Corona Journal, 15 April: Day 31

8:30am Alright, alright, I’m up. Hiding Easter eggs around the flat.

9am Lesson with M. I had games planned but he is only interested in playing ‘Bakery Bakery’, which is a game that involves him shouting the names of ingredients and me mixing them together in a bowl. Today we end up with a flour/orange/cereal/apple/coffee/milk combination.

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10am M was so sad when we finished the lesson that he started crying. Am glowing with pride.

11am First Italian lesson with the boys’ grandmother has just finished. She is absolutely lovely and reminds me how much easier it is to teach people who really want to learn. She tells me that her husband died 8 years ago, and then, in a conspiratorial tone, says that although it ‘sounds bad’, her life is much easier now: she does pilates and goes for walks and breakfast with her friends, she does pewter work and love to travel. Iconic.

1:30pm K is not interested in learning any French today. He says he ‘just needs to go and ask his mum something’ in the middle of the lesson and returns, saying – ‘I’m hungry, so I had this idea where you could tell me how to make a pizza in French’. Fuck my lesson plan, right? Turns out he wants to heat up the pizza from the fridge and has never used the oven before. He keeps asking me how to turn it on. Uh oh.

2pm An Easter parcel has arrived from my mum, packed full of chocolate eggs and Lindt Easter bunnies as well as basil seeds and little pots to grow them in. 30 minutes later, a similar parcel arrives from flatmate’s mum. What would we do without mums? Be skinnier, probably.

5pm Decide to walk to my blood donation appointment. Realise that you’re not supposed to drink after giving blood, which doesn’t bode well for trash book club later.

7pm Nurse asks if I’m planning on operating any heavy machinery within the next 24 hours. I just look at her. “I’ll tick ‘no’,” she says.

7:10pm Two finger pricks down and I’m not allowed to give blood because of the cream I am still putting on sexy sore rash on my face. Get a Bolt home.

7.30pm At least I can drink during trash book club, I guess.

8pm Pour myself a gin.

8.10pm Heat up some soup for dinner. Grate some cheese directly into it because fuck everything.

8.15pm Boyfriend complains about going on his 12-hour night shift. “Oh, sorry that you still have a job,” I tell him. “Oh, sorry that you’re being paid 80% of your salary to do fuck all,” he replies. Hmmmm. You win this round, boyfriend.

8.25pm Pour myself another gin.

8.30pm Trash book club is very funny. We discuss Night with a SEAL, the Cat Johnson classic; particular highlights include references to the ‘meat laden air’ and the part in the book’s one sex scene where the protagonist ‘almost falls off her new cork-wedge sandals’. Incredible.

9.30pm Turns out that the next trash book we have chosen is actually a collection of Marian Keye’s journalism, so way less trashy than we thought. What a classic book club move. Still very excited to get stuck in.

11pm Meant to start reading and journaling an hour ago to wind down before sleep; instead, I have eaten an entire Lindt bunny and scrolled Twitter and am now experiencing a sugar and anxiety rush. My heart is pounding as I try to sleep. Wonder if maybe I am my own worst enemy. Delete the Twitter app from my phone.

I hate to be this person (that’s a lie, I love the attention) but I’ve made the Corona Journal into a newsletter so you can get it emailed to you every day. Each post/email takes 1-2 minutes to read and let’s be honest, what else have you got to do right now? Also, sorry. You can subscribe here.

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