It's been almost three years since I last posted here. Time's gone both quickly, and slowly. It seems pertinent that my last post was about my favourite books about the apocalypse, given the apocalyptic themes of the past few weeks… months….
I feel guilt at how little overall this affects me. My working environment is different – perched on a shelf in my bedroom rather than traversing between trains, my office desk, and a phone booth. In some ways, life has improved – after a spell of anxiety disrupted nights, I'm now sleeping better, and longer. The bags under my eyes have faded, and I'm eating better, exercising more.
Days pass quickly – where work was normally sandwiched between commutes, I'm able to sleep in a little longer, water the plants over a break, and cook dinner with my husband. I appreciate the birds more, the flowers, the beauty of a blue sky unscarred by airplane trails.
We're watching the first football match since the lockdown, being played in an empty stadium – a desperate attempt at normailty. The eerie sound of the ball hitting the back of the net the only indication that a goal has been scored. Players celebrating with an awkward solo dance, the occasional forearm-bump.
I miss hugs with my colleagues, the daily small talk with the people who work in the local coffee shop, the little freedoms like popping to the corner shop for a tub of Ben and Jerrys when I fancied it. But when this is over, I'll miss the long lie-ins, content in the knowledge that I have no obligations to be anywhere or do anything.