6am Woken up by birds singing outside. Smug little bastards. WE GET IT, YOU’RE OUTSIDE.
11am Had a lie in because I couldn’t think of a reason not to. Don’t know how anyone is going to convince me to go back to the 9-5 life after this. (Only joking, Rough Guides, if you’re reading this – please give me my job back, I love you).
11:10am Christ, I’m like the desperate ex. Have I no shame?
11:11am Don’t answer that.
12:30pm Trying to arrange an online drink with a pal. Somehow I am already booked up tonight, tomorrow and possibly Wednesday, and she is busy on Thursday. We decide on Friday night, though she warns me that she already has online bottomless brunch during the day, so might be a bit tipsy. Quite how I’ve managed to let this happen, I don’t know. Maybe I can start making myself feel a bit more normal by flaking on some online meet ups?
1pm Video call with the GP about a painful and persistent rash that’s come up on my face that I thought could be stress-related. She says she thinks it could be impetigo. Perfect. Why my body waited to get a stress fracture and a highly infectious, painful, crusty rash (sexy, I know) until there was a pandemic happening is BEYOND ME.
1:15pm Stress eat a brownie and immediately feel much better. Whoever advised against comfort eating clearly hasn’t done it properly.
1:30pm Planning lessons for all three boys tomorrow. I don’t really like lesson planning, so I intended to use the POMODORO method: 25 mins of work and a 5 min break – but then I start a crazy arts and crafts project, get a bit high off Sharpie fumes and end up making this. I’m seemed like a good idea at the time but I can’t really remember how it’s relevant to the Italian future tense at this point.
3pm Flatmate has bought Fanta Lemon. Tastes like summer. If you can’t go on holiday, I suppose, bring holiday to you.
8pm Zoom date with a gorgeous pal who insists on buying me dinner and having it delivered to my flat. Overwhelmed with how generous and thoughtful my friends are. We chat and eat and laugh for two hours and I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
1am Can’t sleep. Am fretting again. Consider getting up and having a whiskey; then I remember I am not a fictional middle-aged detective with depression and an alcohol problem from a throwaway airport paperback, but am instead a basic white girl in a global pandemic. Pop my earphones in and listen to a Brené Brown podcast instead; much more on brand.