As the end of lockdown approaches, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave the house

As with everything at the moment, the country seems divided. There are those who cannot bloody wait for real life to bounce right back in their faces; who view the proposed date of 21 June as the final release from “Corona captivity”.

Then, there are the rest of us, who desperately want to feel “normal” about returning to “normal”; but find ourselves feeling conflicted – and in my case – downright nervous.

As a 61-year-old who is so far, single-jabbed (the Astra Zeneca at a bog standard pharmacy in Herne Hill, I wish I’d felt more of “a moment”), I vacillate between feeling hugely optimistic and snivellingly pessimistic.

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I’m also not sure how much “normality” I can take in one go. I would love to feel confident enough to be booking a holiday; but, so far, I haven’t even looked at any potential destinations. Apart from a dodgy year of finances, why aren’t I being more gung ho about this? Well, without wanting to sound too dramatic, I don’t think any of us can come through a year-long pandemic without being affected in some way or another.

For me, I can detect a slight leaning towards the agoraphobic. I haven’t even been in a shop for a couple of months; opting instead for click and collect – and although one of the first things I want to do once we’re allowed is browse around Liberty’s, I also feel quite anxious at the prospect.

On the one hand, I’m desperate to get some use out of my over-60s London travel pass, which has lain dormant in my handbag for the last 12 months; but on the other hand, the idea of jumping on public transport makes me feel a tad queasy.

The social aspect of life after 21 June is also bothering me. I’m just not sure I’m going to be ready for the full-on sensory overload of, say, a dinner party.

Will I really be able to sit indoors, in close proximity with a mixture of mates and strangers, and hold my own conversationally – while eating and wearing clothes all at the same time? To be quite honest with you, I haven’t eaten an evening meal for over a year, dressed in anything other than my nightie. As for sitting upright at a table, that habit went months ago. Tables are for jigsaws and painting, these days – not plates and wine glasses.

Getting quite comfortable in lockdown is a peculiar thing. It’s probably most common in people of my age who haven’t had the rigours of homeschooling to deal with, and who live quite comfortably.

I was trying to explain to a mate how I felt about coming out of my Covid shell, recently, and the only way I could describe it was: that it’s like being on a very long, comfortable, business-class flight. You can’t go anywhere, but you have food and drink and films a go-go. You can read a book, listen to a podcast, you are safe, (this hypothetical flight is turbulence-free), you have no responsibilities, you just have to sit there until it’s over.

Once you land, of course, you have to deal with all the grown-up stuff again and take back control – essentially, I have been a giant baby for a year.

But it does seem as though some of us are more easily institutionalised than others, and in some respects I’d be the ideal candidate for an open prison, as long as I had an ensuite and plenty of arts and crafts on tap.

The other worrying aspect of post-pandemic freedom is the pursuit of perfection. I know what I’m like, and I will want everything to be joyful. My expectations will be moon-high. When I do pluck up the courage to have people over, to go to a restaurant or see a show; then these much-missed treats better be good – and even though I look forward to a family lunch, there’s a tiny bit of me that dreads how easily it could all go wrong. After all, we all remember Boxing Day 2019!

There’s also a very personal reason that I’m nervous about the world coming out of its chrysalis. By the end of this month, my mother’s care home – which is 250 miles away –will be opening its doors to one visitor per resident a week. I’m desperate to see June properly indoors and hold her hands, but when that visiting day finally comes, I’m also going to have to face up to the fact that the dementia that kicked in so brutally last September has stolen her memory forever.

Talking to her on the phone is traumatic enough – will I really be able to see her in the flesh without weeping? In any case, who will get first visiting dibs: me, my sister or our brother? At the moment, every step forward is shadowed with confusion and worry.

For many women, the approaching relaxing of rules means letting the kids out again. Most will be delighted, but again, the silver lining is accompanied by that dark cloud of worrying about their safety.

We all want to come out to play again, but some of us might take longer than others to enjoy it – so please, be patient.