‘Lockdown brings old flames out of the woodwork in droves’

How many weeks have we been in this lockdown? If I’d used the time to whittle ivory like a Napoleonic prisoner, I could have made a scale model of the armada by now.  If I’d used the time sensibly, I certainly could have improved my yoga skills. Instead, I have set my email filters so that anything from Yoga With Adriene goes straight into spam. I still can’t do a headstand but I feel much better about it.

Bella continues to insist that we all file a daily “wellbeing” photograph for the office Instagram. My colleagues seem to be scrambling as badly as I am to find photo-worthy moments in the endless days. George posted another abstract shot of a cappuccino yesterday morning. Issy was reduced to photographing a pigeon. I photographed a Sainsbury’s Belgian chocolate choux bun but couldn’t use the pic. My biggest client, Saskia, produces a vegan non-alcoholic root-based beverage (#Yne, silent hashtag) and I’m keen to be involved when she launches her Kettle Chip-fragranced candles next month. She sent me a sample last week. She says the idea is that the scent of crisps can help satisfy cravings and support weight loss. It doesn’t work. Every time I burn one of the candles, I feel an irresistible urge to go to the chippy on the way back from my sanity stroll.

The potato candle did draw Minky the hamster out from hiding last night, however. She emerged from beneath the fridge, nose atwitch. I got down on my hands and knees and crept across the kitchen floor towards her with a colander in lieu of a net. I got so close, but then my knitting injury flared up, my shoulder gave way and I collapsed face first onto the floor. Minky escaped and one of my front teeth feels a bit loose.

My tooth was on my mind when Liz called for a catch-up as I took my state-mandated exercise the next day.  As I did a circuit of Tooting Common, she was simultaneously traipsing through a Herefordshire apple orchard with Jimmy the terrier. “The Foxy Farmer has broken up with his girlfriend,” she told me, referring to her neighbour – the one I kissed on NYE 2019 – who may or may not have been in the SAS. Just like every other man you meet in Hereford. “Expect a call.”

The Foxy Farmer and I had attempted a few virtual dates in Lockdown One but that all stopped when he shacked up for Lockdown Two with a veterinary nurse he’d met in a pub garden on an “Eat Out to Help Out” night.

Liz and I had previously observed that lockdown brings old flames out of the woodwork in droves. Last April, I received a message from someone I haven’t seen since school and when you consider that some of our classmates now have grandchildren… It was a photograph of him with his top off, revealing a not unimpressive set of abs. I never would have guessed how he’d turn out when I last saw him aged 15. But a quick look at his Facebook profile also revealed a wife and two daughters. “Have you been hacked?” I responded, putting the end to that.

Liz and I had more interesting things to talk about.  “Has your mum had the vaccination yet?” she wanted to know.

“She’s got an appointment,” I said. “Though she’s still concerned that the vaccine contains nano-bots that will empty her bank account.”

Mum has always been very careful about giving out financial information. When she wants to buy anything online, she rings me to give me the details of what she wants – a nest of tables or brass reproduction Victorian fire set for example – and has me order it for her. “I don’t want the House of Havant getting my credit card details,” she says. Which is how the House of Havant (Home of Taste and Beauty) ended up getting my credit card details and I ended up getting their catalogue through the post every month for five years. There was always a picture of a commode on the front cover. No wonder Glenn the Postie looked so upset when I accidentally kissed him.

“Mum will have the vaccine,” I assured Liz. “If she thinks not having it will stop her going on her river cruise.”

“Are you still going on that river cruise?”

“It’s the only thing in my diary between now and the end of time.”

It was pencilled in for September. My pre-50th birthday treat. FML.

Liz was right about the Foxy Farmer.  He texted me a couple of hours later, suggesting a “Facetime drink”.

“Tomorrow morning? About 11?”

The timing made me wonder if he really had broken up with his girlfriend or if she was just on a morning shift at the surgery. It was a bit early for a real drink but I had half a bottle of #Yne left with which to show willing. It was non-alcoholic beetroot pinot (pronounced “What in Satan’s name even is this?”).

At 11 o’clock, the Foxy Farmer called from what looked like a shed. We made small talk and it was fun – I miss small talk – but I have to admit I was very relieved when just as he asked me to take my top off, Glenn the postie knocked on the door, giving me the perfect excuse to cut the call short.

Glenn had another padded envelope from my goddaughter Coraline, I mean Caroline. This time she had copied me in on her extensive correspondence to Matt Hancock, suggesting that anyone over 65 who refused the vaccine should have their free bus pass withdrawn. She quoted long-dead Scots-American preacher Peter Marshall (a man who once called for women to be “simple” and “pure” rather than “smart”. I had to look him up). “May we think of freedom not as the right to do as we please, but as the opportunity to do what is right.” I hoped it was just the first thing that came up when Caroline googled “quotes on freedom”.