What. The. Hell?!?
I thought me and 2020 had an agreement? I thought we were cool and things were going to be peachy this year after the disaster of 2019? And you do this 2020? I feel like I’m living in the Prince of Egypt but without the insane Hans Zimmer score.
Let me just side step by saying why are old people so stubborn? Both my parents are in the vulnerable category and should have been taking self-isolation seriously. But my mother? “I need to find something to eat!” Know what she came back with from Lidl? Quiche. Flaming quiche. And my dad? After I hand rolled some oddly shaped but highly tasty bread rolls for him bumps off to Poundland. Poundland. I- Actually you know what I did? I told my big brother who in turn FaceTimed my parents to tell them off. Now my dad calls me a grass. 🙄
Anyways, in the mire that is a 21st Century plague (I am not writing King Lear - behave. I’ve barely found the time and inclination to write this!) I am desperate to find peace in my own space which has turned into an office space. My phone which used to be an escape from everything is now the direct line to messages at all hours of the day with very little regard for my time or mental health to work.
The day job isn’t a joke. It’s an emotional toll which I’ve finally learned to balance. If I can’t resolve it by six pm, I’m not going to resolve it at ten or eleven pm. There needs to be a point of switch off and if I can’t, I won’t be able to do it for much longer. I used to be able to close my laptop and pop downstairs for a little nibble and a cup of tea. Then out for a walk and to Liberty for a comforting break. Or off to delightful Wimbledon Village (of tennis tournament fame yes) to have a wander and a cheeky shop.
Now I don’t have those modes of escape. Can’t get my nails done, my hair washed, a massage or my bits waxed. All my techniques of distraction for the next three weeks at minimum have gone.
Seriously what the goddamn hell do I do? You lot already know that I don’t write when I’m emotional and this pre-apocalyptic mess is making a bitch emotional as hell. I’m getting that trapped cat about to scratch everything enough to send you to hospital for stitches sensation of frustrated.
Is this the point where I meditate and light scented candles? It may have to be or else you’re going to find out who I am - on the news and in handcuffs...
I mean I guess I have the time to watch the shows I’ve moaned I’m too many seasons behind to catch up on as a way to destress? Nah, lemme watch season 8 of Ru Paul’s Drag Race for the billionth time instead. Then I know I won’t be disappointed by the outcome and a Jo Malone scented bath with do wonders. Coz as much as that cost, it works a charm.
Deep breaths y’all. This is reaaaaaaaaaal weird.
