Every day in lockdown nothing happens, or that’s what you tell yourself. Then you think back and realise: a thousand things happened, and I noticed every detail of every one of them. The gritty feel of the sand in my shoes that I couldn’t be bothered to tip out after the last walk on the beach. The way the sun feels amazing on my skin until suddenly it doesn’t, and I collapse inside grateful for the icy chill of my dark house. The scent of spent sage leaves crumbling in my hand. The thrilling shock of cheap white ice cream on my tongue for the first time this year. The feeling of angry tears welling up for no reason and the struggle to hide it at lunch so as not to ruin a perfectly nice meal. The sight of the fly trying and failing to climb the slippery window as the pane steams up from the shower. The rough sound of a man describing his hernia to his mates on the beach: they’re all two metres apart so he has to shout out the details. The irritating welcome feel of the dog’s muzzle against my cheek as I lie in savasana. The disconcerting ebbs and flows of the chemicals in my brain, reminding me that control is an illusion. The stiff feel of a new card deck, and the cards resisting each other until they open and slide shut. The girl in next door’s garden talking incessantly on the phone about other people flouting the lockdown: how she annoys me until I recognise the pain in her voice. She misses her man. She misses her life. It isn’t fair. Surely something will happen soon.
