Not long after deciding to begin writing a diary during lockdown I realized it was a bad idea. And that was Day #3.
Only a dimwit would decide to start observing the world around them at the precise point that freedom is forcibly removed, leaving observation limited to the confines of one’s own home. Perhaps this should be the new term for a ‘Covidiot’?
And then, there’s the other sore point, that my title of choice for this diary “ABCD’s Lockdown” was rendered inaccurate on Saturday, when B & A were also frog-marched from the scene.
But “C&Ds Lockdown” sounds half-baked, so I’ll stick with the original title. Which brings me onto another subject matter. All diarists are different, and I could just write long monologues about my feelings, but that’s snoringly indulgent; in danger of being disinteresting, even to me. Not to mention, my feelings are subject to change too. Other people’s feelings, however, that’s a different story! Been lied to by your manager? Come into my office and tell me more! Stuck in a career rut? Let’s talk about your life goals. Husband did what? Have another glass of wine, tell me all about your wonderful man!
If nothing else, a diary can teach us what we’re interested in. There’s no point rallying on about what a rubbish president Trump is. I’ll only get lots of laughs and thumbs up, and it’s all too obvious, because no one I know is a misogynistic racist narcissist, (not since I cleaned them all out my life in 2008,) so now anyone who bothers to read it will likely agree with me. The point of a diary is to find out who you are, and how to be true to that person, and how to make a record of that day in authentic way. But the problem I have is that the purpose of a diary is also to record spectacular events witnessed, (drunken community leaders making fools of themselves, cat fights between two old local ladies, celebrity visits to our restaurant, startling ‘facts’ my kids throw at me.) But right now we are living through the most spectacularly dramatic crisis we have never encountered, and yet simultaneously, missing the whole god-damn show. I’m old enough to remember 9/11 had huge bangs, bright explosions, toxic smoke, corpses sky-falling. And unlike many who watched this horror minutes later on the news, I watched it in real time, from my couch in London, because I’d taken an unprecedented sick day off work, ignorantly pregnant. The moment was intrusive, relentless, unmistakably dramatic, awful, life changing. I knew the moment it started, there was so much to discuss. That night, Trafalgar Square was emptied, Momo’s (London hippest bar at the time) was dead. But by 12th September, London was back to normality, an ocean apart from the awfulness. But this crisis is different.
Now we have nothing to witness, but the vivid silence of our own homes, and the News that Apple, and our other subscriptions, decide for us that we want to read. Back on 11th September 2001, I watched in horror as the world seemingly came to an abrupt end, thinking I was coming down with something, but never assuming it was the start to something as wonderful as motherhood. Here in April 2020, I have no idea what’s beginning. Whatever it is, I have no idea if it is a good thing. A bit like this diary.
Global news: Total cases tops 3m. France reports spike in new cases. US- Stay at home order extended for SanFrancisco Bay; will be lifted in Texas by Friday. U.K. to hold minutes silence for dead key-workers’, their families will get £60K. Rare syndrome seen in British children.
CI News: 0 new positive cases to report. Total 70. We are to stay strong, and #stayhomecayman.