This loop I’m in

Of all the things I was needlessly concerned about, pre-2020, I can safely say that worrying about living though a pandemic, never crossed my mind.  I worried about being eaten by sharks, being sucked out of aeroplane windows, falling off the cliffs on the Aaron Islands, and surviving a nuclear winter: but I was never anxious about how I would cope in a pandemic. 

I still wake up some mornings and think, is this really happening?  Is this what a pandemic experience is?  Are some people having a bit more pandemicness than me?  Am I doing it wrong? 

For the most part, I’m thankful that I have my health, shelter and a salaried job, but in moments of extreme, spoilt selfishness I wish that it was more real.  Do you know what I mean?  Living with a deadly, infectious, mutating virus is so tiringly uneventful, and I mean that in the most gracious way possible.  I’m very happy that boredom is my main complaint, but this loop I’m in, is exhausting.

Now that we are in week six of level five, in Lockdown Three, it’s easy to have lost track of time, especially now that there are Easter eggs and Valentine’s chocolates in the shops.  I differentiate days by the food I eat or by the shows I watch, as that’s the only way to do it. 

15 November? 

Ah yes, that was the day I ate cauliflower cheese for breakfast, cut my own hair and watched ten hours of The Crown.  I remember it well. 

I don’t know if I’ve told you this before, but this loop I’m in, is unsteadying. 

Although I have to say, my intrinsic negative cynicism and laziness are helping me through the loop.  I don’t really mind if I don’t get dressed sometimes, and I never believe any Virus Good News, so I’m not disappointed when it doesn’t come to pass.  As I mentioned last week, I’ve now accepted that we are going to live like this forever, so that doesn’t frighten me anymore.  I’m pleased I’ve moved effortlessly into this stage of acceptance, and I am looking forward to you joining me.

I don’t mind staying indoors all the time, dressed like I’m permanently prepared for an emergency yoga class or an impromptu séance.  I don’t mind never going back to a place of work, or if the kids don’t go back to school.  I don’t mind never flying again or never going to concerts, restaurants, theatres, cinemas, pubs, galleries or cafés. 

I don’t mind at all.

The more I go out now, the less I want to engage with 3D people because everyone is so cross and irate.  Just yesterday I went to the post office to buy a birthday card and a stamp.  A year ago, I would have done that on the way home from work, and not given it a moment’s thought, but yesterday it was an activity of its own merit.  I brushed my hair in anticipation of seeing other humans, and I wore my posh mask.

The queue was enormous, and everyone had to stay in their little circles which were spaced two metres apart.  There was a couple with a pushchair in front of me, and they were getting too close to the woman up ahead of them.  She was carrying a cup of coffee and was lifting her mask off, from time to time, to take a sip.  She asked the couple with the pushchair if they would move back and stay in their own circle, as they were starting to make her nervous.

I don’t know if the couple with the pushchair didn’t hear her properly or just decided to ignore her, but from the moment of her request, they did nothing but edge closer and closer to her.  It was as if they couldn’t quite help themselves, as if a higher power were forcing them away from their clearly marked circle and towards hers.

She asked them to step back a bit.

They stepped a little closer.

She implored them to step back a bit.

They nudged a little nearer.

It was as if she were the sun, and they were merely in her orbit with no control over their movements.  Eventually she yelled “are yous thick, would you just move back!” and that’s when it all kicked off. 

The couple with the pushchair took off their masks so that everyone could hear their counter argument.  They disagreed that their IQ was lower than average and suggested, instead, that the woman herself was of a character of low morals.  They called her names I’m not comfortable repeating here.  For some reason, the woman threw the remains of her coffee on the floor, until the security guard had to get involved to calm them all down.

Going to the post office didn’t used to be this challenging. 

Simply watching them increased my heart rate and made me desperate to leave.  I bought my card and stamp, thought what a ludicrous species we are, and went home to the safety of the Netflixiverse, where no one uses hand sanitiser.

I miss Dublin though.

I miss the Dublin of fun interactions and stories and debates.  I miss those Saturday afternoons where you would wander into Grogan’s with the pure intention of only staying for one drink.  You run into an old friend you haven’t seen for a long time, and they have the corner seat, a toastie and some news.  By the time you’ve heard the scandal, it’s too late to go shopping for that terracotta water jug, bonsai tree and vintage boxing gloves, so you stay for another round instead.  The afternoon mixes into early evening, and lo and behold, there’s someone else you haven’t seen for an age, who has their own story to tell. 

By the time that it’s time for one for the road, you’re happy and giddy and content.

Now that’s a loop I could do with.