Opinion

Anita Robinson: Others fill their lockdown days with frenetic activity - not me

<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: sans-serif, Arial, Verdana, &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;; ">At the beginning of lockdown I was full of good intentions</span>
At the beginning of lockdown I was full of good intentions At the beginning of lockdown I was full of good intentions

I’m sitting by an open window on a hot afternoon.

Not a leaf is stirring, the air is fragrant with the scent of that white waxy blossom whose name I can’t recall, but it was in Queen Victoria’s bridal bouquet and thus became fashionable. On our quiet road the birdsong seems unnaturally loud. Idyllic or what? For the last ten weeks I’ve been a pattern-card of moral rectitude, bearing up with as good grace I can muster, scrupulously observing the social strictures that this vicious virus has foisted upon us. And d’you know what? I’m quite enjoying it.

I admit to being mildly irritated by the virtue-signalling of energetic friends who’ve used this hiatus to embark upon an orgy of deep-cleaning, renovation, redecorating, re-designing the garden, baking, exercise, or all of these. I have taken up mere maintenance and basic household hygiene.

There are chaotic cupboards, disordered drawers and innumerable underbed storage boxes (contents unknown) that I have no intention of disturbing. The threat of coronavirus may have galvanized others into frenetic activity. It has induced in me nothing but bone idleness. Oh, at the beginning of lockdown I was full of good intentions – the books I’ve always meant to read, the letters I’ve meant to write, the long-neglected friends I’ve meant to contact. My burst of busyness was short-lived. Instead, I’m mortally ashamed to admit falling victim to the dubious delights of afternoon television – all archive re-runs, charity appeals and funeral plans, with the occasional fondly remembered vintage gem.

Meanwhile, newspapers and magazines are generously providing us, their beleaguered readers with reassuring features and coping strategies. They offer myriad suggestions for the relief of loneliness, lethargy and anxiety, urging us to “embrace challenge, positivity, determination, commitment and affirmation.” Just reading those terms makes me want to lie down in a darkened room. I note they offer nothing to counteract sheer laziness.

The blissful positivity of ‘doing nothing’ is seriously underestimated. I’d much rather fill an hour with ‘being’ rather than ‘doing’. Most of us lead fraught lives, constantly striving, running like headless chickens, juggling work, home and responsibilities. We hurtle through the days, half-tasting, rarely savouring the moment, the pleasure of the present tainted by vague anxiety about what may come.

Peace of mind and tranquility are rare visitors and the art of contentment is lost to us.

Someone once likened doing nothing to ‘the digestive system of the mind, constantly processing the churning contents of our consciousness.’ Life, consumed like a rushed meal, is rarely satisfying or enjoyable. There’s a great deal to be said for occasional leisure, self-indulgence and pleasing oneself. I’m treating this period of isolation as a holiday at home – self-catering unfortunately, but with the benefit of sleeping in one’s own bed. It nearly makes up for the fact that this week I ought to have been in Vienna, walking the feet off myself on cobblestones and rushing round galleries and museums.

However, sitting on my own sofa with a good illustrated guide book, Mozart in the background and a glass of Riesling is consolation enough – and a darn sight less expensive. There are some people of course who cannot bear to do nothing. They must fill every waking hour with some sort of activity – and intensely annoying they are to the guilt-ridden rest of us as we’re invited to admire the fruits of their labours.

Doing nothing offers one a unique opportunity for deep thought, pondering the important issues that govern our lives. Currently, my most pressing issue, shared by many female readers is this. The latest services to be liberated from lockdown elsewhere are pet grooming and dentistry. While I’m happy for people with hot dogs or toothache, I urgently need a podiatrist and a hairdresser.

With replacement hip joints I can’t reach my own toes, which, like the Gruffalo have developed exceedingly sharp claws.

As for the hair, from which several days of unaccustomed sunshine have leached most of the colour, I look in the mirror and see my mother. Mark my words, for women, the legacy of coronavirus will be post-traumatic Tress disorder….