Lockdown. Travelling at home. Seems like a thousand days to go.

In some parts of the world, day three went by a very long time ago.  I totally salute and honour you for coping – please tell me how you do it.  Am in day three, admittedly in a nice little house, on my lonesome, and everything about it has worn off. Every good intention, gone with the wisp of a ‘bloody hell, Bond never had to put up with this!’  Now even Bond has too … I need him to tell me how. Is there a lifeline number I can call …

All for the greater good, I know.  We are pushing down the curve, I know.  I know.  I also know I spent  my life avoiding prison and right now, seems like I am in one anyway.  Not complaining, not complaining … not complaining.  Need to re-think the strategy, revise, surmise, organise.  I can’t even bring myself to do the ironing. Who the hell wants to do the ironing when you are never going to get to wear the clothes you are ironing in the first place – seriously, who is going to wear the lovely suit, frock and blazer when life is reduced to gym kit and bare feet?

Lasted two whole days being the positive, and tomorrow is another day.  Tomorrow is Monday … is it Monday, is tomorrow  Monday, or another trick?  Is it really Monday?  If it is, I’ll start tomorrow, with the online everything, dress up and put on the make-up, coiffed hair and sunny smile.  Tomorrow for sure. To be fair, I have been self-isolating for the past two weeks in London so it’s really, day what for me now?

Dear diary.  Started the lockdown really well.  Prepared I was.  Well prepared.  Snuck out for supplies, bought the entire food supply for Latvia and stocked.  Dreams of cooking, soup making, baking of bread.  Eggs and Aubergines.  Matters not that I do not eat meat, eggs and Aubergines – they are living in my fridge. In case. One never knows when these are called for in the next millennium, which is what it feels like being here. How long I shall be here?

Even bought the box dye.  One never knows, be prepared young girl guide.  And that ‘just touch the roots’ stuff.  Shall I resort to both when I begin to look like a panda from the top down? Dear God, is it the razor from now on?  Will I ever kiss the ground of a salon again, feel the warmth of wax, of facial and professional blow wave again? Am I a sinner for wondering when the world is at risk? Shallow, shallow woman!

Started well.  First day.  Dressed. Made soup. Pretended to exercise. Walked up and down. Read a book. Avoided the puzzle (that is giving in at this stage). Internet down so pretended I was in a Jane Austen novel – sans sewing box and quill – listened for birdsong and forgave the ants for coming after the soup. Afternoon nap (massive failure on my part as I always believed napping was wasting hours of doing). Timed the wine ‘o clock well.  Contemplated life.

Day two. Thank the Lord the Internet is back on.  I can connect! Dressed. Make up on, tweaked with tweezers and forced the curly hair into irons. Make up done.  Washed the brushes, tidied the cupboards, alphabetised the DVD’s and clipped the roses.  Routine sorted.  An hour of this and and hour of that, like units in ‘About a Boy.’ Put the soup in the fridge, ate pizza, cookies, crisps, bread, more crisps, fruit, more bread, more cookies and rationed the wine.  We are not allowed to buy wine for the next three weeks, and rationed the wine – drank beer.

Day three.  At least I showered. Gym pants.  Walked through the house and did a squat as I put on the kettle.  A sit up after I made the bed. Looked at online everything available and went, sod it. Coffee.  More coffee. A little more coffee. Ten o’ clock and wine called me from the fridge.  Resisted big time. Decided to buy a Chateau in France. Decided how to lose weight when you are in your sixties. Decided to Google that again tomorrow – Monday you know, everything starts on a Monday.

Started tossing dead parsley, bananas and froze the meat instant meals for the next decade.  Is this the time to stop having wine and getting the body back in shape, she thinks?  Will think again tomorrow, it is Monday after all. Today is Sunday, she hopes and checks the totally empty diary for confirmation. Empty diary equals no life as she knows it.

But, it’s day three – a few hundred more to go and rather than become Miss Havisham on steroids, am going to be super positive on Monday.  If perchance a soul walks by, would I do a twirly dance with glee?

It’s day three and I am having serious withdrawal symptoms, as one would early on in withdrawal from anything.  Tomorrow is going to be more positive, I shall not succumb to the gym pants, the soup ( which sans certain ingredients is horrible) and plan for Paris. Do not falter stupid woman, I say to myself, do not succumb to the being alone and isolated – to the wine, for you shall run out, and to the lard that is slowly invading your body.  Do not succumb to watching what you loathe for want of entertainment or stoop to snacking and staring at the wall.

You will be so much better on day four. Do not be complacent or critical.  Think of those who are out there to save your life, make the world better and stop being such silly person.  But you know what, even in times of trouble, all alone, we are allowed the little wallowing for I know tomorrow I shall be a Titan and all will be well.

Just had to put it out there, being locked up, or locked down and finding it really tough. I am being honest, being alone now, is tough.  Am being honest in that I am a little scared. Honest in wanting life the way I knew it. It’s ok to blah, doing it now, but not ok to not make it ok tomorrow.  Stay tuned and promise, no gym pants tomorrow.

Stay safe and I admire all of you who are making this time the most productive time.  Let me know how xxx

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