Corona Journal, 12 May: Day 57

10am Just finished a lesson with M and my God do I have a headache.

11:30am Finished a lesson with my sister who is a much more willing student than 4-year-old M. There is building work going on outside and I have to talk over the laddy shouting from the builders outside which was a bit annoying – but when I leaned out of the window to give them my best passive-aggressive stare, they were all topless and toned and I decided I didn’t really mind that much after all.

11:40pm They are called TOWIE scaffolding. That explains it then.

12pm Flatmate calls me through to the kitchen, laughing his head off. “Have you seen what TOWIE stands for?” he asks me.

1pm On my way downstairs to take a photo, I realise that my facemasks from nanny have arrived in the post! Am absolutely thrilled. Corona, but make is FASHUN.

Model: Annie Warren

Facemask: Sheila Garcia™

Beer cans and laundry: Model’s own

As you can see, on the left we have a mask I like to call the Dolly Parton Gingham and on the right we have a rather skimpier, saucy little number, coquettishly named ‘child of the 60s’.

3pm Planning lessons. Booooooooooored.

3:10pm Haven’t left the house in 2 days (other than to sneak a quick photo of the TOWIE scaffolders) but I just don’t feel in the mood. Instead, I pad around the house, randomly bleaching things and trying to make no noise as boyfriend is asleep between night shifts.

5pm I finish Normal People and have a bit of a rant about it to pals over Facebook messenger.

5:30pm Half listening to the Corona Briefing, half concentrating on making a Lizzo collage in my journal which feels like exactly the sort of creepy, obsessive thing to which a scorpio like me should be dedicating my lockdown.

8pm Mum calls. We have a brief chat in which she tells me that I’m almost 27 (exCUSE me mum but I am actually 26 years, 6 months, 10 days and 17 hours which is not that close to 27) and says I am too old to be dyeing my hair pink. “How will people take you seriously enough to give you a job?” she worries. I point out that pink hair is the very last of my employment-related worries right now.

9pm It’s not really pink enough, though, is it? In a fit of teenage rebellion (only delayed by a decade), I redye the tips of my hair. 

10pm It makes literally not one jot of difference, but I don’t care. It’s subtle. Like me.

Sorry for the anti-climax on pinkness.