Never put an Oscar before your recovery – that’s how seriously we take staying sober

I was halfway over Chelsea Bridge heading into south London when I heard the news on the radio that there was an outbreak of the South African variant in Wandsworth. Oh my god. That’s the borough we have just arrived in? It’s meant to be day one of lockdown easing.  Do I turn back? Now apparently I have to get PCR tested as I’ve entered the danger zone.

I thought it was all over? While others might be heading to hair salons and pubs, we have just pulled up at Battersea Park Children’s Zoo. I was looking for a harmless day out, but now it feels as dangerous as the Wild West as we queue up with potential local super spreaders. It would have been a perfect excuse not to come; I’m overrun with play dates, I can barely cope.

My co-dependency has swung into action since lockdown eased and I just can’t say “no”. I’m drowning in double bookings – pencilling in more fun activities by the minute after a drought since last summer.  But going to the zoo two days in a row to “people please” is extreme.

Surely though, it’s ludicrous if I test us all for the SA variant tonight until I’m out of south London completely by tomorrow? Just when I thought we were safe – my dad is vaccinated – and now a new variant is in London that could dodge the vaccine. More importantly, it could tip me back over the edge mentally.

I try to forget about it. We are at the zoo with my new single dad friend Alex who has more similarities to my Alex than I expected – good looks is one of them. I’m reliving similar feelings just being in the car with him. His male presence is strangely comforting and I find myself looking for gentle reassurance about where I’ve parked. “No that’s a disabled bay,” he tells me. As I’m lulled into a false sense of security that I’m not a single mum, I keep asking him things just so I can say his name and my daughter's name in the same sentence. “Alex, can you pass me the wet wipes for Liberty’s nose?”

It’s almost like my Alex is back but has blond hair. “But it’s not him, they just have the same name,” I keep telling myself. We have an idyllic day. He wants to book a cottage for a staycation with us and his two kids – can I find it? “Don’t worry about the cost,” he says. It’s a great idea but I’m totally overbooked at this point.

I have an unexpected breather later that afternoon when Maldives Chloe cancels. She wanted to borrow Muggles to do an interior hoover of her car of croissant crumbs, but she doesn’t want to risk getting the SA variant from us after I tell her about being in Wandsworth.

With time on my hands, I nearly end up following a TikTok cleaning hack to clean the radiators with Fabulosa spray but my phone alarm pings to remind me of my weekly recovery meeting. That’s lucky because I later learnt it can cause explosions.

It’s a private online NA meeting with only four of us. One member is late as he is just finishing his Bafta acceptance speech downstairs in his basement in LA. He is only running a few minutes late, but the chairperson is insistent we start on time. I know the slogan “Whatever you put in front of your recovery you lose” – but let’s hope the Oscars aren’t at the same time as his home group this week.

I haven't had a drink for over 21 years and a meeting always helps me feel more centred. It also puts me in a good headspace for our first trip out of London since lockdown lifted.

A friend has bought a house in the Lake District to rent out and I turn up as she is fitting the place with new furniture. When I leave my bedroom for five minutes to have a shower, I come back and she had swung the bed around and built a walk-in wardrobe. “Good God, that’s quick!” I almost get disorientated and think I’ve taken a wrong turn. Is this definitely my bedroom? Oh yes, I see she’s just draped all my clothes and bags over a bamboo hanging rail that wasn’t there before.

After a few drinks, she starts shouting about “Brexiteer idiots” and the death of the economy with lockdowns. She’s quite right but I feel like I’m at a political protest rather than waiting for my roast fish with pine nuts. The next morning she apologises for forgetting how to socialise after a long period of lockdown. I know how she feels; it’s exhausting talking to so many people again.

We go out rowing on a lake to flex her arm muscles after she’s done a vigorous yoga session in the garden. As I hold on to Lola and Liberty for dear life, we get caught in the wheat chaff like a Timotei shampoo advert gone terribly wrong. Suddenly I see a floating combine harvester like a machine version of Freddy Krueger coming towards us. “Arabella! Look out! It’s got suction.” Lola and Liberty can’t swim? They don’t have any life vests on.

I recall her earlier stats about the perils for our children of the government closing swimming pools during lockdown as we narrowly avoid crashing into it. Drowning is the second highest cause of accidental death for children under five in the UK. It’s an essential life skill. But are we going to make it to the docking bay? I look to the sky – it’s blue – I’m traumatised. And she says “Charlotte the water is only three feet deep. It’s designed for children.” I take a sigh of relief. But to be honest, it’s exhausting being on a week-long play date with tons of friends after the solitude of lockdown. I need a break.