By Wendy Brown

Last updated 11:47, Wednesday, 17 September 2008

I have lived in my “new” home for well over a year now and, last weekend, I came to a big decision. It took me all day to make up my mind, I was very apprehensive and I had lots of second thoughts. But in the end I decided to brave it.

No, I wasn’t about to embark on a marathon or set off to scale a mountain. I was planning a trip to my local pub – on my own.

I’d been in several times before – with friends and family and usually for a meal. It’s a very welcoming place and the food is great. Also, on my last visit, the landlord had promised to add Cointreau to his bar stock. Well, I reasoned, it would be rude not to partake of this. And I do like to support local businesses. And the pub is only four doors away. But still I hesitated.

I think it’s a generation thing. My mother would certainly never have gone into a pub on her own. In fact, for years, she was quite hesitant even when with my father. And if, while out for the day as a family when we were young we called at a pub, brother and self would be settled outside with a packet of crisps and a lemonade. Mother would last about 10 minutes and then come and join us.

So what is it that makes a lady of more mature years hesitate to cross the threshold of a drinking establishment on her own? No-one would bat an eyelid if a lone gentleman walked in, so what is the difference? Maybe it’s a hangover from the days of the working men’s clubs, where the men felt entitled to imbibe large amounts of brown ale while puffing away on their cigarettes and where women were strictly taboo.

Anyway, after much deliberation, I decided to brave it. And I needn’t have worried. There were just two customers – and a spare stool.

A friendly landlord, inclusion in the conversation – and a lovely bottle of Cointreau waiting just for me. I fear my weekly visit may well become a regular habit. And, as Barry Norman used to say: “And why not?”