Oh, when will it end? At first, splendid isolation within the confines and comfort of one’s own home was a novelty. Now I can no longer live with the pattern of my living room curtains.
For the first time in my life I understand the term ‘stir crazy’. How fortunate that I’m solitary or I’d have murdered my housemates weeks ago. Ironic too that this period of lockdown should coincide with the finest spring and early summer weather we’ve had for years – minus the opportunity to enjoy it, due to a posse of politicians unable to agree upon a common safeguarding policy and constantly moving the goalposts in conflicting directions. No wonder some people, particularly the young and least at risk, are throwing caution to the winds and, for want of a better term, ‘wombling free’. As a scrupulously law-abiding citizen, I’ve got to the point of what I choose to call ‘scunnerdom’.
Having ample leisure for self-study, I find I’ve developed an Early Christian Martyr complex. Like a saint in a stained glass window, I’ve sprouted a halo of silver and acquired a long-suffering expression. Alas, that’s as far as my spirituality goes. Along with the above go good and bad habits, not so much cultivated as ‘fallen into’. Like Hyacinth Bucket, I’m keeping up appearances – showered, dressed and fully made-up by 9:30 every morning. The one day I take a lie-in, a delivery man lands at the door. I have no choice but to greet him in an ancient dressing-gown and no face. To give him his due, he neither recoils nor runs away screaming, but scuttles back to his van with unflattering alacrity. Give that man a medal.
There’s much to be said for dogged routine. There are people lying about in their jimjams at three in the afternoon – an invariable sign of the sadly prevalent slide into the abyss of slobbery. They’re existing on a diet of fridge finds, ‘Miss Marple’ repeats and Rennies. Meanwhile, the assiduous are DIY-ing, digging their gardens, baking or bleaching things – but mostly queueing. This last has developed into a socially distanced art-form with its own ethos. Cautious conversations break out between strangers and concerted glares are directed at the occasional chancer who targets the most vulnerable-looking with a plea, “G’wonan lettis intu the queue. I oney want milk ‘n’ fags.”
It’s noticeable how many men spend queueing time intently studying the shopping list so thoughtfully provided by their Significant Other, who always remembers to include the specific brand name of the product required, otherwise he’ll bring home the wrong kind, thus creating yet another source of marital tension. I’ve become adept at ‘usey-uppy’ dinners – experimental permutations of perishables virtuously combined, in order to postpone joining the aforementioned queue. The results are often… interesting. However, I’ll not be publishing ‘Lockdown Lunches for Strong Stomachs’ anytime soon.
“And how are you managing?” ask solicitous friends on the phone. “Fine, just fine,” I reply. I’m holding conversations with myself, an audible running commentary on everything I think or do. Also, talking to inanimate objects – pleading with the washing-machine’s temperamental dial to please stay on 30° long enough for me to press START and not subject my delicates to an accidental boil wash. Long-life lightbulbs at inaccessible heights choose this opportunity to expire. Battery-operated devices fail and I have every wattage except the correct one.
I’m watching too much news for my own peace of mind and have become addicted to ‘Antiques Roadshow’, ‘Repair Shop’ and ‘Flog It’ because I’ve a houseful of old, broken and battered stuff, none of which is valuable, but one lives in hope. My guilty pleasure is the daily re-run of the entire series of Downton Abbey, so please do not ring me between 7 and 8pm. But what’s exercising me most is that I’m down to the last slick of lipstick hoked out of the tube with a lipbrush. The cosmetic website informs me the shade is discontinued. What fresh hell is this? Still, a comforting thought – I won’t need it if I’m wearing a mask….
