Trudy feels strange as this third stretch in solitary comes to an end

Back in pre-Covid times there were moments when I imagined what it would be like to do a short stretch in prison. There were days when the thought of a six-month sentence was almost as tempting as a spa holiday. A few weeks off work, no bills and no obligation to spend time with the people I didn’t want to spend time with.

I’d finally get round to writing that novel. I might even work on my abs. Most importantly, somebody else would be thinking about what to cook for breakfast, lunch and dinner. How many marriages have finally broken down over those three little words: “What’s for tea?” Can’t just be mine.

Of course, I know that prison isn’t really like a spa hotel and that I’d likely have to share a cell with someone much bigger than me who had an enthusiasm for death metal, as my neighbours’ builders do. And, having experienced lockdown, I now know that not being able to see who you want when you want to is a cruel punishment indeed.

So why do I feel so strange about the end of this third spell in solitary? Since BoJo set out his roadmap, promising light at the end of the tunnel (no, not promising. BoJo doesn’t even pretend to promise anything anymore), I have felt oddly conflicted. Of course I want this bloody lockdown to be over and yet… I get a nervous sensation in my stomach when I think about it. Is this how an old lag feels when probation is finally in sight? Have I been institutionalised in my own home?

Perhaps it’s the nagging sense that I haven’t achieved anything like what I ought to have achieved without the distractions of a social life or the time suck of a commute. I haven’t baked a single sourdough loaf. My foray into crafting was cut short when I overdid the knitting and gave myself a shoulder injury. I haven’t written a novel. I haven’t learned a new language. I haven’t even stuck with a week’s worth of Yoga with Adriene. When there has been literally nothing to do but work, how is it that I haven’t even managed to up my game on that front?

This morning, having lain awake pondering all that time wasted, I went for an early sanity stroll. Not early enough. I’d forgotten that today marked the first step on Bojo’s road to freedom. The common was thronged with excited-looking parents dragging their children to school. Actual school! By the time I had completed my circuit, there was a queue 20-long outside the coffee shop where I normally pick up the cappuccino I photograph for Bella’s Instagram “positivity project”. There was a buzz of excitement in the air as parents let loose from the tyranny of home-school looked forward to their first childfree coffee of 2021. A couple of them were actually crying at the thought of the wild freedom that lay ahead.

Back at my desk in time for the first Zoom meeting of the week, I was still pondering the sheer relief on those parents’ faces. For the first time since January, my colleague Sarah joined us with combed hair. Our boss Bella’s stepson Zach had also gone back to school but Bella had not had much to do with his home-schooling. Bella was of the opinion that her husband’s ex was being paid plenty to deal with that.

So with the children safely tucked away in real classrooms, a whole Zoom hour went by without any “cute” interruptions, unless you count the moment when Sarah’s husband came in to ask her where he might find a new toilet roll. We all knew the answer. It wasn’t the first time this lockdown he’d asked. George sent me an eye-roll emoji on WhatsApp.

Bella brought the meeting to a close by reminding us that the end of home-schooling meant our rivals would be back in force now. We needed to redouble our efforts to promote our clients by thinking of PR angles relating to the loosening of restrictions.

“How are you going to use the end of lockdown to promote #Yne?” Bella picked on me first, referencing the non-alcohol root vegetable-based beverage (pronounced “Wine, silent hashtag”) that I’d had great luck with around Valentine’s Day.

“Well people won’t need to drink so much alcohol to get through the endless days,” I suggested. “So #Yne is the perfect alternative for people who want to cut back and shift their lockdown love handles.”

“Excellent,” said Bella.

“Creep,” George WhatsApped me.

Lockdown love-handles were on my mind as I answered the door to Glenn the postman, bringing tidings from my goddaughter Caroline. They weren’t specifically tidings for me, they were for Dominic Raab. I was merely CCd in. But Caroline had put a kiss on the post-it note attached to my copy of her proposals regarding various Foreign Office activities, saying “Let me know the minute you receive this, Auntie T.”

As Glenn and I shared pleasantries on the doorstep, Brenda stepped out of her house. She was wearing a tracksuit. It looked like the kind of vintage Fila that goes for hundreds on DePop, though I suspected Brenda wasn’t wearing it ironically.

She jogged across the street. “Got to get fit now we’re all going to be allowed out again,” she said. She put her foot on my wall for an ostentatious ham-string stretch. “My boyfriend tells me he’s going to be on the first flight from the DRC to Heathrow the minute the air space opens. He’s a Red Cross doctor. I met him on Facebook,” she told Glenn. “We’ve just got to sort out his ticket. I offered to buy it but apparently the name on the credit card has to be the same as that of the ticket holder so I might need your help to tell me how to do a bank transfer,” Brenda addressed that part to me.

I could tell when I looked at Glenn that he was thinking what I was thinking. A money transfer to a man she’d never met in the flesh? Brenda’s new boyfriend simply had to be a scammer. How were we going to handle this?