A Day in Quarantine — Story Time

Every morning I wake up feeling groggy. My eyesight blurry with sleep. My brain filled with questions; what should I eat today? What’s Co-star sayin’? And am I still dreaming? I start battling with the sound of my alarm at 7am, first by throwing my phone onto the floor. Then at 7:15am, after it’s incessant ringing I slide the alarm icon to ‘sleep’. At 7:30am I realise that it is far too early to get up, so I turn the alarm off, only to realise at 7:45am that I’ve got another alarm trying to get me up. I lay on the bed, defeated. Eyes wide, body stretching, still trying to force myself to meet the day.

To me, waking up means reading two chapters of whatever book I’ve delved into that month. This month I woke up into black militant writing, ‘Steve Biko: I write what I like’. Every time I read one of his personal essays, I can’t help but to think: what would Steve Biko do if he were here now? He would most likely support grassroots organisations and try to restore power to the people. He would see this moment in history as an opportunity to develop as a society.

Reading Steve Biko is dangerous when in isolation, when the lock down is no more than words and there’s no force at play, you could easily organise a riot. If there were ever a time to start a revolution it would be now. The men in suits are completely exposed, they’ve been slowly siphoning the welfare system off to themselves, with increased bonuses and offshore bank accounts. I know this because now in our hour of need they’re having to have banks lend them that money through private loans. The same money I paid into the system by way of taxes. Goddamn, I knew I shouldn’t have paid taxes.

After I’ve conjured up dreams of a revolution, I write a few words in my journal, often filled with sexual frustration. The idea of not having sex in an entire year terrifies me. Especially having been on a roll a few weeks previous to the pandemic. I was working through a list of foreign dicks. I’d tasted Egyptian dick; it was pretty delicious and then I’d moved onto Iranian dick which was exciting and unexpected. Next up, Icelandic dick, but then this virus hit and the opportunity of finally dipping my toes into the Icelandic sea went straight out the window and there were no dicks to be seen. Although, the concept of dying from a virus is terrifying, the idea of not having sex for an entire year is the stuff of dystopian nightmares. So, I’ve turned to looking for toys. My fingers have always been a loyal friend, but twelve months of strumming the young bean I think I could possibly risk a sprain. What kind of conversation would that be if I was forced to go to hospital?

Nurse: “What seems to be the problem here?”
Me: “I injured myself taking care of myself”
Nurse: “I’m sorry, taking care of what?”
Me: “Myself”
Nurse: “What about yourself?”
Me: “ALRIGHT, I FINGER MYSELF, I FINGERED MYSELF SILLY AND SPRAINED MY FINGER. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR?”

I love imagining scenarios like this, however unrealistic they may seem. Funny thing is, a nurse would probably not see me now and I would be vilified by the public were I to go to a hospital with a sprained finger. The only thing you get treated for nowadays is Covid-19. It’s all anyone’s ever talking about. It’s all we’ve got to talk about, now there’s no telling which one of your friends is boring. Cause they’re all boring. Everyone’s talking about the same thing and it’s just going to get worse. Soon, we’ll be discussing what we’re all having for dinner but what we’re having for dinner will be boring too. Something like beans on toast, without the spice, without the sauce, not even Heinz, I’m talking Branston’s own brand, that’s when you know that shit has hit the fan.

Like many of us, I had hopes and dreams for 2020. Like many of my friends, we promised to ourselves that 2020 was going to be ‘the year’ for us, we were going to forget about the shit show that 2019 was and we were going to enter a new decade with new spirits. I was going to save up and do a teacher training course then set sail for Africa. I was ready to return home. I was ready to be with my people. However, if I did go back and said ‘I am home’ I doubt very much that I could be greeted with cheers. I mean, the people of Africa don’t know who I am, I don’t know who they are, nonetheless I know that it’s probably better there than here. At least there I’m not black, I’m just a person.

I guess I just didn’t move fast enough.

I guess none of us moved fast enough to get to where we wanted.

I guess, shitting plastic and oil all over the planet wasn’t exactly the greatest idea.

I guess Earth finally said “Right, that’s it, I’m culling the lot of you ‘cause I’ve had enough of your bullshit”.

After writing furiously into my journal, I delve into yoga. My yoga teacher keeps telling us to breathe deeply into our sexual organs. Whenever he guides us into doing so, I feel as though I could explode into a million pieces. It’s like he’s teasing me to release my inner beast through stretch and breath work. I continue to breathe deeply, forcing that feeling down.

I try to meditate, just like everyone else in isolation. Letting my deepest and darkest feelings out in a high-pitched scream ‘til I feel empty. I don’t know whether this is the way you’re supposed to do it, but I feel tonnes better after, it’s definitely helping me to achieve a more Zen state.

Zen, Zen, Zen, who came up with the word Zen? I Google it, I’ve got nothing but time so Googling things like ‘who came up with the word Zen?’ And ‘who invented the first brownie?’ is just another fun activity to add to the list. The word Zen is derived from Mahayana Buddhism originating in China and the first brownie was invented by none other than Fanny Farmer. Fanny Farmer. Let me repeat that. Fanny Farmer. Everything I seem to do these days has to relate to something sexual. Fanny fucking Farmer. In times like this, you really learn to appreciate the small things.

I live in a big Guardianship house, backing onto a park with seven different personalities all cooped up. I realise, I’m incredibly lucky to be living with people and I’d much rather have a real person to talk to than a wall or my teddy bear, Max. During this quarantine we’ve blown steam by throwing themed parties, last week we threw a Pimps and Hoes party and in desperation we had our dear flat mate perform a strip dance. You know you’ve lost your goddamn mind when you’re watching your flatmate dance like Magic Mike or when you’re arguing about Heinz vs Branston. We’re only 3 weeks in and once you cave in to Branston baked beans you’ve already given up.