One minute less

I am so tired of going to the supermarket for a treat.

Somehow, it gets to 3pm on a Wednesday and I haven’t been outside. I have: been on 7 Zoom calls, fed the cat, done 50 bicycle sit-ups looking at the crack in my ceiling but I haven’t

Seen the sun. Or anyone, except my husband

Who leaves at 8am and catches an empty train to somewhere he’d rather not be. 

I keep losing my masks even though I go nowhere. I am losing my mind because I’m

Going nowhere. Yesterday, I bought a neon orange blouse because it reminds me of who I used to be. The drifts of leaves are gone, there is decay in the gutter, and

There is only winter left of 2020, the cold dregs of a year I did not anticipate,

We did not anticipate this. 

The cat panics when I leave the house. She spends the whole time mewling at the door, and when I come back she paws at the outside world, cries at my absence

And then bites my feet. 

I used to make an effort and now I don’t. I wear mismatched socks and slippers I wear

The same pair of black leggings I wear

The same three red jumpers and, most of the time, a dressing gown. 

An old house, a cracked house was OK when I spent so much of my time under other roofs. I have spent the whole of 2020 romancing birds. First I won the pigeons, and then the crows, and then the robins, and now one Great Tit, 

But mostly I have made one squirrel very fat. I can see the ivy growing. I can see it gaining length as I lose days. Every day there is one less minute of sun.

A surprise lockdown wedding

The guests stand in huddles mandated by postcodes: couples, three flatmates, individuals separated by chairs marked with laminated signs. There are conspicuous gaps for the elephant in the room – for social distancing and for everything that has made 2020 a strange sad year. But no one is looking at the gaps. Every masked face is turned towards the door, and towards the couple moving down the aisle with no distance between them at all. 

There is nothing solemn about the way they say their vows. Everyone in the room is masked except for the bride and the groom and the small celebrant, who must have united a thousand couples with his simple secular words, but still manages to light them with new humour and understanding. It is impossible to be solemn, standing in our odd, unnatural groupings, as they repeat their promises back to each other, and into the camera in the corner of the room, which holds absent friends, and absent bridesmaids, and families up before dawn to watch a marriage over the internet. We are masked, but you can see all our smiles anyway. 

The weather is grey, the courtyard is deserted and beautiful, and the fountain foams like the champagne we sip from plastic flutes. The bride’s dress soaks up the rain from the flagstones because this, after all, is a London wedding, but the flowers are brighter in the surrounding gloom. The groom is a bunched ball of joy; he can’t stop smiling in his blue suit with his new bride, he looks into her eyes like he’s won the lottery. 

Walking down the streets to the reception only takes ten minutes but we are heralded by a hundred London commuters slamming sanitised hands on their horns for this union of strangers. The drivers of the red buses won’t join in, but everyone else does. It feels like confirmation that underneath the storm, the earth holds firm; this love is bedrock, and the virus merely another troubled sea. Even as walking in a group of thirteen feels like an impossible crime; even as hugging best friends feels unfamiliar. 

The reception is held in the upstairs room of The Alma, and when we enter the busy pub, the entire room applauds, like a scene in a romantic movie where everything turns out alright in the end. They are on their feet as we walk up the stairs, and they are not just applauding at the handsome groom with his immense grin, and not just at the beautiful bride holding her skirt as she ascends, but at the fact that they can share in the joy of strangers, and have one moment of perfect pleasure. 

The room is big, and for just a moment you feel the gaps. Wedding receptions are places where you get reunited with old friends, and where cousins stand awkwardly in corners, and where children chase each other in mad tangles under tables. At wedding receptions you peer anxiously around for waiters to get food; you chase empty trays of glasses to top yourself up. There are no crowds here, only the same familiar few who have dragged each other through the long lonely months, and found themselves here. It feels like a reward. 

The wedding favours are hand sanitisers emblazoned with the date. The food and wine is delicious, and the waitress smiles as she tops up negronis. The polaroid pictures grow blurry and dramatic as the 10pm curfew approaches. The music is warm and familiar, part of the bones of the friendships. We cannot dance; we are not allowed to touch, but we lean into each other as much as we can, we circle and sway. There are no speeches and no readings, but there are plenty of declarations of love. 

It is not the wedding they planned, but it is perfect anyway. They are not from London, but I know them as a London couple, together through hard jobs and difficult flatmates; through heat waves and road trips and protests and Sunday afternoons and moving days and picnics and gigs and theatres and restaurants and long walks in parks. I know them under umbrellas and covered in glitter; wet with sea salt and drenched by rain. I know them shoulder to shoulder on wooden pub tables and smeared with sunscreen in July. They are small bedrooms that smell of smoke, and happy reunions in crowded festivals. They are a couple who wait for each other, and put each other first. They make sense as individuals, but better sense hand-in-hand.

She is vivid and stunning; she is all eyes; she is a stream of hair and a blur of tulle. This is not the wedding it was supposed to be, in a bare New Zealand landscape topped with empty skies. We haven’t toasted marshmallows, nor stood in a tent, nor posed against a low yellow hotel. 

He is tall and impossibly happy, he is bright teeth and crushing hugs. They are never far from each other, his hand on her bare back, their heads tipped together for pictures. In the Polaroids they are shoulder to shoulder and indistinguishable, they meet in the middle in a flash of light.

On rotation

I am on rotation: phone, to laptop, to TV, to Kindle. I can force myself out under the red leaves, but I always come back. 

At the beginning we were obsessed with counting the days but the daily counting has stopped. The numbers are too high, and it no longer feels like counting down to anything. We are waiting for 2021, as if January will rinse the world. We are still anxiously counting our dead.

In the meantime: I watch Hocus Pocus and light candles and bake cinnamon rolls. I think about jumpers and hygge and leaning into the low light of autumn, but I am resisting it.

Voting in the NZ election feels like doing one thing right, though the election is over, done and won, and our votes haven’t even been counted. In past elections the overseas vote has felt important and elemental, but not this time. NZ is fine and fixed, better without us. It would drift further away if it could without coming back. 

I am on rotation: work, run, eat, sleep. At least there is distraction. On Wednesday a pipe burst in the apartment above ours and water flooded the light fittings in the bathroom. I got a bucket, got towels, cut the power to the house too late. Our garden flat has been a sanctuary and a solace, but nothing is exactly safe from 2020, and I am all too aware of the rats in the walls and the water in the ceilings. 

There are pockets of peace, in writing, and walks in the park, and calls with friends and family. It is impossible not to play a comparison game, and sometimes it feels like waiting for the inevitable. Another person leaves London, another leaves for home. We are playing chicken with our own plans for the future. I can’t even think as far ahead as Christmas. 

In spring, at the beginning of this eternal year, I used the ducklings to mark the time, but now there is just the increasing loss of light in the evening. I remember years gone, watching the evening turn night by 4pm from the wide white windows of my office, but it was less of a loss than a nighttime playground. There is no point in buying a new coat, and no one is sending me emails about Christmas pub lunches. I miss the giant Covent Garden Christmas tree, and the ridiculous oversize baubles they hang in the market hall. 

On Thursday, I got sick (from stress, from nothing, out of boredom?). A fever, and a cough, enough to make me trace my steps and order a test. I stood in the kitchen while my husband rolled a swab five times against my tonsils; I had to do the nose swab myself for fear of puncturing my own brain. I put my swab in water, in a tube, in a bag, in a chemical waste bag, in a box, with a seal, and walked it to the priority post box in my mask. It feels like an over-reaction, or a precaution, or a strain on the system, or nothing at all, or my own mild participation in the end of the world. 

On Friday a colleague asked me about an accomplishment I was proud of, and I couldn’t remember anything at all, though I know I’ve been proud (and arrogant, and vain) before.

I am on rotation: bored, sad, hopeful, grateful, scared. We make plans to paint and renovate, move and travel, get another cat. We move between the rooms of our house slowly, and separately. I pull out the weeds in the garden, cut back the impossible bramble, and watch it grow through the fence again. Winter feels long, then short, then long again. I am waiting for all kinds of things: a test result, a vaccine, any kind of certainty, and a reason to run away.

The end of summer is everywhere

The end of summer is everywhere; the birds are grown, the leaves are beginning to turn, and in the morning I leave the house in long sleeves. The canal paths are still baked hard, and the water high with green weed, but I can already see the grooved dirt giving way to slush, and the water icing at the edges. The drowned supermarket trolley has grown a green skin. They have cleared the summer growth from the paths, widening them to walkers but revealing empty cardboard boxes, chicken bones, piles of old clothes, suitcases with gaping zips. It’s the time of year when the light plays tricks on you, growing golder earlier in the afternoon, so you lose sense of time. 

Like so many others, I have misplaced six months. There is almost exactly half a year between my sister’s birthday and my own, and only three days after hers, I left the office for the last time, set up my monitor on my kitchen table, and put a picture on Instagram with the caption, “The new normal.” In the picture, the door is open just a crack, the garden still winter-dark, with wide patches of mud in the grass. My birthday is soon, and there is a bracket around the time that has passed. You don’t have to count it towards your age, the internet laughs. It doesn’t count. Be kind to yourself. Survival is enough. 

This morning, a kind osteopath told me there was nothing structurally wrong with me. He rolled me on my side and drove his full body weight into my hip. “These new routines we have,” he said, readjusting his mask under the bridge of his glasses, “we sit more, we’re sedentary, your body has finally noticed it.” 

I have run most days of lockdown, sometimes as far as 14 kilometers, some hard mornings as short as three, or two. The cold March and April mornings were somehow the easiest. They were bluest, and the strangest, my one permitted outing into the defrosting London parks filled with other runners, taking long steps around each other. I was proud of myself for finding a new routine with my gym closed. I have always been fearful of running outside. I’m scared of getting yelled at, and getting lost, in equal measure. I bought trail shoes to navigate the cambered paths. 

Even the hottest runs were satisfying, especially the mornings when I rose too early, and had to run through 27 degree minutes. I ran myself out on the slight hills of north London. Even on the slowest runs, I could leave things behind on the paths: the parents I can’t travel to see, the books I couldn’t read, the things I couldn’t write, the horrible spiral-shaped unknown. 

When I’m really injured, or sick, a part of me steps aside, turns around, and accuses me of faking. Even when the thermometer reads hot, and I cough my guts out; even as every tread sends a shock of pain up my back, I question the veracity of my weakness. It’s because I’ve faked it too many times, I know, and spent too many hours patting my own lazy back. “You’re not trying hard enough,” I accuse her. She knows it’s true. 

Everyone I know is moving. Selling, buying, moving, fleeing. Everyone is counting down to 2021 as if on the stroke of the midnight, when the year expires, coronavirus will too, and we’ll all get a shiny new do-over. I’m not moving, or fleeing, but only because I don’t know where to go, or how to get there. It’s not just the virus, it’s the uncertainty, and the utter impossibility of making and executing a plan. 

My osteopath told me I could try running again, and so I did. I managed two kilometers before the pain came back. It’s enough to leave some of it behind, but it always catches back up. 

Rubbish Day

This is the first chapter from some fiction I’ve been writing. As always, everything is pure fiction, I can only blame my lack of imagination for placing it squarely in my own neighbourhood.


There’s a foot in the bin. It’s the heel she spots first, bulbous and cracked, surfacing between two tied plastic bags like an air bubble in dough. Angel stares at it, familiar and unfamiliar. It doesn’t look like her foot (pale, flat, nail painted black). There’s no particular smell to it, or nothing to out-reek whatever her neighbours have turfed this week (vegetable peelings, and no condoms whatsoever). She twists her neck to stare up at their expensive shutters, already inclined against the golden light. She’s spent whole hours longing for their lofty position, and the slanting evening sun that’s lost to her lower level hours earlier. 

But you would shut your shutters, wouldn’t you, if you were dismembering people? She unhooks her fingers and lets the lid fall shut. This is, categorically, not her problem. 

The park is filled with people lounging in fingers of light, silver cans crushed beside them. They are London’s lizards, peeling off their skins in the last hot flush of summer. She walks with small tight strides. Angel has never mastered the art of the stroll; she trots like a pony with its knees tied together. She once saw a video of herself walking the outer rim of a garden at a wedding she had attended alone, pretending to inspect the flowers, and felt horrified at how self-consciously awful she looked on film. She watched the video thousands of times, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night to find it on her phone and watch it again. She thought about it at least once a day. 

Finsbury Park is a comfortable place for her, though. Here, a man peeing openly against a fence; there is a 30-something in rolled shirt-sleeves lowering himself into a smear of dogshit. Finsbury Park is a waste dump of a green space, all the grass yellowed and dying, more rubbish bins than flowers. Even the teenagers who look her up and down don’t bother for too long. She rounds the bottom edge, continues up the promenade, watches the even tread of runners in black lycra streaming down the slope towards her. She used to dodge them, apologetic, until she realised it worked better if she pretended she was stationary, a rock diverting the flow of a river. 

Her phone chimes from her pocket, and she answers it without looking. “Hey Flo.”

Even her sister’s intake of breath is flustered. “It’s Florence now. You know that.” 

Angel rolls her eyes beneath her glasses. “I know, I do know. It’s just… long.” 

Her sister is 5’2 and has never been able to bear up under the name Florence. Even at 32, with twin boys, a husband chosen for his suitable height (5’7, not so tall as to emphasise Florence’s short-comings, not so short as to be sexually nullified) and the title of world’s shrillest accountant to her name, she is still not quite a Florence, and she knows it. Angel is certain that the only reason her sister is insisting on upgrading to her full-size name is to distract from her new surname. 

“So, Florence Villin, how are you?” She can’t keep the grin from her voice, but her sister lets it go, if only because 20 seconds has passed in the conversation, and she hasn’t bragged yet. 

“Oh, you know. Busy as all FUCK.” There’s noise in the background. “Had a board meeting today, even though we’re going to hit profitability this year earlier than expected – that means the company’s making money, Ange – they’re still keen for us to lock down a few more deals before Europe packs up for the summer. Hey, Ange, how long do you think madeleines have to be in the oven before they’re done?” 

“Is that a serious question? When’s the last time you think I baked a madeleine?”

Flo giggled. “I don’t know, shouldn’t you learn to cook? It really is fun. You might surprise yourself.” 

Ange is nearing the top of the hill, where the park flattens out. There are teams of men playing football, some in blue vests, shouting at each other. Is this how men keep their friends? 

“But then my oven would get dirty.” 

Something bangs in the background of the call, probably the Aga. She pictures her sister, with her sleek platinum and her slim wrists, and her madeleines, and feels a weird tweak of love, like an electric shock to her middle. 

Flo fills the silence. “Come for dinner?” 

Ange silently thanks the expansive plains of London. “Oh babe, you know I wish I could. Take an hour on the Tube though! Your risotto would be ruined.” 

Florence tuts then pauses. “Hey how did you know I was cooking risotto?”

“Five nights out of seven you cook risotto.”

“Eugh, you sound like Henry.” 

Ange smirks into the phone. “Well, tell him to bloody cook something.” 

Flo sighs. “You know as well as I do that that would be worse. He’d burn it and ruin the pan, and I’d have to cook anyway. It’s easier this way. Besides, he works so hard.” 

Ange knows better than to retort to this. They’d find themselves stuck in the endless conversational loop that saw Ange defending Flo, Flo defending Henry, Flo attacking Ange, Ange attacking Flow. Rinse, ruin, repeat. It was better just to agree. One of the football men was on the ground clutching a shin to his chest while the game moved around him. Ange wondered what he would do if she ran to him, put her hands on his leg, asked him where it hurt. Probably kick her in the face. 

“Yeah no, of course he does. So hard.” 

She walks for a few more minutes with the phone pressed to her cheek, comfortable in the ambient noise of Flo serving up dinner, running the tap, calling for her kids. The sounds echo around the big, basement Tufnell Park kitchen. Flo is the only person she knows in London who owns her entire house, all six floors of it, right up to a giant loft conversion. It makes Ange sick to think of the stairs, but the sounds are good, the flags of the kitchen. She feels like she’s listening to a podcast, an ASMR rendering of an ordinary life. Flo ruins it. 

“So, when can I come over? See the renovations?” 

Ange sighs exaggeratedly. “I’ve told you, you can come over anytime you want!”

“You always say that. Just pick a date, tell me a time. You know how many people’s schedules I have to work around.”

“I know, I know. I’m heading back home now. I’ll look at my calendar when I’m back, OK?” 

“Who has a paper calendar these days? Do they even make them anymore?” 

Angel doesn’t. She doesn’t know anyone who does, unless it’s a crappy Christmas gift, hung for the pictures, and never turned over at the right month. “I’m traditional.” 

She listens to the traditional sounds of her sister, a scraping of chairs, reverberating silence from Little Henry, who does not approve of either Ange or the presence of phones at the dinner table. A click of glasses. Water, not wine; neither Flo nor Henry drink during the week. Flo thinks about the half bottle of rosé in her fridge and quickens her pace. 

“OK, I’ll let you go,” she says. 

“OK, love you!”

“Love you, too.”

“Awwww, we love you too,” smirks a tall teenager in a blush-coloured two-piece, flanked either side by a posse with impossibly glossy hair. 

“Fuck you,” says Ange, walking into and through their incredulous silence. If they say anything back her ears shut it out, blurring all sound beautifully into the ambient human fog. Kids are so dumb. She stops herself from turning to see if they’re looking at her, and focuses on her walk. Even and steady, smooth and sexy. Untie those knees. 

As is her tradition, she stops by the corner store and picks up two cheap bottles of red wine on her way home. One has a fox on the label, and the other is the one with the biggest discount. As she queues she picks up wasabi peanuts and peanut M&Ms. The spicy peanut and the sweet peanut. If the woman at the till with the perfect eyebrows and the aggressive nose ring recognises her, she doesn’t say anything. Ange keeps looking at the vegan chocolate bars. She looks at them every time she queues. It makes no sense that anyone would buy them, unless they were dying. 

“Get the Vego,” a voice behind her says. 

She turns. The owner of the comment is blonde and slim, clearly vegan from the way his ribs stand out under his shirt. 

He continues, “The others aren’t as good. They’re more expensive too, trust me.”

She picks up her wine and leaves without speaking to him. He gives a half-laugh behind her. She doesn’t understand – has never understood, rails against – why people are always talking to her. Whether to insult or merely to remark, there’s something about her that invites comment. If she could figure out what it was, hair, stance, height, she would find a way to change it. At home, on her worn black couch, she drinks both bottles of wine, plus the half bottle of rosé  from the fridge, but leaves half the peanut M&Ms for breakfast. She wakes up still on the couch at 3am and drinks water from the tap without turning on the lights. The street lights catch the ivy leaves from her window, beaded with rain she didn’t hear fall. She feels her way to the bedroom and it’s only in the morning that she remembers the foot.

A trip to the Cotswolds

Last week we left London, by tube and train. We didn’t venture far, just a few hours out of the city into the Cotswolds. Yellow stone and roses, rivers and horses. I have never been romantic about the countryside, but I felt romantic towards the horizons and thick fields of corn and wheat. I walked down roads and barely saw a soul; one woman encountering me around a corner nearly collapsed to the ground in fear. It’s not like we were even far from the action – ten minutes from a Waitrose stocked with three types of burrata and a one-way system that had me walking for full minutes to locate some coriander. But we shook out of London’s sardine-can existence, and I felt less oily. I gesticulated more, and took the locals up on some strange and nice conversations. 

One night we went to a pub and I ate some prawn linguine, where the ratio of fat prawns to spaghetti ribbons was almost one to one, and we were served by three near-identical waitresses with dark tans and long black hair and whole-face visors. They were only on their second night of reopening, and still fighting all their natural instincts, snatching back fingers from paper menus they weren’t supposed to touch as if they’d been burned. 

I looked at my phone less, and opened the fridge more. We cooked long, ornate meals (from a book directly geared towards simple cooking, but there is simple cooking and there is simple cooking, and simple cooking doesn’t call for three different types of chili and a 90 minute yoghurt marinade). We brought eleven bottles of wine for four nights and drank them slowly. We wrote down tasting notes. I read an article that told me to chew my food twenty times before I swallowed it, tried it, gave up. I tasted mint, peas. The garden was full of fruit trees, including one loaded with cooking apples that we turned into a pie, together with sour foraged black berries. We bought local lemon curd, and jam, and clotted cream. I morphed from a boring Bridget Jones into a happy participant in an Enid Blyton novel. 

I got into a long conversation with a butcher from whom I only bought cheese. 

“So where are you from then?”

“New Zealand, but, London.” 

“London, aye? I left there when I was 17. Never went back. What do you do there then?”

“I work in… tech. I help with…content. I manage a team.” 

“Smarter than me! I’m a butcher!” 

Blue cheese. Cheddar cheese. Mint sauce. 

I wore new white jeans and got soaked. I wore shorts and got stung by nettles. I wore jumpers, then peeled off layers in front of the aga. I brought swimsuits and didn’t swim. 

We played games. Kubb, in the slanting garden, hurling blocks of wood at blocks of wood. The card game 500, of which I am a better player than a teacher. Code Names, one of the few boardgames I will play (because I’m good at it, or merely not bad at it.) 

I ran, because I run now. 10k through fields and gates and hills, following arrows etched in the dirt by my faster companions. I startled deer and trudged up the hills, listening to podcasts about books and politics and bodies. I got rained on, and sweated, and watched my heart rate climb. Clad in Lululemon and Nike from head to toe, such a boring Londoner so alone on an unfamiliar landscape. 

I read books: American Wife (re-read), Fleishman is in Trouble, Such a Fun Age, Theatre for Dreamers. I deliberately left my phone in rooms I wasn’t in so I could stop that incessant tic, that compulsive pick. I deleted Twitter. I turned off my Slack and email notifications and let work drift away. I felt disgust at the number of things I had to do to make myself switch off, even for a moment. 

This was the longest time I’ve spent in London in one stretch. It was nice to feel pleasure at the return, even as I sit, now, staring at the same walls and cracks. I already miss seeing the horizon.

The Wind

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 windy 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 wind: 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.

Things that help

  1. Reading books outside my comfort zone, that distract and relocate me. 
  2. Putting on makeup. I have eight different highlighters. If I’m not feeling bright on the inside, I’ll be bright on the outside. 
  3. Keeping things tidy. I get distracted and angry when everything is messy. 
  4. Moderating my obsession with tidiness. Otherwise I come to blows with the only other person in my bubble, and we can’t afford division in the ranks right now. 
  5. Writing a diary like some shit combination of Bridget Jones and Samuel Pepys, the only diarists I can think of right now. “Today I did some gardening.” The fact of keeping a diary is having faith in the fact that one day I will want to read it and marvel, because my present reality will be so frothy with social engagements and physical interaction that whatever happened in 2020 will feel a cold and remote and impossible past. 
  6. Cooking things slowly. I never usually cook anything that takes longer than 30 minutes or has more than seven ingredients. This week I made french onion soup from scratch. It tooks 90 minutes to get everything looking brown enough. It was delicious, and it was worth it, even if the kitchen still smells like onions. 
  7. Talking to the cat. She hates me by this stage, this is understood. She sits with her butt towards me just so I know exactly how little a threat she knows me to be. 
  8. Weeding the garden. I am focusing on getting the roots out, not snapping the leaves off at the neck. There’s something nice about using the hook tool, getting into the dirt, navigating the worms. 
  9. Going to bed later. The opposite of accepted advice, but I was going to bed at 8pm, and waking periodically throughout the night. I think it was because my eyes were knackered from the screen, so I thought I was more tired than I was. Now I’m shooting for 10pm, more often hitting 9pm. 
  10. Running. Nothing is helping more than running. Dredging myself from bed at 7:10, hitting the pavement by 7:19, not coming back until I’m sweaty and hungry. There is space, and sky and quiet. Nothing helps more.
  11. Spending too much money on wine. Every bottle is a treat. 
  12. Setting times for calls, and keeping to them. Sometimes I dread Zoom, but I’m always glad I did it. The voices and the faces are my anchors. 

None of the above prevents long periods staring at the ceiling, wondering what happened, contemplating the cosmic ridiculousness of it all. Nothing stops me thinking about alternate realities, about my early thirties disappearing like water into soil. Still, there is always something that distracts me. Today it is a glass of rose and the cheese my sister sent me, and the thought of playing cards online later. There is always something to look forward to.

It’s hard not to feel temporary

It’s hard not to feel temporary. It’s hard to know what real roots feel like: are you deep-rooted, are you embedded, or are you just making it work? We lead transitory, light-touch lives. You are an email, not a letter. You are fast-fashion, fast-food, bullet points, biodegradable, calorie-free, lighter-than-air. You are not made up of much more than binary. You are mostly cloud. You are deletable. 

There are so many words about belonging, and the search for it. I don’t need to add to them; they’ve already been done better, and more permanently. They exist in leather books and on tombstones. The quest for a perfect fit is eternal, and exhausting, because nobody seems ever to know where they fit, except, perhaps, for the people who have never questioned that where they started was the only and best location for them. 

There is a woman with kind eyes and a nice jacket telling me to come home. She looks into the lens with the gaze of a mother. There is no guilt-trip in what she is saying, there is only certainty: come home. Come home before you can’t. 

And thousands are. The digital might be transient but it is also prolific, and omni-present. I am trying to do my job the best I can, better than before, but I am also watching images eddying around my social feeds. This man is eating a pie. This woman is clutching a halved feijoa. This man is wearing a dressing gown under a blue sky and they have all come home. 

It is the most obvious answer that is also the truest: your home is where you go when you are threatened. Your home is where you are safe. So many of my contemporaries, with confident knowledge of the Underground and rental contracts and impressive jobs, are gone, all of it ditched, all of it confidently nothing but collateral when faced with the choice of keeping all of it, and staying, or losing all of it, and going. Those roots, it turns out – the jobs, the new friends, the plans – might have been steadying, but they were never anything other than auxiliary. 

There is a woman with kind eyes and a nice jacket and she is closing the borders. We are millenials, so here is the metaphor: you work in the engine rooms on the Titanic, and the ship is going down, and they are closing the gates. We are lovers of dystopia so here is another: you are the maze runner, and the maze is closing.

The problem with both of these (obviously) is that they signal there is no hope to be had, should you choose to remain where you are. You drown. You get ripped apart by a biologically unfeasible robot spider. But there’s something comforting in testing your roots, and finding them sound. Disastrous endings make for good blockbusters, but rarely leave room for exploration of other options.

Borders that close reopen. Home can be two places for one person. Permanence is more than postcodes. Writing it down – digitally, in the cloud, in the air – makes it real. 

12 Weeks

I just keep buying tins of sweetcorn. I don’t know how to be a practical human being,

My plants are laughing at my attempts to keep us both alive, and this is spring. This is supposed to be the easy part. 

I have a new husband to take care of; he is mostly able to take care of himself, but who will we both blame for the bits that fall apart? I’d blame me,

I’d blame the soft human nature of it all, the dry suffering of lungs reliant on plastic snaked down wet pink tubes to do the act of breathing, as if that isn’t exactly what they’re there for. 

We are the same battery hens we’ve kept on plucking, and eating, and sucking the eggs from. 

 

If Mother Nature has any sense she is drunk right now. Her laughter is all the daffodils  and every piece of cherry blossom that won’t drift down into your cup, as you sit in the park on your jacket and eat olives out of greasy plastic. Think of Te Fiti from Moana if you don’t know who to picture, all thick rock thighs and flower crowns and wrath. 

 

There have always been some of us who are resistant to blackouts, but there is nothing brave about the way you’re pressing on. The Blitz spirit is something that only applies to sugar restrictions, and isn’t something you can say when you go outside and dig your elbow briefly into a stranger. You have always hated the warm press of strangers; the way they sway with the motion of the train carriage is frankly sexual and unnecessary. Just hold the bar tighter, for fuck’s sake. Stop reading your newspaper. Don’t even look at me. 

 

You are a goldfish on a hamster wheel, the hamster drowning in the goldfish bowl. Your lungs don’t work anymore. Or maybe they do, prove it, say it with me: I regret forever the time I laughed over your meal, I regret shaking hands with the stranger, with the devil, with my own mother. I remember every instance of skin. 

 

I have killed the plants that were on the windowsill, forgive me, they were so brown, and so over-watered. We’re cutting up lemons and freezing them, for our 6pm sense-of-normalcy drinks that have started to creep earlier, stronger, whoops, but there are no rules. Boris Johnson’s white knuckles straining against his pink skin are the only things keeping the crowds at bay – they want to break through your new glass windows, like zombies feverish with scent, to touch you. Oh my god, you feel so good. 

 

I have been going to the shop every day to stand in line with people who fear me. I am loaded down with sweetcorn, and toilet paper, and Lindt bars, don’t breathe on me, there is literally nothing I can do about it. Being a human is reduced to faces pixelated on laptop screens, freezing and echoing with the effort of forcing themselves down the wires. 

 

I have killed myself with corn, my roots have come undone, I have forgotten who I am, I have wiped away all recognisable vestiges of myself. I am outside your door hammering at the wood, and you are looking through the peephole at a mad woman. Unfortunately, I only recognise myself when you tell me who I am.