Treacle

Harrumph.

Sigh.

Really?

Oh right. 

It's just the same. Every day. Punxsutawney Phil and all that goes with him. 

But it's not the same, because actually each day the heart sinks a little bit lower, the brain slows down a little bit more, the shoulders slump closer to the ground. 

Eeyore would be in his element. 

Wading through treacle, as my wise colleague Gabrielle has said. Or a slurry pit, with equally risky consequences. 

The first time around we had adrenaline, claps, free chocolate bars, free live music streamed to our couches. We had warm evenings. Food delivery was a novelty. Zoom was like something out of Star Wars, for those of us who grew up in a house where the phone was locked with an actual key. We dressed up for pretend nights out. We camped in the garden for our holidays. Oh What Fun we had! It was like something out of Enid Blyton, without the weird colonial overtones and god-knows-what undertones. 

The "second lockdown" was a pathetically understated affair. My life changed not a single iota, except that we missed our chance to go to a fancy restaurant. Then came the great escape of the December opening up. What a bloody omnishambles that was. We went to the local (not fancy) restaurant and I hated every minute of it. All I could see was those goddamn spiky-ball virus particles swirling around our heads, swarming towards our mouths and noses. I ran out of there and scrubbed myself clean when we got home. Oh What Fun. 

And then the deluge of phonecalls at work. Cough. Sore throat. Headache. Sore body. Feel funny. Partner positive. Mother positive. Aunty positive. Granny positive. All 24 guests at my wedding positive. And the waiting staff. And the receptionist in the hotel. And the priest. And the lead mourner at the funeral the priest did the next day. And so on, and so on, and so on....

The covid calls began to calm down, just trickling in every other day or so. There were more of the "my heart is beating really fast in my chest and I don't know why" calls, and the "I have panic attacks on my way to work" calls, and the "my son with special needs is desperately in need of routine and support" calls.

And the homeschooling. Emergency education, someone called it, and that makes so much more sense. Teaching phonetics with dopey rhymes that I can't remember. Arguing about whether a semi-circle has corners. Having a mental awareness at all times of how lucky we are to have enough devices, enough broadband, enough heat and food in the house. Getting irritated at not being the kind of person who allows themselves to wallow in self-pity. 

And then there are the ups. Driving into my workplace with tears in my eyes because the sun is shining, there are helpful happy guards outside directing hopeful happy older people and their helpful happy relatives inside to get their first shot of the vaccine. The practice is full of chatter and laughter. The sun is streaming in. It is a beautiful day. 

They are almost no phonecalls about coughs or temperatures now. I am able to ask the person with the sore knee, or funny thing on their face, or a pain in their side, if they would like to come in to see me. They are relieved, and so am I.

Some things that I have been planning for a while are coming to fruition. Some things require fizzy bubbles to celebrate. There is hope. 

But it is still All. Quite. Hard.