This used to be my life

Hello, I’m writing again, beginning with a pen and paper, but without the slightest provocation. For a flash of your time then, change logic for love, and join me.

What’s changed?

I give great thanks for the first change in my life – I’m writing more. If you like, I’m reconvening with the ghosts of all my unwritten thoughts and momentary ideas. Mainly, I think I have lockdown to thank for this. The current human condition has forced me to buy a first class ticket for travel to my unconscious.

Here are a few snapshots of things that I used to experience before I went into hiding.

Travelling to work

I am a contractor and freelancer, so you’d think that the lack of human interaction wouldn’t bother me so acutely. But it does. Seeing people in the flesh in three dimensions, speaking, sharing and breathing. That’s the kind of trigger I need to be able to remind myself of my true existence. It helps to tell me I’m real. The same applies when it comes to observing total strangers. The main way I used to do this was on my commute to work. Again, the cold wind on my face, repeated challenges of dodging bird seed, dog crap and pigeons provided me with the obstacles of my realness. When a squirrel ran from my approach and shot up a tree, I knew without doubt that I had made a physical influence on the world around me. And how can I forget the geese, whose primordial call would cause me to shiver at the realisation of my own vulnerability as an office plant with typing skills. Yes, this domestic house enclosure we find we’re in has removed many convenient opportunities for a writer’s right to people-watch.

Dabbling in bookshops

One of my countless ways to retreat from society’s fire is by nesting in a private corner of a bookshop. The perfect bookshop experience should begin quietly and progress to silence. Nothing rescues me from overstimulation like turning pages. Most recently, that’s now gone too.

Buying overpriced coffee

Caffeine offers anxiety, but the act of exchanging money for the bubbling comfort of a warm drink has vanished, coffee or not. The passing of objects between people is gradually becoming unnatural, unhygienic, and not to be recommended. I see the odd person sipping an unidentified hot liquid from a sippy cup.

Unexpected conversations

Moving from job to job every 6 months to a year offers another sort of relish. I’m talking about the chance to enhance your understanding of the human experience. Connection. Clearly I don’t need to explain the damage this can do to a writer’s inspiration. But for our species, the rationing of exchange between people is probably the most tragic of losses.

Laugh or lie down

Isolation does wonders for spare time, so I’ve written this blog. It’s my small way of offering support for everyone facing the Coronavirus. In one way or another, that’s the whole of humanity.

This blog isn’t for anyone in particular, but everyone – all human beings who breathe, worry, live, eat, sleep, love, and of course, read. I decided to write it in a kind of diary entry style.

What gives with the title?

I’ve called this blog ‘Laugh or lie down’ as a call to optimism. I believe words can cure, and my communications with people (at a safe distance of course) have increased. The range of topics I’ve discussed has done much the same. My consideration for other people has risen a notch. I’m not referring to those who’d stick their neighbour over toilet rolls. That’s not good sportsmanship. Some people must be worried that they’ll be reduced to dragging themselves across carpet to clean their ass.

I’ve tried to cover the events of the day before, plus the last week, when I first realised that I might actually have to adapt to a new style of life. The world hasn’t threatened us with the prospect of having to rear bantams or grow our own vegetables yet, but each day casts its own horizon.

Cold desert train

When I wrote this, I was on a train from Kent to London. Every station I passed through was almost devoid of human life. The train driver made each announcement as if to more than one passenger. I believe I was the only person on the train. Although I imagined we were sharing our loneliness, he didn’t say anything to me as he walked along the carriage. He didn’t even check my ticket. I guess we were both wary of our risk to one another. After he’d left the carriage I squirted sanitiser on my hands. That gloop stings like hell on cracked skin.

One man learning

I started working exclusively at home on 17 March. The organisation I work for were debating whether to switch to full remote working on the evening before. On that same evening, I sat alone with my Cantonese teacher in a cold room painted gym colours. She stifled a few coughs, and I wondered whether I should’ve worn a mask. Then I reminded myself that this would only have muted my already obscure pronunciation and hybrid Anglo-Chinese accent.

One of the benefits of being the only person stupid enough to attend a language school during a pandemic, is all the attention. In fact, there were these 30 second bursts of time when we just chatted and laughed, mainly at the situation. That was until I asked her what Corona really meant for the future of classes, at which point, she referred to the language school policy and I shut my mouth.

Laugh

It’s difficult to plan without thinking about the virus, which is why I’m going to make an effort to laugh more. I think we all should. And when I do laugh, I’ll go at it like a man savouring something that’s about to be taken away from him.