There are worse places to be imprisoned than our homes.
Like, prison.
Yet as we enter the fourth week of lockdown, it’s possible that some of us have started to go just a teeny bit mad, in spite of intense efforts to side step the insanity that, to be honest, we might just as well embrace until all this is over.
My decline started in week one, with cleaning.
Maniacal cleaning.
Every room. Every corner. Every cobweb. Every cupboard.
My wardrobes have been cleared of clutter I haven’t worn for years. Well, not completely cleared. I retain some of the contents for when they fit me again, a proportion of garb yet to adorn me and all of those few but precious garments that I only ever wear. I have left a few things hanging there simply to make the wardrobes feel useful and the rest now linger in bin bags until charity shops and tips reopen.
Woodwork has been washed, cornices cleared of cobwebs and light-fittings polished until they sparkle. Admittedly I didn’t wash the bulbs. But they did get a thorough bashing with a feather duster on a stick.
Whatever the disgusting concoction may be that lurks in the shower drain has been banished and tiles and grout bleached to the point where it’s difficult to breathe.
My disorderly kitchen cupboards have delighted in the attention they have received, with all items now having their own personal space. I have even freed and binned the tin of golden syrup that has been welded to its particular shelf for many years. I have filed my spices in alphabetical order. I actually considered arranging my tinned food in the same way. But I didn’t. That would be weird.
So, onto week two …
Shopping and food.
I was not part of the panic-buying brigade that bought all the pasta and loo rolls.
No, wine and hair dye were my obsessive purchases. Thankfully I am a member of a wine club and excellent customers like me are being very well looked after thank you very much.
But food and all things foodie have suddenly become one of the most interesting aspects of all our lives.
Daily conversations with family members run something along the lines of,
‘What’re you having for tea?’
Along with a disproportionate interest in how the food for tea was actually acquired.
‘How was the supermarket? Busy?’
Actually, the social distancing measures in supermarkets have improved the experience immeasurably. The queue outside is now a source of interest and entertainment, many participants sporting the most imaginative homemade facemasks, with one or two actually wearing proper ones.
People feel compelled, regardless of mask, to discuss the strangeness of these times with fellow queue members, and some just can’t stop themselves from spouting their ill-considered opinions for the rest of us to benefit from their perceived wisdom.
‘It’s all a plot, this virus. A deliberate invention by the Chinese because we weren’t buying their phones!’ said one fella.
Once inside, you politely try to avoid other shoppers but end up buying whatever you can reach on the shelf, regardless of whether or not you want it, in order to maintain your two-metre distance. It’ll come in, you think. There’ll be a recipe for it somewhere.
And that’s the thing. We are being much more adventurous in our cooking and spending so much more of our time doing it.
‘I managed to get some flour today,’ goes the conversation.
‘So, I’m going to bake a cake. Victoria sponge, I think. Or, I might make scones. Fruit or cheese? Or, possibly both. Or even bread. Or … sod it … I’ll make everything.’
The flour mills are working twenty-four hours a day to try to keep up with the nation’s desire to bake and post pictures of their efforts on social media.
I could murder a treacle tart. If only I hadn’t freed that golden syrup.
But all this eating comes at a price. Weight. So, onto week three …
Exercise.
My poor little dog, Bodger, is exhausted.
Not so long ago he would drag me out of the house bursting with excitement at the prospect of a little exploration. A gentle meander to the beach and back, say hello to one or two dogs along the way. Home. Brekky. Sleep. Job done.
Not any more. Now he cowers at the door as I get him ready for our morning marathon. We march – and I do mean march - up, down, round and round again on every path and stairway leading to every spot of beach or garden that Scarborough has to offer.
And it has many.
I’ve tried to explain to him that our time out of the house must be valuable. It’s precious now. Important. His walk has to count.
I think he hates me.
My phone is complicit in this torture as it obligingly counts the steps we are taking and we are not allowed to return home until an acceptable number has been reached.
So does it end there? A good walk, then get home and do normal stuff like read a book, watch television, bake everything you can think of?
I wish.
Facebook is full of advertisements for exercise gadgets and programmes that promise to transform your entire body, with hardly any effort, in just thirty days. Which of course will ensure that I emerge from this lockdown looking like a supermodel.
There are bits of kit that will flatten your stomach in just ten minutes a day! (I’m unconvinced as to why I need to adopt such a speedy approach when all I have is time, however.)
So, have I been gullible enough to fall prey to this advertising?
Of course I have.
My new possessions include a Yoga mat; a Pilates magic circle; a tension rope and a Pilates stick.
I have found individual workouts utilising each piece of my new kit on YouTube and made up a timetable based on variety, interest and level of skill.
And when the aches and pains in my lower back disappear, I’ll give them a go!
But apart from the potential madness, for those of us who are lucky enough to have a home in which to be imprisoned, there are benefits to be had.
Once you’ve been to the shop and/or had your marathon dog walk, you can get your PJs back on.
You can grow Dennis Healey eyebrows and leave those whiskers on your chin unattended to for days. You can even wait until you’re as grey as my schnauzer before you dye your hair.
You can get all those jobs done that you’ve been threatening to do for years. By week five I reckon the leaves on the plants in the garden will all have been nicely washed and my new pieces of exercise kit will have joined the long since discarded kettle bells in the garage.
Most importantly, we can prevent that feeling of isolation by keeping in touch with family and friends on social media.
We can admire images of all the exciting stuff that people are about to eat, watch videos of friends and family doing whatever it is they do to stop them going nuts. Whether that’s singing, drumming, drawing, dancing, cooking, baking, engaging in on-line quizzes, planting carrot tops or watching your pot plants grow.
It’s the least we can do. Those of us at home, or working from home, are the lucky ones.
By the end of this, in spite of the home exercise regime, most of us will have gained a little weight.
For very few, weight might be the only thing they’ve lost.
All of us, without exception, will have lost something.
Many businesses will have gone bust. Many will have lost money, income and customers, perhaps even jobs.
Some of us will have lost a loved one.
But, many others, will have lost their lives.
