Isolation Diaries: Lottie
A Snapshot of Lockdown: Day 47
I do not flatter myself by thinking that anyone other than perhaps my mum would be interested in reading my innermost thoughts and ramblings. I am not particularly eloquent, nor do I have any insightful comments or advice to offer. I am simply a twenty-one-year-old girl (woman? Am I a woman yet? That might be a whole other article in itself) living in the suburbs of Greater Manchester, in lockdown, writing about my day. I do not even have a plan for where this piece of writing will go, I am simply hoping that my disjointed stream of consciousness will spontaneously transform itself into something marvellous. If this does not interest you, by all means move along – I shall not be offended.
Today is, if my calculations are correct, the 47th day of lockdown. It is also VE day. Which is bizarre. Never before has my town been interested in celebrating the anniversary of the end of WWII. While this year is special, being the 75th anniversary, it still strikes me as odd that all my neighbours, who have never thrown anything close to a street party before, never engaged in ostensibly patriotic (read propaganda-esque) acts, never even spoken to each other before, are all gathered at the ends of their drives, sitting on collapsible chairs, drinking Pimm’s and eating cake, chatting happily about the “good old days” as if we really had just won a world war.
This may, perhaps, be a poignant reflection upon the current situation; I don’t know about you, but I often forget, what with all the sun and the booze, that we are amidst a global crisis. A family friend of ours is a doctor who works in the ICU, and in the few spare moments he found to message us, he said only this: “It’s a battleground.” So yes, perhaps my neighbours’ VE day celebrations are relevant to remind us of those who lost their lives seventy-five years ago, as well as commemorating those who are losing their lives today.
Or perhaps, like the rest of us, they are just bored.
Bored and unmotivated. This has become my new mantra. Having finished all my university work last week, I am now happily committed to my new life as a couch potato. I wake up around 10am every day, lie in bed for a few hours in a state of existential dread, before dragging myself and my existentialism to the shower, where we spend another thirty minutes sitting on the bathroom floor, trying to plan out what remains of my day.
Today was no different. At approximately 12:30pm I ventured downstairs to make a bagel. Eating regular meals is something I have become rather bad at thanks to my irregular sleeping schedule, so this was something of a small victory. After my bagel, I realised that an email I told my university society I’d sent two months ago probably actually needed to be sent now, before my rudeness and tardiness could no longer be excused by the supposed stress of lockdown.
Procrastination. Another skill I have honed during lockdown. Take this article for example – I meant to write it on the 20th April, and here we are, nearly three weeks later. But at least I’m doing it, right? In my defence, I have had two 48-hour exams and shingles in the past two weeks, so I think that provides me with some sort of excuse.
It’s a bit ridiculous, having shingles amidst a global pandemic (my dad would be angry at me for that sentence – he’s a stickler for calling people out for tautology. He would say that as a pandemic is global by definition, the term ‘global pandemic’ is shoddy writing, whacking in another adjective to sound good. Sorry dad). But anyway, shingles – not fun. Everyone’s panicking about coronavirus and all I can think about is how itchy I am. Selfish, isn’t it?
If it were not for my delightful rash of itchy spots, I might have succeeded in doing something worthwhile today. I’ve been volunteering at my local Food Bank, which is mainly an ego boost to make me feel better about my contribution to society, but also might genuinely be a help to those who are struggling through financial uncertainty. It’s a win-win really. But alas, shingles is fairly contagious and, despite social distancing rules, I thought best not to risk it. So, with my only productive activity taken away from me, I have returned to the comfort of my bed.
Productivity might be one of the most damaging concepts for those of us who aren’t NHS staff or key workers. Personally, I’m dreading post-lockdown conversations of “What did you achieve during the pandemic?” because genuinely, the only thing I’ve managed to do is keep going. And that’s okay. Or, at least, it is for me. I do not feel the need to prove how much I’m thriving by getting abs, writing a novel or arranging a song. I do not believe that anyone should feel guilty or inferior for not achieving something spectacular during lockdown. My mum is a GP and fighting on behalf of the NHS, my sister is a primary school TA and providing childcare for key workers, and my dad is working from home. What am I doing? I’m learning dances on TikTok. That is who I have become. And while I’m not necessarily proud of my new hobby, I will not be ashamed of not being productive. Even if all you manage to do is stay home and abide by the rules, you are helping.
Or maybe the only reason I am saying this is to justify my own laziness to myself. You decide.
It’s now 17:00 on the dot. The day passes quickly when you get out of bed at 12:00, eat a bagel, send an email and then proceed to get back into bed to watch the live action Cinderella because it took you six weeks to realise you can get a free seven day trial of Disney+ and spend your days reliving your childhood. It’s not a great film, but it did succeed in making me conform to socially-prescribed gender roles because now I want to be a princess.
I’m thinking about making another TikTok. Maybe I’ll do that later. I am aware that it’s extremely embarrassing, but I have become obsessed. TikTok is my one true love, and the fourteen-year-old girls who run the app can fight me for it. As stated in my TikTok bio, I cannot dance and I am not funny, not to mention I am far too old for the app, despite only being twenty-one. Nevertheless, I think TikTok has replaced alcohol as my coping mechanism of choice. And as it turns out, I am mildly good at it (this is where you realise this whole article was an elaborate ruse to con you all into following my TikTok account). However, I do not approve of the hypersexualised dances and toxic body images that the app’s algorithm seems to venerate. But then again, no social media app is without problematic features.
It’s 18:00 and my best friend from home just rang my doorbell. It’s still sunny out and uncharacteristically hot for the UK at the start of May; perhaps the good weather is the gods showing pity on us. She is standing at the end of my drive, having walked thirty minutes from her house, to drop off a bottle of Agnes Arber gin for me as a celebratory end-of-third-year present. Must try not to drink it in one sitting.
This is certainly one of the only good things to emerge from the pandemic: kindness. Not that it wasn’t there before. But I think that (and I do not have the ability to express myself here without sounding extremely corny, so forgive me) in the shadow of an international crisis, the lengths to which people have gone to show kindness and love is astounding. The other day, a woman who works at my local florist told me that she has never been busier. Everyone just wants to cheer each other up. I am not ashamed to admit that I did cry upon receiving a bottle of gin today, and again, two days earlier, when another of my closest friends delivered a care package to my doorstep. The value and impact of such acts of kindness is immeasurable.
At 18:30, after half an hour of me struggling (in vain) not to weep, my friend leaves. My sister then kindly informs me that it was cocktail o’clock. Hurrah! I am lucky to have my sister here. If nothing else, she’s entertaining. We make a slightly-too-strong batch of strawberry Daiquiris and sprawl out over the sofas in the garden, basking in the sun like a pair of mildly tipsy lizards.
It’s in these moments that I’m acutely aware of how privileged I am in all this. Instead of working every day and night in a hospital, unable to see my loved ones, I’m sitting outside in the sun sipping on fruity cocktails as if I were on holiday in the south of Spain. My experience of lockdown is very different to others’. Following the common spiral of my train of thought in these situations, my sense of privilege morphs into helplessness. I have to assure myself that staying home and supporting my mother and sister is not just all I can do, but actually is something worthwhile.
My thoughts are interrupted by my dad asking to help him get the barbecue ready. We’re having a barbecue. Well technically, I’m just having grilled veg and the rest of my meat-eating family are having a barbecue.
The purpose of the barbecue is threefold. Firstly, good food is good for the soul. Secondly, it’s sunny, so why not. Thirdly, we don’t have a kitchen.
That’s right – we don’t have a kitchen. We have been living in the same house for nineteen years and the date my parents chose to start redoing our kitchen just happened to be three weeks before lockdown. Our kitchen was ripped out the week before lockdown was announced in the UK. As a substitute kitchen, we have a camping stove, a microwave, a slow cooker, and now a barbecue. It really isn’t that bad actually, just the timing is not ideal. I genuinely think we are so used to our mini kitchen now that we’ll miss it when it’s gone. Although I would very much like to have an oven again.
After the barbecue, my parents and I sat down to finish the film we started two days ago – everyone except me fell asleep. It’s Captain America. I will happily admit that I do have a certain affinity for Marvel films. Although now I am wondering if this was a ploy by my parents to force me to engage in some vaguely patriotic activity on VE day. The first Captain America film is set in WWII and the end of the film includes footage of lively celebrations on, you guessed it, VE day. I am now a passive participant in the glorification of war. Fantastic.
One film and two bottles of wine later, we go to bed at about 00:30. I call my boyfriend who is still in Edinburgh and who I have not seen for seven weeks. It’s a bona fide Romeo and Juliet love story. I am now a star-crossed lover and lockdown is nothing less than an act of fate keeping me from my beloved soulmate.
Isolation has made me melodramatic.
I’m tired now, although I couldn’t tell you why. Who knew sipping cocktails and watching movies was so exhausting. I haven’t been out of the house for my government sanctioned walk in days and the most exercise I’ve had recently is running away from my responsibilities. So, I should not be tired. But I am, so to bed I go.
No doubt I’ll wake up at 11:30am and do it all again tomorrow.
Lottie Needham is a third year student at the University of Edinburgh studying History and Politics.