The New Normal
My New Normal changes as regularly as my mood. I’ve been through so many phases it’s ridiculous. The jigsaw phase (done four, got the t-shirt, created a cartel in the village). I’ve gone the whole nine yards with yeast and flour, giving rise to robust loaves fit only for ducks on the Bero adverts circa 1981. The bike tyres have been pumped up and pedalled two metres away from pretty much everyone in the vicinity and I’ve even done the ironing.
Three years ago I bit the bullet and went freelance, leaving a perfectly stable staff job at the BBC to try sparkly new ventures. So far so good. I honestly haven’t had a work-free month and the only job I regretted was the one where I ended up face-to-face with a Doberman, trying to tease a bag of narcotics from his mouth. But this April, I’m staring down the barrel of an empty calendar and it’s more unnerving than the drugs dog.
I’m not prone to pessimism. According to my husband I’m annoyingly chipper in the face of adversity. OK, so I haven’t exactly had a tough life on the streets, but I’ve coped with lumpy-breast scares and scattered the ashes of both my parents. But this just feels different.
My closest friends from school are all discombobulated. The Policewoman has just recovered from Covid19, but at one point thought she might end up hospitalised. The nurse was on her knees after witnessing wards and mortuaries prepare for the worst. The businesswoman has furloughed friends. But we all still got together on zoom, where it was apparent I'd put the jungle background on by mistake and ended up with green-looking teeth.
Still, I didn't look quite as ludicrous as my father-in law who dressed up as, well, we're still not sure, for another zoom session for my daughter Emma's fourteenth birthday lockdown party.
I’m hunting for household tasks. I killed a morning glossing the front gate, dusted off a day sanding and varnishing the bin cover and wasted a whole evening re-working my wardrobe. The basement is tidy, the kilner jars are labelled and I’m keeping my brilliantly eccentric 84 year-old neighbour suitably pickled with regular wine deliveries. I’ve even got around to writing a will.
I’m envious of my fifteen year old, Molly, who with the sudden absence of GCSE’s to study for, has the ability to sleep in until midday, conscience free. But I’m sad for her that there’s no prom, no snogging and the probability of her Leeds Fest ticket being rolled over until next year. But she’s at peace with her new normal. Emma prefers more structure, so we’ve taken to writing timetables. She’s so thorough that even snacks and smoothies are scheduled for after our 10am work-out to some lithe American on YouTube.
In a distanced way, we’ve all come closer together – and I love that. I’m a naturally social person. I feel swizzed if I nip to the co-op and don’t bump into anyone I know. I’ve never been more in touch with my extended family or friends abroad. I’m sleeping like a log, eating meals from scratch and in the midst of the boredom, am having bursts of creativity. The new normal is not that bad. But I'm still hoping it's just a phase.
