9am Wake up and inform boyfriend that I have had another crazy quarantine dream. He asks me to tell him about it. I warn him that it’s quite long and probably only interesting to me. He wants to hear it anyway.
9:05am Boyfriend has fallen back asleep during my recounting of the dream. I shake him awake and he tells me, “Sorry, I just thought it was going to be a bit more dramatic.”
10:30am French lesson. K does not want to do any work and would much rather spend the time changing his Zoom backgrounds to various Star Wars images. He keeps tellinh me, ‘Je déteste français!’ and I keep sighing and telling him, ‘Non, tu détestes le français.’
11am Have recovered enough from my tryst with Zak that I am ready to be hurt again. Log back onto the Vodafone Live Chat.
12pm You never get exactly what you want from phone companies, do you? I’ve got a contract that’s £3 over the budget I set myself with about four times as much data as I need (less data was more expensive for some reason). Also, the phone I’ve ordered is bigger than I wanted – but it has a good camera (or three!) and 64GB of memory rather than the 32GB I’m used to – so I’m happy.
12:15pm Or maybe I’m just mistaking happiness for relief that I won’t have to speak to Vodafone again for a few years.
2pm We have caved into peer pressure and made banana bread. It is heavenly if I do say so myself (and I do).
5.30pm Go for a long walk with boyfriend and flatmate; arrive home to find a friend has left us tomato plant seedlings and vegan chocolate orange chunk cookies, which are glorious. There is also a parcel for boyfriend, who has ordered some more running socks from Sports Direct. It’s a very heavy parcel for a few pairs of socks; boyfriend pulls out a square box from inside and shakes it. Sounds like something ceramnic. It’s not… could it be? The fabled Sports Direct mug? We open the box. It is indeed a Sports Direct mug – cracked into several pieces. A metaphor for our broken and interrupted youth (probably).
6pm Boyfriend goes to supermarket to forage for supplies. I have a nap. Naps are my new favourite thing.
8pm Woken from nap by the NHS clap. Everyone is in the street and leaning out of windows, applauding, whooping, banging pots and pans.
8:02pm The clap is over. Everyone goes back inside and recommences ignoring their neighbours.
9pm Boyfriend, flatmate and I have declared tonight Pirate Night. We dress up for the occasion; I have a bandanna, knee-high boots, an eyeliner ‘scar’ and use my half marathon medal as a medallion. Boyfriend makes himself a pirate hat hat, blows up a rubber ring unicorn (his ‘ship’) and cuts up an old black t-shirt to make an eye patch. Flatmate ties a red t-shirt round his head, pins a rubber duck to his shoulder using a cotton bud and a paperclip, puts on eye make up and uses a broken clothes rail as a ‘sword’. Immensely proud of the results.
9:30pm We eat jerk chicken, rice and peas courtesy of boyfriend and flatmate (‘Caribbean’). Drink rum and cokes from Captain Morgan tankards.
10:30pm Put on Pirates of the Caribbean: The Black Pearl, still one of my favourite films of all time even though it only passes the Bechdel test by a whisker. Drinking game commences, although there isn’t much point as I feel the pandemic is a drinking game in and of itself.
1am Want to know my favourite pirate joke? Well, tough, because I’m going to tell you. What’s a pirates favourite letter? (You roll your eyes and answer, ‘ARRRRR!’). I smile, shake my head and say, ‘Aye, but his first love be the sea.’