Finding joy in quarantine
Eleven days ago, ‘lockdown’ became a definite fact of my existence, instead of just a word I jokily substituted for Skepta’s 'Shutdown'. Perhaps you’ve been self-isolating for a lot longer; I’ve learned that in a real-time pandemic, everyone’s timescales are different. Much to the horror of my routine-obsessed self, there’s no absolute linear protocol to be followed during a global disaster; we’re all simply muddling through.
In the back of my mind is a list I’m always adding to but never completing. It’s an empty promise to myself of all the things I’d do if only I wasn’t so busy all the time. You could probably very easily guess what’s on it, the gist is: going to the gym consistently, finally taking up hot yoga, writing a play, perfecting a recipe for guacamole, learning the entire routine from the final scene of ‘Dirty Dancing’, etc. Unsurprisingly, even with my newfound abundance of free time, I haven’t attempted any of the aforementioned. Mostly, I’ve cleaned my house from top-to-bottom, rearranged my bedroom, lounged in hot baths, made exotic salads for my hamster, and aimlessly scrolled through Twitter and Instagram.
The Covid-19 outbreak has struck our lives in a way we thought was strictly reserved for history books and stories told by our grandparents. Up until a few weeks ago, the Spanish Flu of Autumn 1918 seemed a lot like folklore — as did the blackout restrictions and gas masks of World War II. Now, we’ve all drastically altered our day-to-day as we try and limit the effects of a global infection that’s been financially crippling for some — and for others, fatal.
As a control freak who craves permanence, the prospect of living through a life-changing pandemic terrifies me. If you’re ever looking to make plans with me, I expect at least one week’s notice so I can draw up my food shop accordingly; I’m never thrilled about last minute changes to plans; and I ultimately struggle to put my fate in anyone else’s hands — when I say ‘fate’ here, please know that I mean anything from the decision of what we’re going to have for dinner, to where we’re going on holiday. Consequently, living my life according to a daily government briefing and instructions from the World Health Organization is wreaking havoc with my psyche.
That being said, as much as I’m missing the mundanities of my existence prior to the ever-present threat of contagion, the global response to COVID-19 has shown us that the ‘normal’ that we’ve all been reminiscing on our social media feeds doesn’t have to be a return to Capitalism as Usual. Tech giants like Apple, Google, Facebook, and Microsoft have pledged hourly rates for employees forced to take leave due to the outbreak, and Amazon has stated that warehouse workers who miss shifts will not be penalised with unpaid leave. We’ve seen the UK government roll out an emergency £12bn budget to protect the NHS, public services, businesses, and workers – and implement mortgage payment holidays to combat income reductions caused by the pandemic. Much like the rest of my Twitter echo-chamber, the idealist in me is hoping that the silver lining of all of this will be a good old socialist revolution. A gal can dream, right?
The biggest shift I’ve seen apart from Tory voters’ sudden appreciation of accessible, affordable national healthcare has been in relationships. Admittedly, I probably don’t see my friends as often as I should. There are Friday nights when I finish work and a date with a book and my bed seems a lot more appealing than the Northern Quarter; sometimes it’s possible to just have too many plans for one week alone; and other times, I am genuinely washing my hair.
Amongst binge-watching rom-coms and browsing silk robes that serve I-possibly-killed-my-very-rich-husband working-from-home glamour, I’ve spent the past week or so cracking open cans with my friends over FaceTime to “Pretend we’re in a beer garden”, having a glass of wine with my grandparents and my brother on WhatsApp video call to celebrate my nanna’s birthday, and partaking in virtual pub quizzes via Zoom. The other day, I looked out of my bedroom window and thought about past summers spent lay on the roof, drunkenly watching the sun come up with my friends, and I almost cried. I know, I know, it’s not even been two weeks. Anyway, inspired by my overly emotional ponderings and unfaltering flair for the dramatic, I’ve written a list of all of the things I took for granted pre-lockdown that I’ll hopefully cherish once we’re no longer social distancing:
Draught pints. While I’m fairly certain we’d all be 100x more miserable if we were waking up to dark winter mornings and working from home to the sound of the rain battering the roofs of our conservatories, the sunny weather has definitely served to highlight the distinct lack of freshly pulled, frothy pints of lager in my life right now. I think about this one a lot.
Petting every single dog I encounter. Usually, when I’m walking past a stranger, I’ll spend a significant amount of time wondering whether we’ll smile or say “Hi”, or both, and panicking over what the proper response to “You alright?” is because surely there isn’t nearly enough time to actually tell them how you are, but is it rude to just say “Yeah, thanks”, and walk on? If you’re a dog owner, I’m all yours. I want to know your dog's name, age, breed, whether they’re a good girl or a good boy — just a short biography, really. Now, whenever I see a dog and their owner while on my government-mandated daily walk, I maintain a two-metre distance. The other day, a woman actually thanked me for crossing the road.
My dad’s cups of tea. And drinking any cups of tea that aren’t made by myself, really. I also miss memorising how my friends and colleagues take their hot tipple and bringing it to where they’re sat — be it on the sofa or at their desk — knowing that I’ve brewed and stirred a little bit of warmth into their soul.
Leisurely browsing the shelves of Sainsbury’s Local for film-watching snacks. Arguing over which flavour of crisps is a happy medium between preferences. Defending my Tangy Cheese Doritos dipped in hummus habit. Questioning whether we have enough chocolate and agreeing it’s a wise decision to overbuy, rather than realise we underestimated ourselves when it’s too late.
British Springtime. What I really mean here, is British Summertime, but we all know that everyone’s bald dad takes any temperature above 9°C as an excuse to wander around Tesco with no top on. Seeing schoolgirls in summer dresses with matching frilly socks and scrunchies and thinking about my childhood self, who thought this combination was the height of fashion. Hearing the jingle of the local ice cream van approaching in the distance and always finding scraps of change to fund a family ice cream run — complaining that no one will help me carry them all. I miss everyone’s primal need to hit a beer garden in weak sunshine after work, and then do it all over again all-day Saturday and Sunday.
Putting the world to rights over a bottle of wine — or five — and chain-smoking entire packs of cigs with my favourite women. These nights are always punctuated by uncontrollable peals of laughter that lead you to discover one of you has a completely new laugh you’ve “Never triggered before”, and mad, flailing dashes performed by whoever’s turn it is to push the smoking area heater-light.
Long train journeys that call for capitalising on Tesco’s ‘4 for £6’ cans deal, and then buying a couple more rogue cans just because I can. Spending the first stretch of the journey getting lost in the pages of whatever book I’m reading, and the second in the company of various Spotify playlists because I’m too drunk to digest paragraphs anymore. Re-reading most of what I got through in the first stretch the following day — when it turns out I massively misjudged the switch from words to music.
Getting ID’d for buying alcohol in the supermarket. No one IDs you during a pandemic, I don’t know why. I’m only 24, so the Challenge 25 policy still very much applies to me. Thanks.
Going to gigs. I’m lucky that my last gig before we entered lockdown was JPEGMAFIA at Academy 2 on the first Sunday in March — definitely a much-needed emotional outlet in the form of a good old mosh pit and crowd chants of “Fuck Morrissey” before our current reality took hold. I miss the arts in general. I spent an evening a couple of weeks ago laughing so much it hurt with my sister while watching comedy collective, Figs in Wigs, perform their adaptation of Louisa May Alcott's ‘Little Women’ at HOME theatre. Lockdown has made me resolve to definitely go to the next Edinburgh Fringe Festival. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, Sam!
Weekend brunches. There’s just something about paying upwards of £8 for some garlic mushrooms on toast that I could very easily make myself at home that brings me joy. I suppose it’s the bougie-ness of it. I’ve revealed myself as a certified basic bitch to you all now, but you know you miss them, too.
Dancing in the gay village until 6am. Not even realising your feet are blistered until the following day, when your quads ache so much from slut-dropping that you convince yourself the previous night’s antics were the equivalent of a spin class at the gym. Ordering pizza to cure your hangover and greeting the delivery guy like the total godsend he is — rather than looking on as he proudly places your food on the floor along contact-free delivery guidelines, evocative of a pet cat that’s brought you a dead bird as a gift.
Go Falafel. I’d go as far as to say that me and the Newton Street Go Falafel guy are mates. The other week, I went in to buy four falafel balls for a salad and he said to me, “I’ve thrown in two extra, just for you”. A month or so ago, I made the pilgrimage to make the very same order and left with 12 falafel balls instead of four, but that was all my own doing.
Second-hand bookshops — particularly, ones in Edinburgh like Armchair Books and Tills. These places are so poky and higgledy-piggledy in their shelving that I doubt it’s even possible to operate social-distancing methods inside. To me, they’re treasure troves. I delight in browsing for hours, reading love notes left in the covers by previous owners, and contemplating buying books I already own because the edition I’ve come across has a nicer cover than mine.
Endless back-and-forths with friends about anything and nothing. Listing several reasons to justify a crush on Ezra Miller over Timothée Chalamet. Debating what we’d indulge on if we had endless amounts of money. Discussing which one of us is most likely to kill someone, under what circumstances, and what our choice of meal on death-row would be. Posing impossible-to-answer “Would you rather?” questions, where the rock is sex with Donald Trump and the hard place is giving Boris Johnson a blowjob.
The prospect of karaoke. On any given day, there is always the prospect of karaoke, and one should always be prepared. Some people carry a spare toothbrush in their tote bag in case they pull someone in the club (the correct term, as coined by 50 Cent — although I won’t bring myself to type ‘in da club’, in the same way he won’t abide white people calling him ‘Fiddy’). I carry a spare toothbrush in case I need to crash after impromptu karaoke.