This
is my sixth day of lockdown.
In
some ways, I am reminded of being on a long-haul flight. There's a similar
sense of unreality and boredom. I watch movies to pass the time, but often lose
interest half way through. The same feelings of restlessness prey upon me. Above
all, the highlights of the day are the same: meals and drinks. It brings me
pleasure to think about what I will eat and which wine I will drink. Even when
I go to bed I feel somewhat excited about the prospect of my first cup of
coffee the next morning.
As on
an intercontinental flight, books serve as a lifeline. They are a double-edged
sword, however, for in my case at least, they tend to have associations with
travel. Yesterday, for instance, I pulled out my copy of The Last
Temptation by Nikos Kazantzakis. The pages are yellow with age, and as
I ran my fingers over the cover I noticed the word 'Canada' above the price. I
remembered then that I had purchased it in Montreal in 2004, which caused a
wave of nostalgia to wash over me. Then a journey I had made in Japan six years
ago came to mind, when I went looking for a temple written about by
Kazantzakis. The book, at least, is as good as I recalled.
My
companion in this period of isolation is my nineteen year old tabby cat. Her
daily routine is unchanged: sleeping in a ball, eating and drinking, lying on
the rug twice a day in the hope of being brushed, rubbing her face against hard
surfaces and staring into thin air. She seems unfazed by my sudden permanency,
but then she does sleep for about twenty hours a day.
From
my living room window there is a splendid vista. Through the bare branches of
the trees I can make out Edinburgh Castle to the south, and beyond it the long
dark ridge of the Pentland Hills. On the path beneath my flat, now adorned with
startling yellow daffodils, a steady stream of people pass by. Many are dog
walkers, but I also see cyclists, joggers, and people apparently just out for a
stroll. By and large they make no effort to keep the recommended distance from
one another.
On the
few occasions I have left my building I have done so with the furtiveness of a
cat. I open the front door, listen for the sound of people walking past, then
scope out the surroundings. Only when I'm sure the coast is clear do I head
into the street, where I walk down the middle of the road to avoid my fellow
humans.
A
friend wrote to me a couple of days ago that he was 'going slowly insane'. I
don't think I'm there yet, but it does trouble me that I'm already excited
about my weekly trip to the supermarket - in four days' time. And given that
I'm seriously considering using my bottle of Pol Roger to make an Aperol
Spritz, perhaps I have indeed already crossed the threshold into madness.
