The leaves on the tree outside the window are blown inside out, upside down. The silvery undersides pushed flat against the branches by the gusts look curled and dying, but this is spring. I love the big trees that line the bottom edge of our garden but I’m fearful as I watch them move; if even one branch came down it would take our whole garden, our lounge and kitchen. The wind has been worse than this before, and I’ve never had these thoughts; normally, I mock our wind-fearing cat as she skids up and down the floorboards, fleeing the invisible roaring threat.
We walked in the park today and saw my favourite gosling family, now leggy and spindly, tottering through the fence posts, and the wind kicked up face-fulls of dirt and leaves and dust. It is too window for picnics, but there were still some groups trying, with the corners of their writhing blankets pinned down with bicycles and backpacks. It’s the kind of wind that punches air to the back of your throat, so you have to turn to the side to force it down. The gutters are full of branches and green leaves. The roadsides are littered with items that have nothing to do with the window: old vacuums and shelving and books and pots, the fruits, I assume, of spring-cleaning being done by people with nothing else to do, and nowhere to donate to. The donation bins by the entrance to the park are always surrounded by overflowing garbage sacks of clothes that get torn over, then damp, then removed. I suspect they go right to the dump, but I understand the impulse to clean. There is nothing else to do, and I am in my house all the time.
A couple of weeks ago I cleaned out a series of boxes that sit in our room, filled with miscellaneous items: battery packs, pots of glitter, sunglasses, scissors, wigs, business cards, lipsticks, bumbags, belts, toilet bags. At the bottom of one I found something I thought I’d lost forever – a ring that used to belong to my mother, which I wore for nearly 15 years, and which I thought stolen along with the rest of my jewellery in September, on her birthday. I have no idea how it came to be in one of those boxes of bits instead of with the rest of my jewellery, but I cried with the relief of still having it. I threw out a lot, dried mascaras and bits of plastic and old cards, but the boxes never look any less full. In a similar fit of organisation this week I switched out my winter clothes for my summer ones. My wardrobe is more useful now, but there was a weird pain in putting away my glittery tops and silky dresses and all the lovely things I wore to all the places I went in December, January, February. Substituting in my summer clothes felt pointless, since I wear the same combination of leggings and t-shirts nearly every day.
Yesterday was our neighbour’s birthday, and we bought him port and a fruitcake and drank some socially-distanced wine with him. Getting to know him has been a small joy of lockdown; we lived here for nearly two years before speaking to him at all. He is full of stories of a big life in London publishing, celebrity encounters and business endeavours and pleasures. He has barely left his house in 9 weeks. He cut his own hair, and it looks good. We never run out of things to talk about with him, because he has been a stranger for 73 years, and plenty of things have happened to him, and so talking to him is almost easier than talking to friends and family, with whom a shared history somehow diminishes topics rather than increasing them.
The wind gets under my skin. It’s been three days of it now. I want to open all the windows and doors and let it funnel through, flush things out, bring something new.