Quarantine Colours

Maybe she’s quarantined on her yacht in the Med with staff and fresh swordfish.

Maybe she’s lost her job, and can’t take a smooth breath.

Maybe they’ve filed for divorce because they have nothing to talk about.

Maybe he lives alone in a shack in the countryside, and life goes on.

Maybe you’re having the best sex of your life, swinging from the beams.

Maybe she’s in her house with her family; quiet and comfortable.

We hadn’t touched the ground for six weeks, and the toddler was running up and down the apartment making growling noises. JC had turned a light shade of green, and the girls had stopped dancing. As for me, I lost the plot on the first day of lockdown.

It was time.

I wrote a WhatsApp message to the administrator of our building via the group chat to suggest we take turns to use the communal garden. Friends of mine who lived in condominiums were allowed to spend time outside, but my apartment block was managed by Mr administrator, who under normal circumstances took enormous pleasure in his position of power, but now that the whole country was in a state of emergency, he took his role to a whole new stratospheric level of asshole.

In my message I used phrases like, “I’m sure you understand” and “I know this is hard for everyone,” and I compared toddlers to dogs; they needed to stretch and run around on grass too.

In Chile, dog owners were permitted to go for two daily walks with their pets. Child owners on the other hand were not allowed to leave their homes with their offspring.

“It is because of people like you not obeying this quarantine, that Chile is in the state it is in,” Mr administrator replied.

I raged around my apartment. This is private property, we were therefore allowed to go downstairs into the garden and take turns to breath fresh air and plunge our feet into grass.

Why were no other neighbours stepping up? Why was nobody else enraged?

As I was compiling my response I noticed he was typing something else (I assume his wife had had a word with him.)

Mr administrator added that if I received a majority vote from everyone in the building he would turn a blind eye, not call the police, and allow us to take turns to use the garden.

Immediately other neighbours chimed in, they had no problem with us using the garden, and within five minutes we’d organised a rosta.

My whole family sprinted down the stairs.

I had never seen the toddler’s face light up the way it did the moment he touched the grass. This was the epitome of witnessing someone living in the moment – he wasn’t thinking back to how long he’d not been allowed outside, and he wasn’t anxious about how much time he had left running around. He was in his element, within the elements, touching the trees, rolling around on his back, kicking the ball and chasing a cat. The childhood gift of presence.

Without children I imagine there are flat days.

Flat, lie on your back like a pancake in your bed, wrapped up in a duvet staring at the ceiling type days.

I imagine there are slouch days.

Slouch, flob on your sofa with reality TV, watching bizarre millionaires pretending to do everyday things.

I imagine there are calm days.

Calm, comfortable in an armchair with an open book and a mug of tea in hand. Maybe the rain is pouring.

I imagine there are bouncy days.

Bouncy, sports bra ON woohoo-roll-out-the-mat, busting out the moves, is that sweat? Four months of getting Toned Abs, Arms and Butt with Chloe Ting on YouTube. You’ll leave your house looking you’re very BEST.

I long for these type of days.

Maybe you’ve learnt how to crochet, play croquet, Irish dance, cook a Michelin Star meal out of beetroot, speak Gaelic, dye your hair turquoise, speak the Russian alphabet, play the harmonica, built a desk from driftwood, painted a Tuscan landscape or pierced your labia.

I spoke to my sister on the phone when this whole thing started, she hadn’t pierced her labia but she was into buying skin-tight, fluorescent jumpsuits for a pound online, and wearing them around the house as she solo-parented her two very young children, worked a full time job, and attempted to stay sane (solo-parenting small children in quarantine with a full time job, think about that again).

Dancing around in sexy jumpsuits feeling fierce, and looking beautiful, possibly helped her keep everyone alive, along with the kind fishmonger at Waitrose who gave her a huge salmon for free one Thursday evening.

At that point in time, when the UK was in the depths, she couldn’t speak to many people. She didn’t want to hear about the hobbyists, the slouchers, the flat or bouncy day-ers, the friends who were meditating or working their way through Netflix series.

Trying to explain her level of stress and exhaustion took far too much energy.

Hearing the question; “How are you?” made her want to spoon her eyes out.

I listened to her and said “fuck” a lot.

I wasn’t in the same situation as her. After all, everyone is always in their own situation, all the time.

We’re in the sixteenth week of semi-rigid quarantine, and eighth week of strict lockdown. This means we can’t go out for a walk, and we need permission slips to go to the Supermarket.

The “not being allowed out for a walk” part is too much for my brain to fully comprehend. It doesn’t compute in my mind, and when I think about it for too long I get stuck on the family with young children living in the one room apartment for months on end. What does that do to their minds? To every aspect of their being?

The other day it was pouring with rain so I sent my kids outside into our communal garden (which we were all very happily taking in turns to use!)

One of them suggested I join them.

‘No, no, you guys go, It’s an adventure. All three of you go. It’s TEAM WORK.’ The big one gave me the look of death, the middle one wanted me to pay her, and the window of opportunity to keep the toddler motivated was waning. I shoved them out of the door with promises of hot chocolate and hot baths upon their return.

‘Don’t hurry back. Enjoy the puddles. Teach your brother to splash in them like Peppa!’ I closed the door.

For the first time in over a month and a half we were alone in the flat.

JC sprinted to the sofa, propped himself up with cushions and turned on the rugby. I lay on my back on the sitting room floor and voice-messaged my sister to tell her I was alone – the moment needed to be documented. I raised myself up off the floor, walked past JC – careful not to make eye-contact – (we needed to focus on our alone time) and I made my way towards my bedroom. My book was calling me, I’d not read for three months.

The doorbell rang.

I continued moving towards my room. The doorbell rang again. I touched my book and i held my breath. Again, the doorbell rang. I walked back to JC and the rugby, and we looked at each other.

Forlorn.

‘That was quick’ I said, trying my best to appear slightly less mournful of their return.

**********

I read a meme the other day that went something like this;

‘There are no differences between weekdays and weekend-days. The only significant day is the day the food comes.’ This is true. The shopping bags are ravished and inspected with more enthusiasm than Christmas presents.

‘She bought chocolate spread! She bought metalic paints! She bought squirty whipped cream!’

‘She’ stands to the side watching the produce being flung around the kitchen. Lettuces roll under the counter, apples and oranges are juggled, pasta and sauces are chucked into bottom cupboards.

The treat shelf is the only shelf stacked with care and precision; the girls form towers with packets of biscuits, chocolate bars are placed on top of each other with devotion, and chocolate chips, icing sugar and flour are poured into jars as recipes flash before their eyes – how many cookies, cakes, macarons, cinnamon rolls can we bake this week?

The doors to the treat shelf are closed with reverence.

The treat shelf stays fully stocked for approximately twelve hours.

I, like my sister, speak only to a handful of people. My siblings and a couple of mates. There’s no energy to speak to many. There’s no energy for big Zoom calls. Every Sunday we have a family call – we pop in and out, no pressure – good to see faces, but I have no chat. I resent the freedom they all have in their various countries around the globe.

‘You have no idea what lockdown is like! You are allowed to take a walk, to get some exercise!’ They give me space to rant, and then we laugh about something else, maybe, or are quiet.

The last group Zoom call was with my beloved girls from Book Club in which I swore most of the time, and then hung up.

My energy is preserved for toddler in bed time, when I can be alone time, reading or plotting or writing or dreaming. Some moments feel dark, endless, relentless, mind-numbing and blowing, exhausting and desperate. There is not one second to take a breath to rest, or to think. I leave one work meeting to be jumped on by someones’ need for emotional or practical support.

The news, which I watch infrequently, blasts it’s headlines with dramatic music in the background, and shows video footage on a loop adding to the anxiety and negativity, to keep us all down and dark, and in a cycle of despair.

The next moment I dance in the kitchen. I blast music – new music sent to me by my favourite people – and feel my breath come back to the moment. I move my body, I laugh at my children and my husband, I feel like I’m in a movie. Maybe we are.

I want to feel the wind in my face so I scoot up and down my terrace and think of myself as a dog, with her head hanging outside the window of a car with her ears flapping about.

There’s no good way to end this post because we’re still in it. Still here in the apartment living through a global pandemic – grateful of course, always aware – you don’t need to know about my gratitude or sensitivity to the world around me and the experiences of others = but I’m still here, and still real and still living this human experience. Real life quarantine for me, in all its colours.