at allwhich was rare for me.
Five minutes. Not an hour, not meditation, not some new self-care regime to brag about to colleagues. Just five minutes where I didnt exist for anyone.
At first, the family thought it was one of my new quirks. My son once poked his head out.
Are you upset?
No, Im just having a break, I told him.
On the balcony? he laughed.
Yes, on the balcony.
My wife tried a few times to ask things through the glass. Then she gave uprealising unless it was urgent, it could wait.
After a couple of weeks, I was noticeably calmer. Not a saint, not cheery like a yoghurt advert, but calmer. If my son forgot to take out the recycling, I wasnt snapping at the door. If my mother-in-law called with her third question that evening, I didnt roll my eyeseven if she couldnt see me. If a please review urgently email landed at 9pm, I could just say: Ill have a look in the morning. And the world didnt collapse.
But at home, my routine was still a bit of a mystery. My sister visited one evening. We were having tea in the kitchen, and after dinner, as usual, I stepped outside. When I came back, she asked,
Is everything alright at home?
I laughed. Of course. Why?
Its just, you keep disappearing every evening. I thought maybe you and your wife had an argument.
It amused me. If a man needs five minutes to himself, theres clearly family drama. But if he rushes round all day and by evening hes snapping at everyone, somehow thats normal.
Then something happened that showed me just how vital these five minutes were. I worked late, got caught in freezing rain, lugged back two heavy shopping bags, discovered my son got an F in maths and hadnt told us for three days, and my wife had forgotten to pick up medicine for her mum. She felt guilty, but by then, I was wound so tight that another word and Id have exploded.
I kicked off my shoes, dumped the bags, and walked onto the balcony still in my coat.
My wife followed almost instantly.
Go on, just say something.
I answered through the door, If I start talking now, no ones going to like it. Give me five minutes.
She backed off.
When I came back in, my son was sitting at the table with his homework. My wife was unpacking the bags silently. I said,
Lets do this: well order the medicine for delivery first. Then you show me the test, no fibs, no shouting. Just show me.
And that was exactly what happened. No shouting. In our house, that was a breakthrough in itself.
Not long after, my wife began telling our son, Dads on the balconywait a bit.
One day I saw her out there herself, coat on, staring at the street below. The one whod once teased me for it. I didnt ask any questions. Later, over dinner, she said,
Its actually nice out there. Peaceful.
I just nodded.
Strangely, those five minutes didnt fix a single real problem. My job didnt vanish. My mother-in-law didnt call any less. My son didnt become a model teenager. Money didnt magically appear. My wife still expected me to find lost things like I was some sort of bloodhound. But there was less tension at home. Not because everyone changed overnight, but because Id stopped living constantly on edge.
The other night I didnt get a single breakone thing after another, late phone call, dishes, rushing to send off a spreadsheet. I went to bed and realised I hadnt been alone, not even briefly, all day. That felt heavier than anything.
So the following evening, I made sure I went out early. The caretaker was scraping snow off the path, someone above was shifting a chair, a woman watered her plants in the window opposite. I sat on my rickety chair in an old jumper, concentrating only on the simple comfort of not being needed.
Then the door creaked open, and my sons head appeared.
Will you be long?
Two more minutes, I replied.
He nodded. Alright. Ill just drain the pasta myself, then.
And with that, he closed the door.
