“What if we’ve become too weird for the new normal?” I wonder from my hiding place in the bathroom.
Worries are creeping in now that a date for the easing of our third lockdown has been tentatively offered. What are all the door codes at work? How do I turn on my computer? Can I still wear pjamas when I’m not WFH?
My biggest concern, however, is how I will relearn to socialise with anyone other than my partner, anywhere other than in my house, without scaring them away.
This worry strikes from my hiding place between the chimney and the bathroom door. I’m not sure what this space is for, but I tend to occupy it in hope that my unsuspecting boyfriend will walk in and I will be able to ambush him. As his trip to the bathroom is proving later than anticipated, I’ve repurposed it as a reflection den.
The first lockdown was a novel opportunity to spend all our time together. But in the year that followed we exhausted much of our conversation and – to keep things fresh in lockdown 3 – we decided to descend into madness. The problem with descending into madness is that it’s quite hard to get out again… as much as my sock puppet gag, the ‘look my arm is a leg’ bit and surprise ambushes almost pass for endearing in the confines of our home, I’m not sure that the world is ready for it yet. Have other people started cawing and hooting too? Unfortunately, this is now all I know.
Conversations with actual people aren’t going much better and I suspect that my standards for a ‘newsworthy event’ have reached a new low. Does everyone now have less to do but somehow more to report? I hope so: now the floodgates are open I’m not sure I can close them. The cleaning of my shoes has never received so much publicity and the collection of the veg box has never been such an achievement. I’m amazed my mum still asks what we’ve been up to. She’s a patient lady, but I can only imagine she’s as bored as I am.
The hope I’m clinging onto is that everyone else has also gone mad, and they’ll be far too self-conscious about it to notice that my arm has become a leg. But if you don’t want to know how many times I’ve washed my shoes this week, please don’t ask how I am.
Stay safe (and sane)!
Hati
Hati Whiteley 