I have come to a rather amusing conclusion that I have an imaginary audience in my head.

They aren’t sitting around watching me, but they do pop up – sometimes uninvited, and sometimes because I extend an invitation. And believe me, I have some wonderfully ridiculous conversations with them.

They are a strange cast of characters: people I barely or don’t know at all, people I haven’t spoken to in years, people I don’t particularly care about, and most importantly, a rather opinionated version of myself.

They have different roles.

Sometimes they support me.
Sometimes they applaud.
Sometimes they compete with me.

Sometimes they play moderator or judge.
Sometimes they go silent and look the other way.
And sometimes, I am the entire audience.

I don’t just live.
I sometimes perform living.

I am highly competitive when it comes to phone games. Whom am I playing against? No clue.

But when I beat an anonymous stranger and reach the top of the leaderboard, I break into a victory dance, signing autographs and waving to a standing ovation.

As I am basking in my glory, the phone lights up. My competitor is back with a vengeance. I grab my phone and we battle it out once again. It goes on for a while before I notice the applause has stopped and the audience has gone home.

Creating an imaginary scene is a lot of fun.

This happens almost every time I finish writing an article and I’m ready to post it on my blog. The cast of this little play has an interviewer, an audience and, of course, me being interviewed.

“What inspired you to write this article?”

Every response is articulate, thoughtful and, in my head, perfectly delivered. The interviewer is impressed. The audience is attentive. I am having a fabulous time. Wow, that went really well and I feel sufficiently reassured.

After all, who better to interview me than me?

My imaginary audience also gets to come along on my walks.

When I step out and the road is empty, I am suddenly walking down a fashion runway. One foot in front of the other, following an imaginary centre line. My strides get longer and my pace gets quicker. My hips sway and my head moves gracefully from side to side. A rare opportunity to walk for Fashion Week.

Just as I get into the groove, I spot a few people walking towards me.

The runway disappears. I immediately switch to my regular march, arms swinging briskly by my sides. I just missed my casting call.

My imaginary audience is remarkably loyal. They put up with me when I get insanely enthusiastic about something.

Just before a karaoke session, I practise my favourite songs, try to tone my voice and sometimes even record myself. I sound like someone I don’t recognise. I know I’m going to croak. I know it is probably a crime to inflict this on other people. But that doesn’t stop me.

My imaginary audience is more than happy to sit through the torture and cheer me on while I am clearly risking my reputation.

Dancing is much the same.

I dance in front of the mirror to see if I am still graceful. I want to know that I can still do those legendary Olivia Newton-John moves from Grease. In my head, I am rehearsing the music, the moves and the effortless glide onto the dance floor.

Except my body is screaming STOP.  Bones crack. Something catches. I am forced to confront the rather disappointing possibility that this may no longer be for me.

Doesn’t matter. In my head, I am still dancing beautifully.

Sometimes I find myself performing for people I haven’t seen in years.

Every now and then, there is a meeting I prepare for as though it were a performance. I think about what I’ll wear, what we’ll talk about and how I’ll keep the conversation interesting. I rehearse it all beforehand.

And then we meet.

Despite all the help from my imaginary audience, the meeting doesn’t go as planned. Hmm! My imaginary audience requires a dress rehearsal, a costume and a script.

The theatrical performance?
Not nearly as interesting.

I enjoy the company of my imaginary audience. But there are times when they simply don’t show up when I need them most.

This happens when I am faced with a confrontation. I deliberate, choose my words and respond accordingly. I don’t explode. I don’t say things I will regret.

And then, several hours later, when the moment is long gone, my imaginary audience arrives. The replay begins.

Suddenly, I have the perfect response to everything. Every word is precise. Every point lands. Every comeback is devastating.

Honestly, I am magnificent. Shame they ghosted me when I needed them.

Sometimes it is just Sabita and me. We are, of course, one and the same person, but we don’t always behave as though we are.

When I talk to myself in the third person, I am somehow much more convincing – even to myself.

“Come on, Sabita. You’ve got this.”
“Sabita, don’t overthink it.”
“Sabita, really? What are you waiting for?”

I become my own life coach, cheerleader, and occasionally, my own disappointed parent. It works.

Nobody’s watching.
But Sabita is listening.

And sometimes, my imaginary audience doesn’t even need me to perform. They just need me to be right.

When I watch quiz shows on television and know the answer, my hand automatically goes up. I wait a couple of seconds to see if the contestant gets it right and then shout out the answer anyway.

I applaud.
Sabita applauds too.

The two of us are quite pleased with ourselves.

Then there is the mythical committee.

Somewhere in my head, there is a boardroom full of people who are relentless about policing my life with their Do’s and Don’ts. They seem to believe their wish is my command.

I have no idea who appointed them. They certainly didn’t ask me.

And finally, my imaginary audience has absolutely no boundaries.

I’ve sometimes caught myself making sure I am appropriately dressed when I go to bed. Just in case I die in my sleep. Not because I am particularly worried about dying. My concern is that someone might find me and be embarrassed.

What if my choice of nightwear – or lack of it – is inappropriate?

Should they cover me first?

Should they check my pulse?

Apparently, even death requires a little advance preparation.

I have standards, even in hypothetical death.

Nobody’s watching.

But I am.