I often get the finer details of this story confused with Narcissus. For now, however, I have a clear head. I am going to see a play about a king who ruled in ancient times in Greece but it’s been modernised to move into the present day. That sounds fine and the actors are good. It should be interesting, at least.

There is a catch. The man I am going with is known secretly to his friends as “Oedipus” because of his very close attachment to his mother.

When he first asked me to accompany him, I thought he was joking. I thought he’d somehow discovered our nickname for him and was getting his own back.

He wasn’t. He was quite serious and had read great reviews of it, admired the actress in it and was very much looking forward to seeing it.

What do you say to that? I kept a straight face, said I was too, and wondered how I’d manage on the day.

You’ll probably have heard the name, Oedipus, the baby who, a prophet predicts, will grow up to kill his father, marry his mother and have children with her. It’s a grim story. His father does everything he can to avoid it all happening, but it still does. The moral of the story indicates that, no matter how hard you try, you can’t avoid your own destiny. I’m still on the fence about that. I believe in choices.

I’ve not come across any Oedipus-style stories in (my) real life, so I don’t need to dwell on ways to avoid it. What I have seen a  fair bit of, is adult boys – and girls – finding it hard to separate emotionally from a parent.

Freud provided the link between the Oedipus tale and what he saw in some of his patients who were trapped within this seemingly emotionally unbreakable bond. Ultimately, unless something changed, it prevented the patient from moving forward in their own life.

The idea is that, to have a fulfilling and reasonably contented life of your own, you need to build it yourself and make it happen. That means growing up, meeting someone you feel you can love and commit to and with whom you wish to bring up a family. (I accept that other lifestyle choices are available but I’m referring to a person who might have come to see me looking for that particular one.) And yet it’s sometimes very hard to make the break with the past.

The hope is that the ”ideal” parent will give their children the love and support that will let them fly off on their own. Or – think birds – if they have a chick that is a reluctant flyer, they might give them a gentle nudge to help them leave the nest and learn to fly solo.

But what happens when parents keep a stronger hold of their children than maybe they should? What if they’re so unknowingly invested in their role that they cannot bear to let go. Or what if the little person pays too much heed to those delicious expressions such as: “What would mummy do without her little helper?” or “Daddy’s little girl, whoever’s going to love you like I do?”

Such comments are of the moment; to be absorbed, enjoyed and barely remembered as the child takes the route to adulthood. It’s when they’re not that the problems can start.

My theatre companion was made Mother’s Little Helper when he was about 10. He had no awareness of what was happening and still doesn’t. Neither, I suspect, did his mother who was disappointed in her marriage. I don’t for a moment believe she did  this deliberately but it seemed as though she’d found a way to replace her disappointing husband with a marvellous son she’d made in the image of the man that she’d have liked in the first place. We’re not talking romantically here, just emotionally.

My friend never married – he got close to it once or twice, but it didn’t quite happened. He’s not spoken about it but I get the sense his mother had never entirely approved. With no significant other about, Mum would go on holiday with her boy and, when her husband – the boy’s father – died, she spent more and more time with this man, now grown well into middle age. I did sense resentment at times but I don’t think he had the strength to pull away. By that stage anyhow, there was no one about really to be drawn towards.

I remember the odd couple going to see the James Bond film in which M is dying and where the pair seem to cautiously acknowledge the deep bond between them. I think we, the audience, were right to connect that how Bond felt about the loss of M, was because she represented his own mother figure.  Not so my friend who thought the whole thing was ridiculous and far too psychological. “We didn’t enjoy it at all, did we Mother?” he asked.

I observed mother and son, a perfect mirror image of each other (maybe that’s where the confusion with the story of Narcissist came from) as they nodded in agreement while both completely failing to recognise the meaning in the film’s ending.They weren’t touched at all, almost quite the reverse, and didn’t see any connection between the content of the film and their own relationship. It was part comedy, mainly tragedy.

She’s gone now and he’s having to find other people with whom to go to the theatre. I’m lucky, I suppose. But I’m also sad he never got to have a “best beloved” of his own age. That would have been so much better.

It was not so long ago really. One lifetime, perhaps even two and there we were. The barge we went on was still active down the east coast of England in the 1970s. I remember seeing them sailing serenely past my own seaside home town when I was a child. There was something majestic about them then and there still is.

The brilliance of the barges in their heydays was that it took just two people to run them: a skipper and a mate. Our barge was originally crewed by one man and his two sons but one of them jumped ship at Ipswich and joined the local fire station. It was a hard life. Our own trip was just 12 hours and, by the end of the third hour (9am in the morning), I could understand why he’d had enough.

It didn’t take me long to realise that, what initially seemed like a fun day out might involve quite a bit of work. I’d had a disturbed night’s sleep after being interrupted by what sounded like an all-night party in what must have been one of Essex’s sleepiest village. Everyone local denied knowledge of it the next day. Strange that.

As a result, we arrived bleary-eyed when it was still not yet dawn. There were 12 of us on board in total and it was pretty clear straight away this was not going to be quite the fun day out I’d thought. Three guests volunteered with good grace to take an active part in crewing from the beginning. The enthusiastic sailor who’d suggested the trip to me was in a state of pique about the local party and looked like he was going to sulk for the full 12 hours. He effectively did. One down, several others to go.

The crew consisted of our skipper, a first – and only – mate and a cook. We weren’t greeted or welcomed aboard (our names apparently were ticked off but I missed that bit) but we somehow gravitated towards fellow travellers and managed to connect in that combination of hesitancy and hail-fellow-well-met-style some English people seem to have mastered so that, by the end of the trip, we felt almost like life-long friends. Even my friend the sulker had thawed enough to start chatting.

The skipper, a man of few words was a bit dour, but clearly competent. The first mate was efficient and sociable,  just the person you’d want near you in a crisis. Unfortunately, his charm seemed to fail against the skipper who regularly shouted curt one-word instructions that made him jump and us question his capability.

Eventually the mate felt the need to tell us he and the skipper had never worked together before. “I’ve worked with four others and they all have their own style,” he said in an apologetic whisper as he obeyed the latest order and jumped over us to prepare for yet more tacking as we changed direction to catch the wind. As the crew tacked, we “observers” ducked our heads to avoid coming into contact with the huge sails. As a non-sailor, I quickly discovered I had a natural aptitude for self-preservation.

Our cook, who did a great job and gave us the occasional flash of a brilliant smile, was mainly in a world of her own with her eyes glued on the mobi whenever she escaped from the galley. I got the sense that I/we might have been superfluous to her needs. I know it was just a job but I don’t really like to feel I’m intruding, particularly when I’m paying to join the gang.

Talking of gangs, I was impressed at how we, the travellers had managed to bind ourselves into a cohesive group that worked good-naturedly in a confined space for the whole 12 hours. There was one person who bucked the trend and kept himself to himself. One brave female guest sidled up to him and asked if everything was all right. She’d wondered if he was feeling seasick. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “I prefer to be alone.” We all felt a little uncomfortable.

Why I wondered, had he come on such a trip in that case? It occurred to me that the boat, in a way, was a microcosm of society. It worked well when we all contributed in some way, encouragement to crew members, physical work, interest in what was happening or just gasps of amazement when we saw the odd porpoise sailing alongside. Each of us felt the benefit of the other when we played our part. If someone resisted, and just plain didn’t, it left us with a slight sense of edginess that was both disturbing and unsettling. That was disturbing.

A few days later, I was on a train bound for Gatwick Airport. A young man with his wife, mother-in-law and two small children climbed on, loaded with buggies, toys, suitcases and all those other bits and pieces you need to take on holiday with children. Within minutes of the train’s departure, the young mum remembered she’d left her new trainers in the cab taking the family to the station. Her dress was with the trainers, so were the nappies (in that order). She was clearly annoyed.

If that scenario had happened to many people I know, there’d have been some element of blame or aggression over whose fault it was. Not in this case. The man retrieved his phone, called the cab company, told them the problem and said he’d be getting off at the next stop and coming back to retrieve the items from the taxi rank. No fuss, no bad temper, just direct action that left his beloved blowing kisses at him and the children not even noticing he’d gone.

If there were a prize for skills in social graces, he’d have to win it.