Merry Christmas and a happy New Year to everyone who reads MHAM. regardless of faith, 2020 has been a rough year for absolutely everyone, I wish you all a peaceful time with family and chocolate and Nicolas Cage.
(Things may be terrible, but now they’re terribly wonderful.)
Oh, here’s also a highly relatable photo I took of a shop window from three years back (I’m going to guess it was Ted Baker).
So go on, stuff your face with lobster too. You’re welcome again, have it on me (the enjoyment of the photo that is, I’m not a free-for-all lobster bar or anything).
I’ll be back with new content in the new year. In the meantime, there’s always my Contents of wonderful blog posts with plenty of material dating right back to 2014! (Alright, no need to roll your eyes.)
This isn’t a sponsored post. Support an unpaid writer like me by donating to my funding page: Buy Me A Coffee
Quick update, I seem to have turned into a floating head.
I suppose anything that gets me one step closer to forming a tribute act to Talking Heads…
Jokes aside, things are still very on/off. Moved onto new antibiotics on Thursday and I’m holding out on those to sort me out which should take a couple of weeks. I’m also on strong pain meds, probably why you might find me posting things like this:
My stomach is swollen up and burnt to shreds from the hot water bottle, but nobody wants to see that (including myself). It also means I can’t drink alcohol while on this medications OR COFFEE* (*on the particularly bad days).
I’m aware that to an outsider perspective this might look like me adopting Kerry Mucklowe levels of melodrama…
…But if you genuinely want you to know why I’m not responding to your emails or texts or anything else, that’s why. It’s not you, it’s really all down to me. Well, and Squeaky the cat.
I put her as acting secretariat but as expected, she’s a cat.
The times I feel more myself, I hurriedly blogging future posts/writing Christmas cards/doing human things, as well as the full-time job.
So please and thanks for bearing with me. x
Oh, and I’ve had a few questions about why I’m so rough. High-level summary; cut in my arm didn’t get bandaged correctly, so that got infected. Plus complications with a routine procedure so more infection! (It took 5 weeks to get a formal diagnosis which is never ideal, especially when you’re being told to take painkillers and see how it goes. But hey, it’s in the past now. Totally over it…totally.)
This isn’t a sponsored post. Support an unpaid writer like me by donating to my funding page: Buy Me A Coffee
You’re only as valuable to the community as the last thing you did for it.
That might or might not be a plagiarised quote from someone notable or, more likely, something I just made up after two (large) glasses of wine, but I’ve put it in fancy italics so the point stands.
This is the story of a group. No, actually, not a group, a community. Thrown together by birth, work, or sometimes just passing through; a community of humans who came together under limited expectations, only to save something far greater.
The Birth of a Community
When it comes to community the good deeds you make only go so far. It’s harsh but true. Unlike the good old days, people come and people move on.
The movement of people was one of the reasons I initially established Swindon 18-30 Professionals. People were coming into the town (mostly for work) and then rapidly fleeing as soon as they’d decided it wasn’t a place for them. Not enough to do, not enough of a scene for young people. And I couldn’t blame them; I’d relocated to the area and was feeling the cold shoulder of the real world. A world outside education where you can’t make best friends with people simply by shaking hands or offering out birthday chocolates by means of bribery. The real world just simply isn’t like that, in or outside Swindon.
From Strength to Strength
It came as a massive relief to me when I won the support of a local sponsor to cover the essential website maintenance costs. With the free subscription membership blossomed, and with it the strength of having a group that arguably was the biggest apolitical collective of local voices the town had seen in many years, if ever.
Over the months and years that followed, friendships were made and romances solidified. Multiple engagements, weddings and even babies have been created as a direct impact of the conversations struck up in pubs or over bowling lane rivalries. I was humbled, that feeling that the group was now self sufficient, it didn’t need me to babysit it 24/7 anymore.
Anything But Normal
And then Coronavirus happened.
Our version of normal was now ‘old’ and everything else was now to be referred to as the new version (whatever that was). Social gatherings were illegal, mental health, financial security, a secondary concern compared to the threat of a killer virus. We watched it all slip away, like sand through our fingers.
My steadfast sponsor, like everything else, was forced to close. As their income disappeared overnight, so did the lifeline of Swindon 18-30. I sat on my bed one night, barely able to sleep. Years of hard work, of creating and building, ended before people had even the chance give it a decent send off. I was left hollow, wounded but without the blood to show for it.
“Sh*t Happens, Get Over It”
I proposed to the leadership team setting up a fundraising page. A last-ditch hope that we could scrape together enough to cover the next six months of fees (around £100).
I did some research, compared the options eventually went for GoGetFunding which was one of the few which let fundraisers withdraw money, even if they don’t make the target set on the page. This in mind, I went for a over optimistic £260 which would cover costs for a year, plus the fundraising page fees. I hit submit, the page went live.
I sent a frank and blunt email to all the members with a link to donate money and walked away. A watched pot never boils and I couldn’t bear to spend a wasted evening watching a page that got no engagement. In five years I’d never asked anything of my members, new and old, so to be begging for money now? I was adamant that they’d see me as being unrealistic.
The Kind of Thing That Only Happens in Movies
I retuned to my laptop and was taken with the number of emails in my inbox. “Probably spam,” I thought, but I was wrong. Very wrong. Because instead of the junk mail I was expecting, all the emails were notifications from the fundraising website.
Donations came in thick and fast and at values that almost made me want to cry. I probably would have if not for the personalised messages getting to me first.
There I’d been, working my socks off and building up a strong leadership team and thinking no one had noticed. That no one had particularly cared for all the effort we put in. The words I was reading now, they proved me wrong.
“Every penny well deserved!”
“An amazing organisation, I hope it carries on long into the future.”
“This group helped me take control of my social anxiety and build my confidence.”
“I owe so much to Swindon 18-30. So many incredible people I wouldn’t have even crossed paths with if it were not for the events put on.”
“Well done Alice! Keep up the good work and long live the mermaids!”
In just over 24 hours we hit my target for funding, but yet the money kept pouring in, it seemed everyone wanted to show their support and ensure the group stayed alive. And this wasn’t just current members, people who’d long left Swindon donated, keen to ensure its legacy for new batches of young professionals.
For the second time that week I found myself unable to sleep, although this time it was out of happiness and relief. The group had validated its existence, it had an army of young people prepared to fight tooth and nail to keep it running.
Stop the Press!
The local press release was published the following week with a number of last minute updates. The original purpose, framed to act as a plea for help was now repurposed as an awareness piece, to reach out to those who felt alone and isolated. That at the end of all this there would be a place to safe place to meet and engage with other people.
Like everything that happens in my life, there had to be a catch to all this positivity. For me, this came when the webpage was bombarded with fraudulent donations. The alarm bells came when the donations were coming in tiny denominations (usually £1) and from people I didn’t recognise. Later it transpired that these payments were likely stolen cards being tested out prior to the thief either selling them on or using them for bigger transactions. Wanting to do the right thing (and wanting to avoid severe penalties), I promptly returned the money back to the payment card, only to then be charged a handling fee for doing so!
I spoke with both customer services on GoGetFunding and then PayPal, voicing frustrations. They both pointed fingers at the other, both refused to acknowledge the faults in their system, both saw no reason to refund me for doing the right thing. I enchanced secrity controls, as per PayPal’s recommendation, which made things worse. The next morning I had ten transactions to refund. It was at that point, stressed and deeply angry, that I was sadly forced to close the funding page ahead of time.
If there is one top tip I can place in all of this it is to not use GoGetFunding. The commission is less but damn, you pay more in blocking fraudulent payments in the long run!
However, all said and done the final figure at the point of close spoke for itself. The group had done it, we had enough to keep going throughout the tough months to come.
The Future is Bright…
On the far side of all this (whenever that might be) it’s confirmed, that there will be a group and place for people to call their social home. A place to buy a pint or two and give toast to everything that’s made us who we are today.
Here’s to the silent supporters and the ‘this one’s on me’ drink buyers. Long live the donators of good causes, the ones who have the vision to see beyond the news headlines and the weeks on a calendar. From my heart to yours, thank you. Thank you so much.
Just a quick reminder that I’m still here, earning tumbleweed from my writing (well, actually, tumbleweed would at least be something…)
A big, big thank you to those who have donated so far (you lovely people know who you are). For those less aware, I have an active donation page called Buy Me A Coffee, a platform which helps creatives get money doing what they love and keep producing content for their fans.
If not for me and my coffee spilling antics, it’s worth checking out to discover some hidden gems from people across the world.
I’m always reviewing the page and just recently added two funky new extras you can buy as a one-off. Check out the website to find out more.
Thank you in advance!
This isn’t a sponsored post. Support an unpaid writer like me by donating to my funding page: Buy Me A Coffee
A perhaps more sombre video (pretty blue compared to the stuff I normally produce, I admit), of the four days I recently spent in York. I wasn’t going to do anything, that was until I came back and Mumma B said, “when are we getting the picture presentation?”
So I quickly pulled this together, complete with backing music which I heard whilst watching the world go by in one of the nammed coffee shops below.
Big love to the city of York, big love to whoever controls the weather for giving me sun and zero rain and big love to ‘The North’ for giving me a warm welcome during my visit.
Every morning I roll out of bed and stumble the 1.5 strides to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and study the damage; one new spot since yesterday, five new eyebrow hairs, a shade darker under the eyes. I toy with the idea of doing something to remedy this, but then sigh and do little more than splash water from the sink lined in dirt and limescale. If it’s a ‘treat day’ I might apply a thin layer of face cream but today, like most others, is nondescript so tepid water will suffice. Pasty skin ready, I grab one of my face coverings from the coat hanger, rubber gloves from the box and go out into the big, dangerous world to stand in a queue. “Just another day in paradise” plays solemnly through my headphones, a Phil Collins track which I long to change, but my unisex latex gloves are two sizes too big and even if I could, touching the screen would only defeat the point of preventing the spread of germs. I leave him be.
Here I am, starting another 24 hours in a string of days that end in the letter Y. Dull, predictable and dragging, welcome to the human face of lockdown.
If you haven’t already got the gist from recent posts, in March (2020) I made the choice to move fully back in with my family, days before the UK went into COVID-19 lockdown.
I own a house, a car and a job in the same location, but with the job reduced to working from home and my ability to travel limited to as far as the curb-side wheelie bin, it seemed more logical to return northwards.
At 27, the novelty of spending an extended period of time with my family felt like a throwback to the days when home was a refuge from exhausting summer jobs or algebra homework. But now the family home represents my safety and my imprisonment. I am denied my freedom and, some days, forgetting what it feels like to be a fully accountable adult at all. I’m turning into a woman-child.
Three weeks I thought this would last, three. But now we’re speedily heading towards twelve and to be quite honest, I fully expect it to last longer than that. I normally work out of an office populated by a large number of employees. I can only imagine what social distancing will look like if I am, ever, mandated to five days a week in that environment.
Can you imagine the first day of everyone being back? A three hour queue to get your pass reactivated, followed by at least two trying to fix some technical fault with laptops (always tends to be that way). Everyone will take an extended lunchbreak (by which point the only option will be a cheese sandwich) and then there’s just enough time to go around hugging as many people as possible before it’s home time. Michelle is given an out of date bottle of wine from the store cupboard for something she won twelve months ago and then it’s off to the car park for gridlock congestion.
That reminds me, I think I left behind a large stash of snack bars in my locker before I left town. Damn.
I’ve gotten slightly off topic, but then again, I always do. Can you really blame me, when one of the few excuses I get to spend time away from my family is to find one of the few quiet spots in the house and type on this blog? Mumma B is forever demanding new blog post, Papa B is forever blissfully unaware of them (but then sending a text to dad has a likelihood of receival on a same level of attaching a letter to a dove in a hurricane).
I haven’t dyed my hair since January. I guess originally I saw it as a form of resistance, the idea that I wouldn’t colour it until we were out of lockdown, but that idea faded as quickly as the shade of my roots. Resistance turned to indifference, colour fading with every wash, and now I’m reunited with a shade of brunette I haven’t seen in years. It could almost pass for stylish, a layered multi-tonal style.
Makeup? What are these expensive alien products of which you speak? I’ve almost forgotten how to apply what little I used to wear. Mascara is a challenge, the smudgy black fluid streaking up my eyelid and smearing across my fingers when I try and rub it off. I’m a toddler experimenting with these curious substances, playing about with pencils and powders that used to mean something to me. The woman I recognise in those summer holiday pictures, how can I look like her? How can I wear lipstick like she once did without turning into a clown? But then, what’s the point?
Now you can’t exit the house without having to cover up. Facial coverings and gloves have swept across the globe, marking the creation of a new religion with its own dress code. The irony, the racists and xenophobics who used to speak against religious coverings are now the same people yelling that face and hand covering should be made a legal requirement. Next they’ll be demanding the use of headscarves to prevent spread, whilst splashing and gargling in the sea. Society has been united (be it on a surface level) by new codes of conducts and coverings. We have no way to object to the world around us, voices blocked by sheets of fabric, we can only go along with the rule of government. By law or by fear, the faith of the fatigued marches on in varying gaps of social distance.
The highlight of my week is now the Saturday morning food shop and the lowlight is getting back from it. That feeling of exhaustion from exerting myself more than at any other point in the days leading up to it. The rub of the fabric mask, the feel of rubber residue that sticks to my fingers long after I’ve taken the gloves off. In the world I live in this is one of the few excuses I have to leave the house, my world is now so tightly tethered to that of my family. I have no friends to see, no places to visit, no errands to run that can’t be handled over the phone.
Fun is now reduced to comparing the length of supermarket queues week-on-week and counting the number of times we’re reminded to keep two meters apart over the tannoy. The buzz when tinned foods are taken off restrictions, the disappointment when when they’re reapplied the following week. Three tins of soup per customer, a luxury. And yet, the Saturday food shop is the one thing that reminds me time is passing at all. Time is reduced to the little-wins, twice daily teeth brushing, hair washes every other day, changing bedding every few weeks. The mundane activities that make milestones of hope; another week towards a vaccine, another week towards normality. And not just a new one, a true one.
The phrase ‘new normal’ has grated on me since first time it was used by politicians who know about as much on what ‘normal’ looks as Chairman Mao knew of peasant struggles during the 1960s famine. New normal implies that this is the first time normal has changed, but what about the invention of the internet? Or the Industrial Revolution? Or when we started hunting with metal spears instead of stone? In which case, what are we headed into? New Normal Version 9999998767.8?
Instead of new normal, I’ve adopted a different phrase, ‘My Normal’. The way I see it, you have to embrace and adapt to what works best and safe for you. In lieu of coffee shops I’ve taken pleasure in making my own coffee and enjoying the views I’m lucky to have. I miss the noise and hubbub of activity, but sometimes I think it’s easy to romanticise an experience. Countless times in life I’d find myself trawling from coffee shop to coffee shop to find space, only to find it too noisy to focus or hold a conversation.
I write a hell of a lot more now than I used to. Whether the quantity results in quality is yet to be seen but regardless it feels, well, good. But I’ve also dropped the stupid targets, I’ve moved away from expecting myself to have produced the next best-seller. I’ve realised that I get bored, I procrastinate, I live with three other adults who seek me out if I go three hours without doing a tea run. I’m human. One day I’ll spend an evening working solidly on a manuscript, another I’ll decide to do something unrelated to writing; I might watch rubbish TV or read my History Magazine. My lunchbreaks I might donate towards researching the publishing industry or even find myself so done with taking myself seriously that I turn to this blog to remember that deep down I am still the kooky person I’ve always have been. No lockdown is going to stop me being me.
Do I scrap with my family? Of course! Even when I was living here as a teenager and my parents were working jobs we didn’t see each other as much as we do now. There have been plenty of times I wanted to get away from it all and return to life where I had my independence and my freedom. But the benefits of being in a space where I feel safe and wanted outweigh having to ‘go it alone’. I am incredibly lucky to have the family I do, even if they do all drive me insane.
And here’s something potentially controversial; I’m actually more content now than I have been in years.
Gone is the pressure to look a certain way or to live in a certain location (e.g. London). I don’t feel the pressure to be in a relationship, in fact, as time has gone on and the faked perfection has slowly disappeared from the internet, I’m left wondering what it must be like those couples, the unstable relationships built on sand and Snapchat filters.
In just under three months my life has, once again, changed enormously. And there was I thinking living in London was the biggest shake-up to happen to me. Moving back into the family abode is shifting my perceptions and five-year goals more than any office manager or two-day Excel training course ever did.
Those lamenting that office work is as extinct as the dinosaurs need to get real and understand that people will always crave social interactions. There will always be a queue for my office car park and when the doors open I will be at the front of it.
Like everyone else I worry for the future economy, my job security and the health of those I care most about. But of all that I worry most about what we will become. More than once I have woken from a nightmare, to discover it was only a more warped version of the life I used to lead before. I fear that when this is all over and the generation moves on behind us, we will horrify or romanticise this event like it’s our version of Vietnam. The youth will never understand, will never appreciate what we went through, when in fact we were the ones who returned to 45-hour weeks, we were the ones who were so desperate to recoup physical loses that we forgot the gains we made on our front door.
But more than this, so much more, is the reassurance that this will not last forever. One day I will return to the town where I live and work. My mum will go back to cooking for two, not four, my sister will teach in schools and my dad will be able to work in customer’s homes without wearing a mask. None of us will be the same, but we will have future hope. One day we will all be reunited and will laugh; back when we thought this would all be over in less than three weeks.
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The Sun describes this title as “Bridget Jones with knobs on” and initially you can see why. Like Bridget Jones, Lorna works for a national paper, has multiple calamitous oversees trips (hints of Edge of Reason) and experiences tonnes of supposedly awkward mishaps. This is setup against a background of counselling where gradually Lorna comes to unearth and overcome personal challenges, from deep-rooted peer envy to relationship closure.
Expect a lot of monologues in this book. I didn’t have a problem with the first-person narrative but took issue to her friends who all happen to be phycologists. The author knows a bit about the topic and goes to almost unbearable lengths to use it. I ended up skimming these segments when girly nights out with countless bottles of wine turned into soapbox-speeches on the pros of Freudian methodology.
I also struggled with the approach with wooing the love interest. Two examples (of many) include this 35 year-old woman writing lengthy, one sided, emails about her life and then shocked when he doesn’t reply and another interaction where she bluntly states he can only get her number if he acquires it from a friend. Only a week later (and sans calls) does she internally ponder her tactic. I’m left questioning why the author feels the need to labour this storyline beyond the realms of realistic.
Not the ending I was expecting and, to be honest, a little bit disappointed by this title. It tries to be Bridget Jones in Glasgow but somehow never makes it out of the starting block.
UPDATE: I’ve just done some digging and discovered this is actually a true account of the author’s own experiences in therapy. Awkward…
When your country is in the middle of a hard lockdown it’s sometimes hard to see what life could possibly be like on the other side. Will things ever be the same? What will our human interactions be like?
Here are some of things that have randomly popped into my head as I’ve carried out my day-to-day life trapped in four walls (not limited to just the shower, even if it’s now the highlight of my day).
Will Everyone be Terrible Drivers?
There were enough bad drivers on the road before lockdown, but now everyone has been cooped up for so long without regular driving/commuting, does this mean that the entire driving population will default to their newly qualified status? Will people forget the highway code or which side of the road to drive on?
Will Offices be Full of Zombies?
I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotten dangerously comfortable with rolling out of bed and not having to be quite so concerned with hair and makeup. So when we are eventually asked to return to the office will the change of routine and earlier starts result in a workforce of smartly dressed zombies? Zombies downing coffee like there’s no tomorrow.
Should I Have Embraced Dabbing?
For those less aware, dabbing became a worldwide craze in the mid 2010s. It was a thing young people did to celebrate gaming success in their bedrooms, living rooms and (I think) other places? To be honest, I’m not sure of it’s history (I was having too much fun watching paint dry this afternoon to research it thoroughly), however it looks like this. If you were a unicorn.
I don’t think much more explanation is needed as to how this links to Coronavirus and the spread of viruses.
Should have got in on that gravy train back when it was cool. As opposed to now when it’s Government advice (aka ‘the man’ aka uncool).
Will Vampires Become Fashionable Again?
This sounds wacky, but traditionally economic recessions are often marked by a moodier feel to what we watch on big and small screens (think Daniel Craig in James Bond).
Like it or loathe it, the film series went on to become an icon of teen viewing during the time it dominated movie screens. The last film, Breaking Dawn Part 2, was released in 2012, at the point people were beginning to feel more positive about the economy (and waking up to better fiction). Coincidence? I think not!
If that’s not enough proof, BBC’s Dracula started airing on 1st January 2020 and here we are months later facing into economic turmoil.
So, if the economic and popular culture trends are to be believed, do I need to dig out my CD copy of My Chemical Romance and invest in garlic like this town?
Will we be a Nation of Alcoholics?
Short answer – yes. But there are sweet little pictures on the internet making fun at this so it can’t be all that bad…right?
Will Pets Become Intellectuals?
Now we’re around all day a number of family pets must be feeling very spoiled by attention right now. That’s more time watching how we act, more time listening to us talk and, most importantly, more time of my cat watching money advice like The Martin Lewis Money Show.
How Will I React to Other Humans?
It’s exciting enough returning after Christmas break and reconnecting with colleagues and friends I haven’t seen in about two weeks, so how the hell am I going to get through thirty minutes without bursting into emotional tears and wanting to hug everyone?
I’ll be like Miranda from Shakespeare’s The Tempest when, having spent her whole life in her father’s company, she’s introduced to multiple new men also on the island.
Will I be Expected to do Thoughtful Gifting?
Two reasons I say this. Firstly, the world supply chain will be shaky, so the more quirky things things I might usually buy via China (or in shops…via China), well they might not be available to purchase anytime soon.
Secondly, I rely on human interactions to pick up on people’s interests which then feed into what I buy. You tell me how the stuff I’m meant to do that when I’m only catching up with you over the phone, once a month?
Look, all I’m saying is don’t get Judgy McJudgeFace with me when the best you get this Christmas is a bath bomb in one of my old socks, or a Bic “for her” pen.
Has “The Matrix” Run out of Money?
Our alien overlords were sat around a table.
The Director of Financial Records made an announcement to the board. “We’ve got the shareholders on our back,” they said. “We can’t afford the maintenance of the full-blown software this year. We also need to cut costs elsewhere.”
The software operators thought long and hard before responding. “Don’t worry,” they said. “We will create a killer illness meaning the humans are forced to stay in their homes. We can scrap the complex mountain/exotic beach software, because most will do as we (aka their governments) direct. It also will explain why a number of humans suddenly disappear from the Matrix, no one would question it.”
Truman Show Theory – Have we Become too Boring?
The Chair of Audience Engagement storms into the writing department at Human Watch HQ. She throws the proposed plot lines up in the air.
“Viewers are getting bored of Trump!” She yells. “Our target audience aren’t responding to religious wars like they were ten years ago. The weekly statistics are down and plummeting. Do something better and make it quickly implementable, something that’ll catch people off guard.”
The writers pulled out their previous storylines. “We haven’t used a global pandemic in a while; in fact it’s a centenary since the Spanish Flu affected the richer zones. We could build some great marketing around it.”
There you go, some initial concerns and/or anxieties I’ve introduced into your merry little worlds. Don’t worry, you’re very much welcome.
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It’s a strange old world when the phrase “you must have been living under a rock” is more of a compliment than criticism. Because why would you choose to be kept informed on a minute-by-minute basis? Why would anyone take to pointing the blobby face in the BBC’s Coronavirus background just to get through the 10pm news? Why would anyone do that? They’ve to be pret-ty sad to do that.
Like many people around the world who has or is currently going through a version of a lockdown, there are a number of things I feel that I was no prepared for. Most are very typically British and being me, I’m going to take a very Alice-y approach to this. The community spirit, the crazy hoarding, those are commonplace knowledge in the UK. But what about the little things? The small changes to the day-to-day that I really was not prepared for and some I’m really not sure I’m okay with.
Lockdown: 10 Things No One Warned Me About
1. I look good in a mask
Never did I expect to scrub up nicely in a DIY mask. I don’t wear it very often, only the couple of times when I’ve gone out food shopping. But you know what? I kinda like it.
Solves the problem of make up and my fledging career in ventriloquism, as this accidentally taken video shows.
2. I’d be fighting pets for work space
I mean, sure, space can be tight when you’ve got multiple people working from home, and I get having any age of children about can add an additional layer of ‘fun’ to the mix. My cats however, no one seemed to teach them the importance of sharing.
Squeak in particular, she seems to view my presence are a mere inconvenience to her sleeping arrangements and trust me, this lady is not for turning!
3. I’d listen to more questionable radio
I’m not adverse to radio, in fact I listen to a good deal of the stuff when focusing on work or creative projects. But, listening to so much of the same hosts you naturally want to venture out and explore new things, did I however expect to be listening to Heart 90s? Did I ever expect to be researching The New Radicals on my lunch break? And did I still expect for Westlife to not be over their exes? Short answer, no.
Reminds me, I really need to buy more CDs. Also, did you know Cyndi Lauper did a remake of her hit Girls Just Wanna Have Fun in 1994? Well, you do now.
4. I’d drink more
Coffee, gin, prosecco – they’re all the same, right?
Still, for the first time in my life I’m actually drinking two litres of water a day.
5. People are more demanding
Sometimes it’s household chores, other times it’s life admin, but living with family I cannot get away with dodging tasks in the same way I could when I lived over an hour’s drive away. I feel like I’m six again.
On a similar level, I’m getting constantly asked when my book is getting completed, the expectation is apparently I’ll come out of lockdown with the next international bestseller ready to hit the selves.
I’ll spoil it for you now, it ain’t happening by September 2020.
And then there are some people who use their connections and position to request frequent updates on new blog posts (yes mum, I’m looking at you).
I have more time, but I do also have a job and endless cups of tea to make.
6. Downing Street briefings would become the highlight of my day
The daily updates, usually televised from 17:00 have been a key milestone I structure my day around. Stranger still, I now have favourite ministers who I get more excited by presenting than others. Business Secretary, Alok Sharma, not a big fan.
(Also, I can’t un-see Tom from Tots TV whenever I look at him. Don’t ask me why.)
However, Rishi Sunak, Chancellor of the Exchequer, he’s a bit of a political dreamboat. I always look forward to his briefings, which is something because I barely knew the chap before this all kicked off.
At the age of 39 he’s basically 20 years old by political standards and doesn’t he know it? I mean, the man even poses for photos in his socks. Puts the full shirt and tie combo on, but no, leave off the shoes. What a tease!
All I’m saying is that the next series of Love Island needs to watch out.
This leads nicely onto my next point…
7. Having a legitimate excuse for my non-existent dating life
After years of trying to defend my singledom status to an irritating number of people (singletons, you’ll get it), it’s taken a pandemic to stop people asking.
I mean, the apps can give it large by encouraging people to facetime but if there’s one thing I really can’t be handling is the awkwardness of a) making an effort when really, what’s the point? Or b) having to talk through my choice of bedding with someone I’ve known all of five minutes or even c) terminating the ‘date’ because the 17:00 briefing is about to start and Rishi is chairing.
Instead, the phrase I’m not using is “I’m practising this new fashion called social distancing. Very a la mode, it’s all the rage on the continent!”
After all, it worked for the Netflix series Love Is Blind
For those less familiar with the car crash TV series on Netflix…
8. My family are insane
I love them dearly, but with all us temporarily living under one roof for an extended period, a length of time none of us have known for many years, well, the weirdness starts to surface eventually.
Case in point: Mumma Bennett has taken to drawing on a potato.
And I know what you’re thinking…
For better, or worse, Mr Potato is now part of our lives. Mum is very precious about it and gets upset if we says nasty things about it.
Again, we’re all living in the same house.
I’ve now come to embrace Mr Potato; he’s no couch, he’s my mate. He’s pretty sharp on boosting morale.
(But I have had to have words about his unexplained trips.)
9. I’d be using Christmas decorations in Summer
We’re now using seasonal charms on every glass/mug to identify who has been drinking out of what. The only slight difference now is that instead of it being “ho-ho! Wouldn’t want to accidentally drink your wine!” it’s more “DON’T YOU DARE CONTAINATE MY COFFEE, YOU MASSIVE GERM!!”
10. Dad’s legs
Apparently it’s now Summer. Missed that memo; the one which said the weather would be pants for weeks and weeks, but the second we go on lockdown it would improve. But, dad has his legs out so it must be the case. Can’t argue with that, (really, I can’t.)
To finish off, here’s one of the more respectable 90s songs I’ve heard on the radio (it’s a cover of an absolute classic but then, the 90s):
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