Corona Journal, 7 April: Day 23
8am Wake up. Roll over. Think I am lying in… “Crumbs?” I say out loud. “Annie,” boyfriend mumbles, still mostly asleep. “What have you been eating in bed?” I remember my online catch up last night, and say, meekly – “Uh. My entire dinner.”
8.40am Out of bed, dressed, showered, coffee-d, am putting on make up to cover horrible impetigo ready for 3 language lessons back-to-back on Zoom when family’s PA messages me to cancel two of the lessons and move them to tomorrow. Rich people, man. They do what they want. And I’ll let them as well, because I need the money.
9:15am Am trying to meditate but ironically can’t Clear My Mind because too worried about falling asleep and missing the start of the one lesson that is still happening today. I take back what I said the other day. I’d be a terrible rich person.
11am Lesson with K is finished. With hindsight, translation of Gli Sporcelli might have been too advanced. He essentially ended up reading it to me in Italian and then I repeated it back to him in English which may not have been the most productive use of our time, and took ages. I didn’t even have time to use my banana tree poster, which I think we can all agree is an absolute travesty.
3pm Have taken an essential trip in a Bolt to Greenwich (not a joke, it was actually necessary. As if I would spend close to an hour in a Bolt if I didn’t have to). What’s not essential about the trip that I take my daily allotted exercise through Greenwich park before getting a Bolt home – naughty as I technically should only be exercising close to home, but I’ve always thought of myself as a Rebel Without A Cause *hair flick*. The G&T I have on the way through the park is back on the list of essentials, though. Nothing to see here, officer.
3.45pm A man on a bike overtakes me, blasting country music from a boom box. I decide it is time to leave.
4pm Pass over Westminster Bridge and past Buckingham Palace in the car on the way home. Everywhere is pretty much deserted. Eerie.
4:50pm Queuing outside Boots to pick up prescription for aforementioned sexy sore rash. I don’t mind queuing, especially given that I’ve got literally nothing else to do. It makes for a much less stressful shopping experience. Maybe this is one thing from corona we can consider keeping.
5:10pm I can neither confirm nor deny the rumour that I bought pink hair dye in boots.
9pm Washing up after dinner, curtain-twitching (one of my new lockdown hobbies). There is a man in one of the flats across the road who quite often washes up topless, but he’s nowhere in sight today. There is a woman in a different flat though who is also washing up. We make eye contact more than once. Are we friends now? I think in corona terms, we are practically married.