DAYDREAMING THROUGH THE WINDOW

There's a plane soaring diagonally left to right across the window. Up, up, through the blue, leaving a clear vapour trail of two white lines behind its tiny glinting engines.

The plane disappears behind a cloud. The trail lingers on behind it.

There's a cabin crew up there. A drinks trolley is being pushed along a narrow aisle between the reclining seats. Cans of gin and bottles of tonic water, Budweiser, and coke are clinking over the noise of the air filters and engines. A masked crew-member is leaning over and asking a man in a tie whether he wants milk in his cardboard cup of coffee-water. A lady flicks through the glossy pages of the in-flight magazine, and a small kid is tracing the path of the plane on the digital screen with his finger. There beneath his smudgy little print, the miniature yellow plane moves silently across the blanket digital green of Southern England.

Is it hard to imagine that somewhere under those pixels, there's a technical writer sitting in a quiet house with a ticking clock? Is it difficult to picture him looking up through the blue sky at the same thing - a tiny plane leaving a straight line as it jets across the blue sky?

Who knows where that plane is going. North, I think, if I've got my bearings right. Perhaps to Oslo, Stockholm, Scandinavia? Perhaps to pine forests and glaciers and mountains and snow? I'd switch places in a heartbeat.

Of course, international travel is more of an ordeal at the moment. Countries are on red lists, and other places require extensive testing, vaccination passports, a whole load of expense and hassle; travelling anywhere on a plane is probably more stressful than I imagine from my quiet workspace down here. I am (though I choose not to acknowledge it, I suppose) better off staying where I am.

There is though, a burning sense of adventure, a thirst for something new and different. Perhaps it's just the claustrophobia of the season - the result of months of being told we simply can't go anywhere. Perhaps it's more of an indication that something about comfort is uncomfortable, and I'm restless. Or perhaps I'm subconsciously squashing the things I need to concentrate on in the here and now, by dreaming of escaping from them.

Yeah. Let's go with that. That might be why I was daydreaming through the window in the first place.

AN AFTERNOON OFF AND A FLOWERPOT

Well it was quite the day yesterday. I took the afternoon off, got annoyed with some finger food and ate a flowerpot, then sat in the EE store, upgrading my phone.

Where to start? Well. Sammy and I took some of her family out to lunch, and I mistakenly ordered the  chicken skewers. They were okay; quite tasty, but, much to my horror, the kind of food you just can't eat without making a mess.

I've probably mentioned it before, but I just get so stressed with messy food. I'm not being a snob, I just find it super-socially-awkward getting covered in a sticky, gooey, mess - and this in an age where actual cutlery has been invented to deal with that exact problem. Do I cut into massive burgers with a knife and fork? Yes I do. Would I chop up a pizza? Yes I would. Am I one of those people? Yes I am.

"What about ribs?" you might ask as I push my quinoa and watercress round my plate with a fork. Ribs are a nightmare. And the worst of it is that they're so tasty! Of course you want to gnaw on them like you're Tarzan, of course you want to rip that sweet, sticky meat off the bone with your teeth. It's delicious. But I need a knife and a fork, please. This is not Medieval England.

The chicken skewers came with a garden of salad, two pita wraps and a ramekin of tzatziki. What was I thinking? As soon as it arrived, all neatly arranged on the oval plate, I knew I'd made a very stressful mistake. Much to my companions' amusement, I gripped the skewers with a knife, then slid the chicken off the skewer with the prongs of my fork. Then I spooned tzatziki onto the wrap, poked the chicken on top with some greenery, folded it up as best as I could, and tried to eat it. It wasn't long before I had tzatziki and watercress smeared across my cheeks. It's so impolite.

After navigating that situation as politely as I could, I thought I'd play it safe for dessert and I ordered a cheesecake.

I love a cheesecake; it's so simple. You just gently slide a dessert fork into the soft fruit and cream cheese until it meets the gentle resistance of the biscuit base. Down you go until the fork hits the plate, then you slide up with a perfectly manageable bite size chunk of delicious dessert. Swallow and repeat until you feel happy: clean edges, and the plate is adorned with barely a pile of crumbs. Perfect.

"What is that?" chortled my friends. The masked-waiter (smirk obscured) slid the plate towards me. On it, and I wish I were joking, was what looked like a miniature flowerpot with two sprigs of mint growing in it. A circular wafer biscuit gave a little clue that it might actually be edible. Then, around the flowerpot: brown, crumbly soil, with quartered strawberries poking out of it. I had ordered a cheesecake; what had come out was a garden.

I think I sighed. Had I been in a different mood at this point, I might have been impressed by the arrangement. But when you've just had to nibble your way through sticky finger food and you're not sure you haven't still got tzatziki on your nose, when you're trying to be in polite company and come across as confident and fun, when all you want is a simple dessert to make everything sort of alright... the last thing on your list I expect, would be some sort of fancy challenge from the chef.

The flowerpot was made of chocolate. Inside, beneath the topsoil, was a delicious cream filling, and the crumble of strawberries that had looked so much like compost from the garden centre - turned out to be absolutely delicious.

Sometimes you know, I'd rather not be the talking point of the table. Sometimes I'd much rather be the listener, the quiet voice in the corner, the unnoticed, unflappable, unhindered person who's just there to add a quip or tell a story when called upon, but otherwise is modestly left to get on with enjoying the food and the company and the ambience.

I ate a flowerpot.

And then, as if all of that wasn't excruciating enough, halfway through the delicious window dressing, I then found two long blonde hairs in the cheesecake pot and had to complain to the waiter. So there it was - half-eaten, weirdly creative, ostentatious, delicious, and now, inedible.

"What do you need?" asked Sammy later, very kindly (though still slightly amused), on the way to the EE store. I told her I needed a cup of tea and a sit down, and so we did that. I was remembering the last time I upgraded my phone, when I thought I'd lost it in London. That had been a lot more stressful, and had resulted in me sitting in the Marble Arch branch of the EE store, getting periodically blasted with hot air from the shop and cold air from the doors. This at least should be more straightforward.

So there I sat, while Grant, the raconteur of all things EE talked me through numbers and plans and decisions, with a tut and a bite of his biro. But I still had chocolate soil rumbling in my tummy.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 95: YORKSHIRE TRIPLE VARIANT

They say the vaccines (Pfizer and AstraZeneca) are both 'highly effective' against the Indian Variant.

That's today's good news. Victory in the first pandemic war though, does seem to oscillate in and out of focus - who knows where the next virulent strain will come from. I read something the other day (though I've not heard any more about it) on the 'Yorkshire Triple Variant' - which sounds like it might be a style of bowling in cricket. It's either that or the combination of flat cap, whippet and tea-you-can-stand-your-spoon-up-in.

Forgive me, Yorkshire. Actually, there's a high chance I might have dreamed that.

Regardless, it seems that we're back on track to Liberation Day on the 21st of June. The Health Secretary was confident this morning, given his new announcement about the efficacy of the two vaccines.

You have to have had both doses though. I haven't yet - I'm only one down, one to go. Oh, and as ever, the Ps that B were keen to point out that vaccinations are largely a defence against you being seriously ill; you can still get the disease apparently, though hopefully your body will fight it off before it has the chance to disable your lungs.

Positive news about the virus these days, seems to result in more slip-sliding of adherence to the guidance. It's odd how people's minds work - even I was less concerned about my mask today, though I'm still trying to give people a wide berth where possible. Meanwhile, the thought of going into people's homes (now perfectly legal so long as you're not mixing more than 6 people or 2 households) is still a little terrifying. I guess one day we'll all look back at that unique anxiety and be amused, but to be honest, when you've not done something for a while, returning is daunting.

Plus I'm still only half-protected. And as much as I love the moors, the dales, and the puddings, I'm not quite ready for the Yorkshire Triple Variant just yet.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 0 days

Big Travel Day: 0 days

Liberation Day: 28 days

FRESH STARTS

I got up early today to do the bins. For some reason, I can't ever quite seem to get them out the night before.

So I threw on jeans and a hoodie, slipped into my trainers, and headed out into the fresh, morning air.

My legs were stiff from the gym yesterday. I'd done kettle-bell squats, leg press, and, even though I was a little wobbly, I'd tried sprinting a kilometre on the treadmill. The horror of that was all coming back to my muscles as I rattled the wheelie bin across the tarmac.

It had rained over night, but the air was fresh and clean. I breathed in the cold, shoved my hands delightfully into my warm pockets, and decided to go for an early morning walk.

The park was dripping. It's the time of year when the leaves are golden green, and even before the sun is fully awake, the trees shimmer with colour. I walked through the leafy tunnel, between the heavy drops of water that fell from the singing canopies. I was praying, and contemplating.

"Morning," said a dog-walker.

"Alright," I replied.

I'm not up-to-speed with the morning dog-walkers' patter. It's nice that they say good morning, but the correct response to 'morning' at that time of day is obviously, 'morning' and not 'alright'. Mirrored behaviour - it makes people feel everything is going to be okay for the rest of the day.

In the afternoon, it would be weird to say 'afternoon' to someone in the park, I think. It's strange how that doesn't happen. And if you just say 'alright' to someone later in the day, they start worrying that they're supposed to know you. They might chuckle nervously, they might say 'alright' back to you, knowingly, despite not knowing you at all and then spend the next five minutes frantically trying to remember how they know you.

I don't like worrying people.

And at night? If you say 'goodnight' to a stranger in the park at night, I think you might end up getting arrested. Mind you, I don't tend to walk in the park at night; it's probably fine but it's not exactly well lit.

I haven't done early mornings for a while. That's another consequence of working from home - the commute was so useful for thinking and praying and writing. I've got into the habit of rolling into work just metres from my duvet. I think perhaps I should get back into the pattern of fresh starts and early mornings. It'll do me good - so long as the treadmill doesn't turn my legs to jelly, that is.

CORNWALL ENVY

A friend of mine is on holiday in lovely Cornwall. He's posting pictures online of wide bays and green seas, of waves crashing on rocks, and smooth pints in pubs adorned with anchors and fishing nets.

You know what I'm going to say, and yeah. You'd be about right: I'd sure like to be there.

What's not to love? It's pirates and smugglers and coves and rum. It's wild Atlantic, and sheltered, sandy bays. It's rockpools and fishing boats, fresh-caught fish and windswept clifftops. It's rolling, delicate hills, dappled in the shade of passing clouds and it's long country walks in tall woods and warm fields. It's holidays and cottages and little villages with tiny post-offices and stone churches and barnacled harbour walls. It's winding single-track lanes that twist down to the bright blue sea through high hedges and overhanging trees.

Well, anyway. It's not too bad here today. The sun's warm and the sky is blue in between showers. It's nice at the end of the day when the sunset turns pink and the puddles shine. It's still not Cornwall though.

I think I'm realising the benefit of family holidays. They are an investment for the future, not just a chance to relax this year. You're depositing happy times into your children's memory bank. One day, when they're stuck in front of a laptop on a work-day, they'll remember how lovely it felt to be on the beach with entirely nothing to worry about. And they'll smile when they realise they never knew it at the time.

As it turns out, my friend needs a holiday more than I do. He's been working without a proper one since 2014, so I don't begrudge him a little Cornish adventure.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 94: THE TONE HAS SHIFTED

“After months of positive news, including falling cases and a hugely successful vaccination campaign, the tone has shifted.”

The BBC website was reflecting the mood of the Prime Minister, who is cautiously suggesting that we may have to change the plan if things get worse with the so-called ‘Indian Variant’.

The mood changes often, and quickly, in this war: hope to anger; frustration to relief; thankfulness to despair. It turns out that the Indian Variant is 40% more transmissible, and up North (where it always seems to have a field day) the virus is currently surging; cases due to the new variant have apparently tripled in the last week.

Should we be worried? Perhaps. The vaccinations are designed to prevent serious illness, but it is still possible (but also less probable) to contract the disease and pass it on. Over 50% of adults have now had at least one dose, and the government are speeding up the rollout of the second. Behind the Number Ten Press Conference Curtain, I’d say they’re worried about it.

So what do we do? Restrictions ease again in a couple of days, and we’ll be allowed to mingle indoors (up to 6), to travel more freely, and, amazingly, to hug people (though selectively, I suppose). Will these little freedoms be a click back towards a sort of normal life? Will we win the war against the Indian Variant? Will a strain emerge that’s more potent still? Or will the next few weeks, days even, be only a joyous little window between depressingly familiar restrictions? Will the tone shift again, either way? Because, to be honest, I think we’ve all had enough of it.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 0 days

Big Travel Day: 2 days

Liberation Day: 37 days

RAIN, SUSPENDED

You should see the sky today. There are thick white cumulus clouds bobbling along the horizon, a whole bank of them behind the rooftops and TV aerials. They look like candyfloss.

Above them are flat layers of altocumulus - tiny little chuffs of cloud that stretch across the sky in trails as though they've been puffed out by an engine and they're just hanging there in the blue sky.

Higher still, the cirrocumulus and cirrus clouds are whipping the top of the sky into a cold, icy frenzy. It's as though someone took a paintbrush laden with white and whiffled with the edge of it across the bright azure canvas.

All of this of course is lit by the sun, which is currently warm through the window and beaming onto the lush green of spring-leaves and blossom.

It's been raining. For some reason, this year's April showers were delayed until May, and so instead of the warm, coat-free afternoons we usually get at this time of year, it's been wet and sunny in intervals - dark grey clouds shifting and moving, lit by the sun but carrying rain.

I'm feeling overwhelmed.

I can't explain it today - just a sort of heaviness to everything, not necessarily all sad, but not quite joyful either. There is, it seems, a lot in my head all at once - changes ahead I don't feel ready for; decisions to make that are hurtling towards me whether I want to think about them now or not. It all feels very heavy - like a raincloud, I suppose: one that is very much lit by the sun, but also carrying its weight in rainy days to come.

They say you should take a moment to look up at the clouds from time to time - just to remark that that one looks like a pig, or a baby elephant; the one behind it looks like an old man chasing a rabbit, or whatever you see. Apparently, it's good for your mental health - a welcome distraction from the woes of the world below.

I might try it sometime. The way the weather is at the moment though, I'd better take a coat with a hood and my waterproof trousers! All I see is rain, suspended.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 93: THE ANATOMY OF A HUG

Zero deaths today from Covid in England, Scotland and Northern Ireland. That’s awesome - like a little flash of blue sky.

Meanwhile, our ruffle-haired Prime Minister has deemed it time a-plenty for indoor-dining, socialising chez nous, and, to the relief of all those who’ve been pretending they haven’t been doing it anyway, hugs are back!

If I remember rightly you put one arm around somebody’s shoulder, then they do the same, perhaps placing a flat hand on your back. Then the other arm links round the other shoulder and you sort of squeeze while your head rests on their jumper and you sniff their washing powder. That sound about right? I think there might be some gentle swaying if you stay in it long enough, but there is probably also a window of time, after which the awkwardness creeps in and you start to wonder whether you’ll ever be let out of it.

Or, you could just laugh and love people. I think a lot of us might not want to be grappled by everyone straight away. Perhaps there should be t-shirts that say “I like you and I do miss hugs but I’m not ready to commit to one just yet. Thanks.”

Maybe the traffic light system I used to hear about at ‘traffic nights’ at uni? Wear something green if you’re on the market. Orange if you’re not sure, and red if you’re already taken. (By the way, the more I think about that, the more I realise how horrendous a thing that must have been for people. I never went.) For Hugfest 21, red would basically be ‘don’t touch me’ and green is ‘bring it in, people’. There’d probably be a lot more people wearing green.

Anyway. With the return of the squeeze, next week will rapidly start feeling like normal life is resuming - in a way, it’s probably going to feel more significant than the final Liberation Day when all restrictions are potentially lifted. Though, as I hear myself saying repeatedly, I think masks are here for quite a while regardless.

I’d wear the t-shirt for a bit, I think. I’m not ready to hug just anybody, so if you come towards me, arms outstretched next week with a big cheesy grin, I might reserve the right to make you feel uncomfortable by gently refusing to get locked into your cardigan. Of course, if you’re on my VIP list I’ll happily give you a squeeze. And actually, as averse to weird, long, emotional hugs as I may be, I actually do think I still need them.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 0 days

Big Travel Day: 6 days

Liberation Day: 40 days

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 92: THE SLIDE TO NORMAL

There is definitely a weird slide to normal going on. Gradually, psychologically, we're all preparing ourselves for the big return to restriction-free living, and we're certain it's close.

There was a big discussion on the radio today about whether or not the country will end up with 5-day-9-to-5-full-time offices. One lady, a manager of a large company in the North East, really caught my ears. The presenter started with a clanking assumption:

"So surely it must be better for you if people work in the office full-time? Just built a sparkling new building, room for 2000 people, shiny and new, pre-pandemic. Wouldn't it be a waste of money, and space if you don't all go back?"

"Well actually no," she said. The presenter was surprised, but she went on anyway.

"The two things that matter to us are: what do our customers need? And what do our colleagues want? And it turns out we can meet both of those things really well with the space we have."

I thought that that was amazing. Faced with a problem with no great solution, she was thinking of opportunity, and she did it by zooming out beyond the problem's natural boundary.

Sell the building? Go into debt? Force your employees back into work? All those are boundary solutions - but beyond that raw-problem-solving bit of thinking, there was an opportunity, and all she had to do was take a step back and work out what really matters.

What do our customers need? What do our colleagues want? Brilliant. She went on to say how they're redesigning the space to provide event management and a really great working environment for their staff.

Closer to home then, there's still no real news of what happens to us on our own 'weird slide' to normal. There was talk of hot-desking and hotelling (not what you think it is); a global survey went out asking us to pick whether we want to be predominantly in the office or at home. I also got the impression that The Borg prefer consistency, and would like their hybrid workers to choose a 4/1 split either way. My guess is that a huge number of us chose 3/2 or 2/3. I do hope resistance is less than futile.

It's not just work. It's a cultural slide - I noticed the other day that social distancing is slipping in the supermarket. Masks, yes. Keeping to one-metre plus? Not in those aisles. Society has a very powerful collective impulse to push for change when it wants to. It makes me wonder what happens to a law if every single person it applies to, decides to break it.*

Daily deaths are down to remarkably low figures too: 27,4,1,7,14 across the last five days. It's far better than the hundreds we had a few months ago - and you can make your own mind up about what's driving the plummet. It all helps to instill a surging confidence.

I feel less keen on relaxing my guard. Until the restrictions end, I don't want to break them, even when it feels nice or convenient to do so. I guess I'm a little over-cautious about that, but I simply can't gage my own speed down the slide, and I'd rather follow instruction that's guided by leadership and science, than risk it for a biscuit.

What's more (and I think this applies to a lot of us) I'm still not quite comfortable with normal, and I'm not entirely sure I ever was.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 0 days

Big Travel Day: 11 days

Liberation Day: 46 days

*This is not a rabbit hole I want to go down.

BACK TO THE SNOOKER

This weekend, I went to watch the snooker in a barbershop.

Well. That would be what you would have deduced if you were to have viewed it objectively: I watched two frames of the world-championship semi-final, and then the good people at Pangbourne Barbers (who had just finished shaving the heads of the three lads in front of me in the queue) were kind enough to throw in a haircut at the end.

I used to be into snooker. Here was a sport that needed calculation, precision, skill, practice - not getting covered in mud or whipped with towels in the locker room. It seemed there was barely any physical exertion required at all, and that, given my woefulness at field sports, was my kind of thing.

So I used to sit there, watching Stephen Hendry pot everything on the table while Jimmy White got lost in his own haze of smoke and whisky. I watched Steve Davis circle the table and scratch his chin, and Willie Thorne bristle behind his moustache. Long pots that rattled in, safety shots that tucked the white ball so neatly behind the yellow, perfect angles and unfortunate misses that made the crowd gasp. It was mesmerising. 

I don't exactly remember why I stopped liking snooker. Perhaps more exciting things came along. I think the same thing happened to a lot of people though, as I understand its popularity declined through the 2000s. That in itself is a mystery, as a lot of people think that that was the exact period when the game saw its greatest ever player, Ronnie (The Rocket) O'Sullivan. Perhaps he was just too good. Or perhaps he was the only one.

There was even a snooker-reboot a couple of years ago, with a sort of high-speed jazzed up version I can't remember the name of - a bit like T20 for cricket. I wonder what happened to that?

Anyway, there I was in the Pangbourne Barbers, watching perfectly weighted safety shots from Mark Selby and Stuart Bingham. Apparently, one of those players is nicknamed the 'Jester from Leicester' - though he didn't do much jestering, it should be mentioned. His opponent was also stony-faced as he sat watching him power unhilariously around the table.

Gone is the cigarette-smoke and the tumbler by the way. Equally vanished, is the sponsorship from the old tobacco companies, who wanted to be involved in darkened rooms in the 80s. The fusty old pub atmosphere of the snooker tournament has gone the way of Dennis Taylor's glasses.

Instead, the colours are brighter, the baize is cleaner, and the sponsors are less obviously trying to kill you. Well. They're betting companies actually, so maybe they're just as pernicious, but the effect is less immediate.

By the way, who wouldn't approve of a sport that you play in a theatre while dressed up as a waiter? Along with the data collection and the intricacy of the angles, plus the thought that maybe one day I'd be able to do that, I wonder whether the theatrical element of snooker was appealing to me while I sat there writing down the scores?

I wouldn't be able to 'do that', by the way. It's very difficult, and I think your brain has to be wired a certain way to be any good at snooker. Mine isn't - and to be honest, I'd have never had the patience nor the reach. Plus, who has room for a snooker table?

The barber joked with me about how his marriage had pushed his hairline back, about how long I ought to leave it before my next cut, and then finally, about how to have what he called 'happy wife; happy life' while the balls clacked on the TV in the background and the commentators quietly waffled. Then I left feeling a head-of-hair and £13 lighter.