Lockdown – A Memoir

 

[I wrote this during lockdown and just found it saved in my drafts]

I know every inch of this house. It’s been over a year since the Covid lockdown, and I’ve lived here for over 12 months. There’s a beige spot on the white ceiling where the painter made a mistake and it annoys me. I know every dirty mark and frayed piece on the old carpet.  

Even my garden wall is a piece of tapestry that I’ve seen a thousand times; there’s a chip in the paint and plaster from a nail that couldn’t handle the weight of my hanging plant when we moved in 3 years ago.

My life is a slow ebb and flow; each day has four seasons and hundreds of moments. I spend so much time by myself in this house while my husband is at work. He doesn’t know how lonely I sometimes I feel, how silly I am with my dog (we play fight and I pretend to be a dog) and how long the day stretches out in front of me.

The hours are squares of different colours, sometimes translucent, sometimes bold, and they stack together to form a different shape and painting every day. 

The morning is occupied by making two strong cups of coffee. Nowadays, I like my milk frothed: I heat up the milk in a mug and then froth it using a small battery-operated frother. Adding a bit of sugar, I usually sit on the step that leads into our small garden. We have a new neighbour in the complex that borders ours. She’s usually in the room facing our garden and watches me silently as I sit, in my robe or my pajamas, sipping my coffee, trying to convince the dog to make wee. I don’t really care what she thinks about my outfits or how I spend my time.

While I have work, very reduced hours and very reduced pay, nothing that I do for my company feels like it matters. I’ve had a few serious job interviews because the travel industry is depressing right now. When I go into the office – I stare at people’s blank, worried, empty faces. Everyone is there because it’s their one day in the week that they have to be. We’re all so sick of trying to be optimistic, yet we cling to any small piece of positive news. But soon it’s drowned out by more bad news, more infections, another red list, another restriction, another resignation.

In the afternoon I take the dog for a walk. And I always end up seeing the same people; I don’t really want to talk to any of them, so I choose routes that don’t have a lot of foot traffic – but still, I usually meet someone I know. Sometimes I nod, keep walking, other times I have to stop. We talk about the weather, or my job, or theirs, their child or my dog. 

 And then it's evening. And another day rolls around.