As lockdown is lifting (this version of lockdown, anyway), you’ll have noticed the stream of letters has dried up a bit.
We know it’s taken time for some folks to really get to grips with they felt about lockdown, so we’re not closing down the series.
Instead, we welcome you to write pieces about how your lockdown went, now you’ve had some time to reflect. Or you might still be shielding. Whatever. We’re still welcoming your stories, so please feel free to contact us with your Letter from Cardiff in lockdown.
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from Cynthia Fardoe Thomas, who is bringing us her story via her paper people. We’re still open for stories, so if it’s taken you a while to put it together, it’s all good with us – please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in lockdown.
Fardoe’s Paper People
I make people out of paper! This is my lockdown story in paper form.
My name is Cynthia Fardoe Thomas, I’m a paper engineer and illustrator, but also a support worker for three adults with learning difficulties.
I’m also a single mum of two beautiful cherubs.
I’ve worked through the pandemic, It’s been a bumpy yet creative ride.
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from Olga Kaleta, circus and theatre maker, and Head of Youth at NoFit State Circus. We’re still open for stories, so if it’s taken you a while to put it together, it’s all good with us – please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in lockdown.
Part One: about time
Now is the time.
NOW is the time.
To do what?
NOW is the TIME.
Here I am. In this hour of the morning in which the world is just about awake.
Here I am. With the singing of the birds. With the humming of the insects. With the gentle gasps of wind.
Here I am.
The world came to a halt. And listen, it’s like nothing really happened. Nature is thriving in the most unpretentious way. There is so much we can learn from her quiet confidence.
Now is the time to do nothing.
The lockdown has now been officially imposed. I was down with the idea all along but now that the psychotic overgrown cabbage patch kid said we have to, I must admit, I’m finding it so much harder to comply.
Here WE are…reduced to our personal bubbles…self-isolated in our little worlds. Animals are clearly delighted to finally see humans trapped in the cages of their own making. Taking themselves out for a walk once a day. Finally, they can understand what it is like not to be able to enjoy the world the way it’s been intended.
Woke up to find a missed call from my mum. She never rings outside of the Sunday afternoon window. I dreaded the news she was trying to deliver. My dad would be classed as vulnerable although he’s been self-isolating ever since I know him. I ring her back, terrified of the news that awaits me. She picks up laughing and says I shouldn’t let the impending collapse of the creative industries get to me. She heard there are plenty of jobs at Lidl going. Afterwards, she sent me a video of a toucan singing “Don’t worry be happy” as a final consolation.
Time is linear.
Time is circular.
Time is multiactive.
Time is an undeniable delusion.
It’s Chris’ funeral today. Few weeks ago, the chapel would be packed with people wishing to say farewell. But now there’s only a handful of people scattered around, unable to comfort each other. Chris loved sci-fi and fantasy. Little did he know dying in an old world that he would be buried in a new one.
I almost said, “good old world”. But it wasn’t. This one isn’t great either. Right now, it’s proper weird…but many of us can spot beacons of hope falling through the cracks. Sometimes you need to get worse to get better… But sometimes you don’t get better…sometimes you die.
The experience of time is universal. The attempts to make sense of it, are all man-made choices, inherent to the cultures that breed us.
The world is changing. We’ve been accelerated towards the future. Everyone is confined to their own custom-made digital reality. Human touch is a commodity.
I am afraid to cry. I’m afraid to admit that I’m scared. I’m scared to fall apart. What if I’m not able to comfort myself?
It’s okay to do nothing.
I was born and bred in a culture that regards time as leaner. The only way is forward. There is no looking back. Time is unstoppable. Time is precious. Time is a resource. Wasting it is unforgivable.
So much time has passed. What have you got to show for it? Nothing but those Gray Gardens…
The dusk just settled and the whole of Bristol feels like a holiday village. Streets are quiet and empty. Everyone is chilling indoors after a busy day of doing absolutely nothing. So peaceful.
Homeless and prisoners are forced to self-isolate in masses for a single trembling croak. What does it matter? Were their lives ever worth living?
Police issuing fines to homeless for being outside. Are you fucking kidding me?
I am a lucky one. I am worth saving. Just! For now!?
On Tuesday the 31st of March a girl, aged 12 died in Belgium. The youngest victim of the virus to date.
On Tuesday the 31st of March police in Kenya shot a 13 year old boy who stood on his balcony past the curfew.
His name was Yasin.
I’m not afraid of dying. What I am afraid of is not to be able to feel the skin of my loved ones before I perish. We are born alone, and we die alone. But this is too literal.
The pigeon just sat on the roof of the shed. He is a moderately regular visitor but only since lockdown that his cooing got unbearably loud. It’s clear he’s looking for a mating partner. The theories say that now there’s no traffic noise the birds can hear their contenders more distinctly, therefore need to put more effort into their own allurement. Oh, sweet horny pigeon, you and I are not that different. There’s not much more I want from this world then a little piece of earth where I can make love.
Ecuador’s health system has collapsed. People are forced to store dead bodies of their loved ones on their living room floor…
Stop. Breath. Change Direction.
We live for pleasure. A meaningful pleasure. The kind of pleasure that isn’t replaced by shame as soon as the moment has passed. Pleasure that resonates beyond the moment in which it seems necessary.
We live for each other. For the touch, the smell and the smile. For the sharing of the joy and wonder.
Today I wrote a porno.
Tiny yellow spider is stretching its web between two branches of the raspberry bushes. Oh sweet, tiny yellow spider, you and I are not that different. There’s not much more I want from this world than to build a home.
The time ticking at the core of my soul is circular and it is multiactive. There are cycles within cycles. Each one is different in scale and velocity. They exist concurrently in a perfect harmony. Respect them all, but only tune in to those that serve you in the moment.
A single magpie bobbing around the garden like it is the king of the castle. Let’s hope magpies are not too strict when it comes to self-isolation. We all know how the saying goes … Mr Magpie, next time, do indulge us, and bring a mate with you, will you?
Mister Magpie, you and I are not that different. There’s not much more I want from this world then to be free to choose between the right to solitude and the need for a company.
There are an infinite number of ways to exist in this world. Why are we so fixated on the idea of finding one that fits all?
It’s okay to do nothing.
I’ve been watching sad movies in order to make myself cry. Nothing! I wonder if it’s in any way connected to the unprecedented levels of sexual frustration. Perhaps this sort of release won’t be available to me until I have an orgasm that isn’t self-inflicted. I hope I won’t cry whilst… worse even…what if we both cry!?!
The only way is forward. There is no looking back. To return would be to admit to failure.
It’s okay to do nothing. The time spent looking after your mental health is time well spent.
The world came to a halt. Feels like an emergency stop. Yes, we all suffered a serious whiplash, many of our loved one have died…but we’re still here, panting, staring at the precipice. Let’s not start the engine, only to tumble off that edge. Surely, there’s more than one way to go from here…
Change of mind should be celebrated, not hold up to shame. Change of mind is not admittance of failure, but an exercise in resilience. Only this that can change can continue.
Stop. Breath. Change direction. Bring what feels useful.
A friend of mine told me, she’s finally getting into the rhythm of things. Two months have passed … We live on a fucking treadmill! The world was put on hold and it took us two months to reconnect with it. Being still is a long-lost skill. I hope we’ll continue to practice it once the cogs start turning again (a bit slower this time I hope).
Happiness is to be present and intentional.
Now is the time
NOW is the time.
To do what?
NOW is the TIME
We are very VERY excited to bring you news of Aiyush Pachnanda’s DEBUT photography book. This is Rave to the grave – photographs taken at raves between the hours of 10PM and 6AM, over the course of three years across the city of Cardiff. (Not this year obviously …!)
Aiyush came to Cardiff to study photojournalism at the University of South Wales. During his time here, he was urged by his mother to get a job.
“I was reluctant at first but thought it will be a good opportunity to start my life as a working photographer,” he says. He came across a rave being advertised on Facebook, then messaged the organisers asking if they needed a photographer. They agreed – and that chance event led to Aiyush discovering the world of drum’n’bass.
“I was introduced to a new music scene that I never had a chance to experience. After I sent the photos I was asked to cover more and more events. I had never even been to a rave before that first one!”
He had no idea what to expect, and says he found the environment “Very very overwhelming” at first, and felt like he really stuck out. But he was asked to come back, and he says the more he went the less he felt he stuck out.
“I spoke to more people and made more and more friends. Now I really do feel part of the community – be it in Cardiff or London, dnb is now something I like to listen to.”
The book is an insight into three years exploring the dnb raves of the city, including a few at his favourite venue, The Vaults (“it’s underground, the sound systems are amazing, it’s dark and gets unbelievably hot”), and some of his stand-out events during that time (“DJ Blackley at Undertone, Hybrid Minds in Kongs, MC Bassman in Clwb, Bank Job In The Vaults”).
For anyone interested in the city’s electronic music scene – and some really *really* great club photography – get your copy of the book now!
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from an anonymous contributor. We’re looking for your stories, so please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in lockdown!
I blinked, and it was over.
I can remember the blind panic, murmurs and rumours of the army heading to London, forced curfews, the fear creeping through the office, when no one knew what was going on. People knew people who worked in the government got bits of information to help their loved ones. We eagerly gobbled up whatever we heard, we speculated, we gambled. I spent over £700 on supplies. Not toilet paper – why would you need so much of that, I bought rice, I bought hand sanitiser, I bought soap, masks, extra pairs of everything, washing powder, bleach, dried protein powder, UHT milk. I keep finding stashes of it all over the house, and I am probably lucky that I broke up with my girlfriend in January. If she didn’t think I was mad then, she definitely would have broken it off during lockdown.
My manager offered us all the choice to start working from home at the start of March. I work for a multinational company, we have a medium sized office in Cardiff. We also have offices in China – not Wuhan, but still, China. Hong Kong. Dubai, and after seeing what happened in other countries the company was quick to pivot us from office to home. We were still allowed into the office but “strongly advised to work from home”, so we all did, they arranged for all our equipment to be moved out of the office, desks, chairs, desktops and other bits and pieces. I work in corporate finance, and I had to return into the office before official lockdown to pick up a work credit card, as I had to sign for it. I wore a mask on my walk through town, and got stared at by everyone, the building – an entire floor in one of the high rises in the city centre – was like a ghost town, there was warning electrical tape across the floor, marking out where all the desks and chairs had been before, the empty remains, rubbish and dust, the odd shoe and canvas bag remaining on the floor as proof of old life. The computer team were the only ones staying in there, as they needed access to the equipment to keep everyone else running from home. All their desks were spread out across one huge long wall of the office, 15 people in a room that used to hold over a hundred of us.
After that visit I felt very unnerved, I went straight out and stocked up, did that insane shopping trip that cost me over £700, started isolating. Most of my friends thought I was being really over cautious and actually they thought I was mad. I didn’t tell any of them how much I’d spent on supplies, I played it down, I made excuses not to see them at social events. Now it seems obvious in retrospect. Why didn’t we all do it?
As soon as the official lockdown started, my company announced a restructure. Everyone was keeping their jobs, but we were all going on a furlough rotation; I was off for three weeks, then worked a week. That pattern repeated three times overall throughout lockdown, until they announced last week that we were all required back fulltime.
I blinked, and it was over.
The first week of being on furlough was horrible. The weeks before – the unofficial lockdown, when I was just hidden away but the world was still outside – that seemed fine. Maybe because it didn’t seem so real. But then suddenly we all got told we had to stay home. Please stay inside. Please save the NHS. Please help us control the virus. That first week I don’t think I could have worked if I tried, I spent every second on the internet, reading about the virus, reading about how it had spread between diners in a restaurant in Wuhan, about SARS, and MERS, and swine flu, and bird flu, learning about droplets and respiratory diseases and ventilators, I barely slept, I drank a lot, I used to be a social smoker, I somehow ended up taking it back up, I think just for something to do.
I watched a lot of box sets. Things like Ab Fab, The Young Ones, Partridge, I’ve never been interested in cars but I found old episodes of Top Gear and somehow that made me feel better. I listened to a lot of the radio, I feel like I hadn’t really listened to the radio in years. There was something reassuring and soothing about human voices, there in the room with you. For the first couple of weeks, I couldn’t switch the radio off, I felt extremely isolated, extremely alone, the radio helped me feel like there was someone else there. I listened to a mixture of the BBC channels, they were my go-to choices. I actually ended up listening to Radio Four and Radio Two more than any other stations – I’m 27 so I don’t think if either are aimed at me but they felt reassuring like having kind aunties and uncles around look after you.
I deactivated my Twitter and Facebook accounts a few years ago, felt like I was wasting time scrolling a lot. The first week on furlough, I logged back into both. I wasted a lot of time again on Facebook, sucked back into stalking all these people I never really cared about from school, oh he’s moved to Australia now, who cares, before I remembered why I had deactivated it in the first place. It’s not real life, and it’s a distraction from my real life, my real here, and my real now. I lasted much longer on Twitter, and found a lot of really useful resources and links to things during the lockdown – which local independent food places were doing takeaway during the lockdown, where I could buy bread, where I could get coffee.
Back then, right at the start of the lockdown, I was so stressed. Worried about the world, worried about myself, I just felt like there was this general background level of worry that never went away. Sometimes I’d wake up and for a second I had forgotten, everything felt normal, then I remembered and the pit of my stomach dropped I felt sick thinking about everything. I tried to fill my days, so I spent my daily walks heading for Pettigrew, or the Indoor Market, or Oriel Jones, to pick up food. I got my fruit and veg from Laura’s. Sometimes I was the only traffic on busy roads. No cars, no buses, no nothing.
Now the shops are open again. Starbucks. Greggs. I can get coffee from almost anywhere, but I make an effort now to try and get coffee from one of the independents – Brodies, or Hardlines, or Pettigrew (although I feel bad, I was one of those people making Steve Lucas wait in line while I asked for a latte. Steve – I can only apologise to you, getting that coffee was my only connection to normality – to the real world I missed so much back then). And I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to stay out longer. I wanted to do things that took up my day. I didn’t have anywhere else to escape to and the flat was becoming a mess and a prison.
I got used to the roads being quieter. I walked a lot. I took my bike to be serviced. I started cycling again. I haven’t cycled in years. And I walked and cycled for fun, because there was no where to go. I obeyed the rules about not seeing other people, which was hard, as I live alone. But actually my balcony is linked to a couple of others in our flats, and I ended up strangely making friends with neighbours I have lived within metres of for years, but never ever seen or spoken to before.
I blinked, and it was over.
And now, everything is different again. But I’m not ready for it. Before I felt dazed and confused by the lack of traffic and busyness and commerce. And now I miss the roads being quiet. I miss being the only person walking down a road – being able to stand in the middle and take a photo on my phone, and not rush to get over to the pavement.
I wish I had used my furlough time better. I thought maybe I could repaint the flat, rearrange the furniture. I don’t have any children or pets and I was fairly newly single, so it’s just me, how would I fill the time? I thought I might learn a language, I’ve been meaning to learn Welsh properly for years as I never learned properly at school, or maybe German, I’ve always wanted to do that. I thought I might read more books, or think about writing one of my own even, because think of all that time, and how would I fill it? But now it’s over, and what did I do?
I spent it feeling nervous and worried, watching endless YouTube videos, drinking. One night one of my neighbours had some weed and I smoked some with him, I spent the rest of the night trapped in an internet rabbit hole where I was convinced I could find the source of the coronavirus if I just kept on looking, needless to say I didn’t find it and felt like death the next day. I spent it walking, talking the long route to places, because I wanted to be out of the flat for longer, and the walking was the purpose of being out, not to get anywhere or see anyone.
I’m disappointed in myself I suppose is what I mean. I’m back in work – we are taking turns to go into the office, smaller capacity and very strict hygiene rules. But I feel like I did nothing. That time was a gift. I spent it worried and stressed. I wish I had done things differently. I wish I had spend the time to learn Welsh, or have a proper clean out of my place. Anything constructive. I feel like I wasted it.
I blinked, and it was over. And although I’m happy to be able to see people and happy to see town busy and things, you know, I miss it a bit.
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from our old pal, Steve Lucas. We’re looking for your stories, so please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in lockdown!
I sat before the television and watched a new breed of uber-confident, media-trained, silver-tongued, blue-suited, private-schooled politicians as they took turns to wobble along a daily tightrope, trying to show us that they could strike the right balance within the shifting weight in the pole of “the science” without succumbing to the irresistible pull of the gravity of the financial system.
I watched the daily death toll rise like a barometer of fear and struggled to put the grim statistics into some kind of meaningful sense and context.
I watched nurses hold iPads in the air for semi-conscious patients, like ring girls signalling the end of another round in the fight against an enemy too tiny to see.
I felt the sadness on our streets as smiling, considerate people stepped into the road to maintain a respectful distance from each other.
I noticed the faint, ghostly scent of sanitiser on the damp plastic handles of shopping trolleys.
I saw the Holy Grail of our ‘30 hours a week of free childcare’ swept away from us, while my working hours increased and my partner started working from home.
I felt appreciative but uncomfortable when someone stopped me and thanked me for the key work I was doing.
I saw our eldest son fill his wheelbarrow with cardboard boxes and play a new game where he became a new superhero called DELIVERY MAN.
I felt an eye-glistening relief that the COVID-19 virus didn’t seem to show much interest in meddling with the physiology of children as it hitchhiked its way around the world.
I struggled to stay connected to people as I uneasily joined in with the stuttering technological chaos of Facetime and Zoom calls, then wrote letters by hand, and completed my counselling sessions by telephone.
I listened as people began to ask more questions about our whole way of life, our rushing around, our ways of working, our monetary system, and then our racial equality.
I heard Orwellian-style concepts like ‘the second wave’, ‘air bridges’ and ‘the new normal’ and wondered what the implications might be.
I regretted not buying a second hand copy of The Plague by Albert Camus when I saw it on the shelf in Troutmark Books in the Castle Arcade way back in February.
I savoured the small, positive things: the quiet cycle ride to work, the cleaner city air, and the chance to spend more time together as a family.
I waited in a queue outside the Pettigrew Bakery for 20 minutes just to buy a loaf of bread and a Chelsea bun because everyone else in front of me seemed to need a cup of coffee.
I waited and I waited and I waited some more until I finally saw Liverpool win the Premier League.
Spring stops everywhere Rainbows mask isolation Time leaves us alone
I missed meeting up with friends, going to yoga classes, playing 5-a-side football, walking in hills and forests… in other words the things that help to keep my mind from sneaking off to the craters on the dark side of the moon.
I kissed my son when we walked around the park and he asked me, ‘Have all the germs gone now, daddy?’ and I said, ‘Not yet, son.’
I went to Pontcanna fields and observed the thoughts I had like: TAKE YOUR LITTER HOME; DON’T JUST LEAVE IT NEAR THE OVER-FLOWING BIN – WHAT’S WRONG WITH SOME PEOPLE?!
I didn’t watch any boxsets, didn’t paint the house, didn’t go jogging, didn’t walk any dogs, didn’t write a sitcom, didn’t go on social media, and definitely didn’t drive to any castles to test my eyesight.
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from Mike, who welcomed a baby boy into his life during the lockdown. We’re looking for your stories, so please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in Lockdown!
When lockdown started here in Wales, I was sitting in the office with a workmate talking about how the company would react to the possibility of shutting down. There had already been an email the week before about the potential of home-working and the conversation moved to how we would cope with balancing work and all the rest of life in the same space. Bethan said that being stuck at home might give her a chance to rediscover some old hobbies, or start new ones. And that she was going to start her day as early as possible and really put those regained commuter hours to use. I was looking forward to the birth of my child, due on April 20th.
It couldn’t have gone 10am when there was another company-wide email advising all employees and visitors to leave the Cardiff office with all of the equipment that was needed as soon as possible. There was quite a bit to be fair. I was thinking of how I’d get the monitors I needed back to the house on the bus when I read the last paragraph of the email which strongly advised against using public transport. In the weeks leading up to lockdown I’d like to say I was casually cautious – I didn’t wear a mask when I went shopping and I wouldn’t avoid seeing people that I needed to, while physically distancing of course. I wouldn’t cross the road when people walked against me, and I didn’t panic when people got ‘too close’ as some saw it. Even on the bus earlier that day on the way in when someone coughed, I just turned to the window and wondered how awkward that person must feel that they might have upset someone or made someone paranoid that the disease sweeping across the globe was on this very bus.
When the email came at work the chatter started to build and build around me. People got out of their seats and got into action. Laptops and paperwork were shoved into bags, monitors were unplugged, and comfy office chairs were loaded up with all they could carry, then pushed cautiously towards the elevator doors. It was pretty surreal. I had the image that we were a front for some illegal business and about to be raided. The building started to empty, and from the third floor I could see the line of traffic leaving the car park and speeding up the road.
It was just Bethan, myself and a handful of others left in a wide-open room that usually had 70 to 80 people moving around it. It was the first time I thought that there could be a chance that I could bring this thing home and that Lisa and our kid due in the coming weeks could be affected. It had seemed so far away. Something that could be prevented by staying away from anyone who had symptoms and washing your hands for the duration of a short song.
As people had left the building and the distance was put between us, the sudden fear of catching something grew closer. I thought of the lady who had coughed that morning, and of a trip I had taken to Berlin a couple of weeks before, and the amount of people I must have passed every day since the start of the year as this thing was growing and spreading.
Bethan asked if I wanted a lift home with all of my stuff, even though she’d have to make a second trip for the rest of hers. I would honestly say I’d have declined on any other day previous to that, but that day I thanked her all the way home.
It was weird at first, being home with the person I had shared my life with for 12 years, but only usually 30 hours of my waking week with for a long, long time. We kept busy and made a list of the remaining things we’d need before the baby arrived – any list feels like a long list when it’s for a baby. As shops closed and deliveries were delayed those last few things put pressure on us. And Lisa was feeling the pressure doubly, our daily walks got slower and we didn’t go as far. Then again, there was nothing open to go to, so we just saw less of the park.
News of restrictions for visitors at hospitals and between countries became worrying. Our parents and most of our family and friends lived in Ireland and it was looking like we would be on our own when the baby arrived. Of course, I should take a moment to say that those poor people who lost their lives and the families that they left behind were in our thoughts also.
There were updates every couple of days and it became apparent that Lisa would have to go to hospital alone when the day came to deliver, and I could only be there for the main event. She was becoming more stressed by the thought of going through labour alone as the days went by. As there was still time to choose where she wanted to have the baby, she decided on a homebirth. This, without any shadow of a doubt in my mind, was the most anxiety-inducing thought I have ever experienced. Lisa then told me she had been thinking about it for a little while and her dad suggested that I should learn how to deliver a baby, just in case no-one could make it out to us. That then became the most anxiety-inducing thought I’ve ever had. After my mind melted and reformed it was weird to think of a place in our house that would be a good setting to bring new life into the world.
I woke up on Saturday, April 25th, around 6am and noticed Lisa wasn’t in bed beside me. She was five days past her due date. I got out of bed to go and look for her, finding her downstairs bouncing on a yoga ball. The contractions had started and were happening close together and then quite far apart. We had learned that this could happen and that labour for first-time mums could take a while. So, I got Lisa some water, gave her a big kiss, and went back to bed for an hour. Then when I woke, I went back downstairs to find Lisa frozen solid. The contractions were really close together and she was in serious discomfort. I called the hospital and was told someone would be out in a few hours. Lisa was having a hard time of it and, when the first midwife arrived, she was in a lot of pain. But there was a long way to go we were told.
Hours passed before the next midwife came. I had called the hospital again with my best effort at staying calm. There’s something that hurts so much when you see someone you love in pain and you can’t do anything but hold them and say breathe. We were told that Lisa still had a ways to go and the second midwife left. The contractions had been minutes apart for hours when I called the hospital again and, looking at Lisa, asked that someone come now please, that now would be really good, please. I think that’s all I could manage to say after our names. Chrissy arrived at 9pm and at 11pm her colleague Ruth came with a tank of gas. The midwives and the gas are what got Lisa through the last few hours. I did my small part again, continually chanting breathe interspersed with offering water.
At 3:54 on April 26th Lisa brought our son into the world. He cried, and it was one of the strangest and most beautiful things I have heard in all my life. I told Lisa I loved her and then I cut the cord. After I held the boy for a while, just looking and chatting at him, I helped the midwives load up their gear. It’s a terrible time when you can’t hug someone for any reason. Lisa put the boy to bed for the first time and I helped her into the shower. When I put her to bed I went down to where the boy had been born. I noticed the adrenaline as I loaded the washing machine. I floated around cleaning up for another hour or so before I poured a small glass of whiskey. Then, with the sun climbing, I called my brother in Australia to give him the news. He was the only one I knew who would be awake at that hour. We didn’t have a name then, and for a few days after he was just called the boy or the baby. He has one now, it’s an old Irish one. And hopefully Oisín will see his family and his father’s land across the sea before too long.
Runners are a real sociable bunch. So lockdown has been hard for us (and for everyone else of course) – we’re used to multiple races a year with thousands of people, parkrun every weekend with generally at least a hundred (if not 700) and regular runs with friends either training for events or purely for the fun of it.
Those in Cardiff and a few other select parts of Wales are also used to getting together every couple of months for something called The Big Social Run. These runs have no chip timing, no finishing positions and no competitive aspect – they are all about getting out and enjoying running (whatever pace you run), talking to old and new friends, and sharing a coffee and cake over a chat afterwards.
Cardiff was all set for the next Big Social Run in late February when Covid changed everything and we had to call it off.
But the Big Social Run Organisers, supported as always by RunWales (Welsh Athletics Social Running arm), really wanted to somehow bring runners together again just like at those events – if not physically, then virtually!
What we planned for the weekend of 20/21st June was the first Virtual Big Social Run Wales!
The task? Simply to run (or walk) half an hour or more on that weekend (whilst following guidelines of course) and to share pictures of the run using the hashtag #virtualbigsocialrun. We asked people to choose a place that meant something to them – a favourite running spot maybe, or where they went to school, where they met their partner – anything with meaning for them.
Leading up to the event we shared some (frankly ridiculous) teaser videos encouraging people to sign up. And sign up they did – by the weekend over 650 people had signed up to take part, including some runners who used to live in Wales and were (of course!) missing the place and the people.
Friday night anticipation was high as we posted a video wishing everyone luck for the weekend:
The event was kickstarted on the Saturday morning by a fun warm up session video to get runners ready to head out, put together by some of our organisers from the Cardiff, Swansea and Bridgend Big Social Run teams.
There were runners from Cardiff, Barry, Swansea, Maesteg, Newport, Devon!, Penarth, Ogmore, Swansea, Bridgend, Caerphilly, Cowbridge, Llantrisant, Llantwit Major, Pencoed, Port Talbot, Merthyr, Pontardawe, Pontyrpidd, Mountain Ash, Llanelli, Cornwall!- the list just goes on and on!
Throughout the whole of Saturday and Sunday our Facebook, Twitter and Instagram pages were bursting with pictures of these happy runners, brought together virtually to have a good time and feel part of this lovely community.
Runners also had a chance to win a fab Big Social Run t-shirt. Our organiser Ben tells us all about it:
“Everyone who participated in the inaugural virtual big social run event and shared a photo of themselves on a run using the hashtag #VirtualBigSocialRun was entered into a competition to win a fantastic prize, a Big Social Run Tee. We couldn’t believe how many people got involved, all of the entries were fantastic and it was a pleasure to see people getting involved and enjoying themselves.”
We had some live videos into the group as well which is always great fun:
Helen, pretty new to going live on Facebook but now a total pro! 🙂
As organisers of these events, we are super grateful for everyone who got involved.
Rachael, Katie and Carole
We started the Big Social Run two years ago as something to bring people together, in a non competitive environment. Since then we’ve had many many events and they always get really lovely feedback from the runners that come along. We realise it’s not the same when we can’t all run together – but we wanted to do something that at least reminded us of that and where we could all encourage and support each other.
Those who joined in on the weekend have told us that it was a success and we’re so happy they enjoyed it!
We finished the weekend with a little video to say thanks 🙂
I’ll finish with a quote from Lucy, our founder:
“I’ve been overwhelmed by the engagement we’ve had across Wales for the virtual event. It’s really reminded me how important social running is and the amazing buzz I get from it. I hope we can build on this event and whether the next is virtual or face to face I look forward to it”
We all look forward to it too. Big Social Run is here to stay and we have more exciting plans coming your way, maybe sooner than you think, so check out our facebook groups and other social media – we’d love you to join us on the next one!
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from Caroline Richards. We’re looking for your stories, so please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in lockdown!
We’re coming to the end of lockdown – the quietest three months of my life …and most lacking in purpose. I’ve remained very sheltered from the virus and I’m grateful, for that – so it’s interesting now to reflect on the suppressed fear that occupied our minds at the beginning of the crisis. During these three months, so many thoughts have meandered through my brain. I’ve pondered if it was a global practice-run for an as yet unknown, more contagious, more deadly virus; or a New World Order experiment to observe how societies react under such restrictions. What felt drastic in March, now feels normal in June and I struggle to think of the benefits of emerging from lockdown. But as I was saying, I’m one of the luckier ones.
Permission to be, not do – do less, BE more.
This was something that took adjusting to but as we found, there are benefits… comfortable clothing, ignoring my bra, sleeping longer, cycling freely, watching the birds, listening to birds… our feathered sanity saviours; sipping a drink as the setting sun marks the end of another day, eating healthily … adopting daily rituals.
Ritual = meditative space = self care = sense of connection -> mental and spiritual well-being.
Lack of ritual = time saving = cutting corners = loss of connection -> neglect of self and others.
One of my failings has been falling into facebookland. Mainstream media journalists write their stories to fit with a pre-existing narrative and the repetition is mind-numbing …while the more varied rhetoric found on social media is confusing and between it all I’m struggling to find any truth. But then truth is much more complex and subtle than any loaded narrative designed with socio-political manipulation at its core. Take the ego out of outrage and you’re still left with bull. Often people adhere to their pre-formed opinions, some express themselves like a vile sport but when I read conversations that accommodate diverse thoughts – showing kindness and agile thinking, it gives me hope. Gone are the days of goodies and baddies …today’s narratives stretch way beyond that simplicity. There’s so much convincing and contradictory info out there that I find it impossible to form an opinion much beyond anything is possible… the confusion, so much confusion. We become addicted to seeking information but the information lacks answers, so we feast and feast until we make ourselves sick …sick with worry and fear.
Airborne, not airborne, no long term immunity, vitamin D improves your immune system, 5g suppresses immunity, fake news, released from a lab, Wuhan has a lab, dripped from pangolins or bats, corona virus pandemic predicted years ago, herd immunity, more ventilators needed, stay at home, be alert, mutating strains, track and trace, wear a mask, don’t you know it’s more dangerous to wear a mask? lose face, 72 hours, wash your wheelie bin hands, clap for key workers, give them a pay rise, wash your shopping, become OCD, off licenses are essential, so are nannies and golf; shield our elderly, they’re care homes not share homes, hothouses of viral transmission, the young are safe, they’re not as safe as we thought, blood types, ethnicity, ventilators aren’t helpful, return kids to schools, home schooling is safer, be safe, go back to work, that’s an ill-fitting mask, only masks made of three layers work, in a capitalist societeeee.
Somewhere round the third week of lockdown, Arundhati Roy writes an article entitled The Pandemic is a Portal. And it’s true, this timely pause allows space to re-evaluate and work out how to step through into a different life. A crisis is not to be wasted. Here we are, careering towards doomsday and businesses want to return to normal!? Only a fool or a business person would wish for things to ‘return to normal’. The world pulling so abruptly to a halt has been a gift for Mother Nature …possibly a sentient act by Mother Nature. Will we ever end this era of opportunistic development? It no longer feels modern, much more fin de siecle. Unrestrained growth on a finite planet transpires as a tad problematic. Let’s move into a new era where the status of nature increases, outmoding current aspirations for (addictions to) financial gain. No more disposable value packs and lazy gratification, thank you. Instead, adopt a sense of fair that works from all angles; a-greed, without greed.
I hope that as lockdown eases, we step forward slowly, empathetically and on a different foot. I hope ‘business as usual’ takes a back seat and nature draws towards centre stage.
Spring 2020 has put on a belter of a display to coincide with this crisis. She played her best hand, reaching into our shortsighted gaze to wake us up to all we’re destroying. So much of lockdown is like stepping back in time, even my eyes regained their childhood clarity of the 1970s. Bluer skies and greener leaves, like pollution isn’t a thing; the insidious cataracts of contrails and exhaust fumes peeled away. Now, when I gaze at the blue of the sky, I can connect it with the thin blue line seen in satellite images – that finely tuned, atmospheric glow that circles our home. And just like an opal backed with onyx, outer space gives a quality to a cloudless sky that is otherwise indescribable. Let’s not forget how wonderful it is to have these deep blue skies, clean green leaves and rainwater pure enough to drink. I am so in love with our planet. My biggest hope is that we now recognise how do-able a huge shift in lifestyle and mindset can be. Please people, put our planet first… in all our everyday decision-making, allow the natural world to thrive until we find a harmonious balance. We’ve been given an invaluable chance.
Planet Earth faulty, Global Reset button pressed – system updating – initialising…
I thought this enforced break/reassessment was 100% about the planet – but two thirds of the way through lockdown saw the murder of George Floyd. This, the subsequent violence across the States and the ripples felt across Britain and much of the world remind us that the story is way more complex. We’ve been doing things wrongly. Our new steps forward must be inclusive to create ourstory not history (where his = able-bodied, white, cis, hetero). Unless we aim for equality, we’re looped into this highway to obliteration. Colonialism played a big part in warping our minds, giving us perceived status. Diverse perspectives are essential for us to rethink our future. A better, stronger sense of fairness is what we’re aiming for but there will be other bonuses that flow from an inclusive approach.
A pre-covid walk through our city centres was degrading… unable to meaningfully help the homeless was a gut wrenching affair that de-humanised the rest of us, forced to bear witness. The British government has become some macabre circus fronted by a two faced, jolly/evil blond ringmaster. It started with Cameron’s Austerity and continues onwards through this pandemic …the slow realisation that our government is conducting a cull now seems inescapable; a cull on its financially less-active citizens. Watching New Zealand’s PM, Jacinda Ardern helps bring our own situation into sharp focus – a leader who wants to save her people versus leadership facilitating a societal cull. Who can forget our PM’s jolly chilling words, to ‘‘…take it on the chin’’. Neo-Liberalism engineered Austerity – the British government is accountable. And does it need pointing out how poorly the UK government has communicated with Welsh government throughout the covid-19 crisis? Again and again it ignores the Wales in ‘England and Wales’ – in general and particularly noticeable during this pandemic. For this reason, I have one more wish for how we emerge from this crisis …Yes Cymru, I’m glad to be Welsh. We’re managing this situation with more consideration for a healthy outcome, both at governmental and community levels. We display less arrogance and less greed. Our time has come to ease the dis-ease and step away from a London-centric Parliament. Connect with other small nations, reunite with our Celtic cousins, liaise through open doorways with mainland Europe – feel our rich heritage and join the global conversation.
A world where nature has elevated status; where people do less and BE more; a place where equality and inclusivity is normal; where we’re affected by decisions that are made more locally with people and land represented fairly and without greed. This vision can be a reality if enough of us want it – so for all these reasons, please let’s not ‘return to normal’. Instead, let’s step forward through this portal of consciousness thoughtfully and on a different foot; a foot that fits its breathable shoes and walks companionably, with all who care and dare to place Nature before Business. Because one day soon, Nature and Well-being is how we’ll measure a nation’s wealth.
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from Robin Wilkinson. We’re looking for your stories, so please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in lockdown!
Running during lockdown By Robin Wilkinson, aged 36 1/3
The day we were sent home from work had a strange echo of Christmas. I tied up loose ends, packed my bag and said goodbye to colleagues, not knowing when I’d see them next, or how the world might have changed when I did.
When I got home I called my parents, and then went for a run. It calmed me and helped me get some perspective on the possible personal impact of the unfolding crisis. Running has helped to anchor me during the last three months: lifting my mood when I’ve been down, and adding satisfaction to days which would otherwise consist of the endless cycle of cooking, eating, working and washing up.
I live in Riverside, and running through Bute Park most days given me the chance to watch Cardiff respond to the pandemic. In early March, before the lockdown began, people were visibly making the most of the park in the cold weather. We had been told to avoid indoor public spaces, and families responded by having unseasonable picnics – wrapped up against the chill wind as though dressed for a ski-trip, in coats, hats and sunglasses. Young men socially-distanced together, drinking wine in camping chairs positioned 2 metres apart along the river.
A week later all non-essential trips outside the house were banned, and the official lockdown began. That evening the park was more sparsely populated, with many runners choosing to wear masks or cover their faces with scarves. The volume of activity that people undertake that goes beyond the essential was evident in the deserted pavements and empty roads.
A new footpath etiquette quickly emerged, as social distancing stopped being a convention and felt like a survival mechanism. On hearing me approach, couples would fall into single file to give me more room to pass. I ran more and more of my routes through fields and copses of trees. Several days into the lockdown I found it necessary to direct a runner for the first time as he ran towards me. I directed him right, like a traffic policeman – he complied, I gave him the thumbs up and we both smiled.
I had hoped that a sense of solidarity would grow between frequent users of the park. But after several failed attempts at friendliness it became clear that the best time to make friends was not whilst sweating and panting during a viral outbreak. Instead of smiling, I began turning away from people as I passed, hiding my face like a bashful debutante.
Spring came with a surreal beauty. Blossom appeared on the branches of trees along the river which, with the low footbridges, made the park look like a Japanese watercolour. Daffodils recovered from their early spring flooding to watch the evening runners with nodding approval. It was hard to reconcile this tranquillity with the rapidly rising death toll.
The background hum of police helicopters reminded me of the world outside the park. I never failed to be surprised by seeing a police horse – more used to dealing with rugby fans than joggers – trotting along the Taff trail on a bank holiday on the lookout for illicit picnickers.
Running past the football pitches on a drizzly Friday evening I saw what looked like a horse preparing to take a penalty. A mounted policeman in high-viz stood ten metres away from a goal, facing two children with a football. It was a bizarre stand-off, with neither side moving as I ran past, and I wondered what public health benefits there were to stopping two children playing football in a deserted park at dusk.
As my distances increased I started using running as a way to expand my world, which otherwise consisted of my house and the supermarket. As a student I rarely left Cathays and Roath, and as a graduate I’ve rarely gone back. I ran through Cathays to Roath Park Lark and was ambushed by memories, of long-forgotten house parties and meetings that seemed inconsequential at the time but led to some of my deepest friendships.
I ran to the Bay, and past the Senedd, which had changed its name from the “National Assembly for Wales” during the lockdown. The old sign remained, waiting either for two socially distanced workmen, or one with very long arms. I ran over the barrage and was the furthest away from my house I had been in months.
Time became a paradox. Days bled together, but weeks felt as different as foreign countries. Writing down my slowly increasing mileage in a diary helped to create a feeling of continuity. My mileage crept up and I decided to run a half marathon. It felt good to have a project to work towards.
As I added miles to my longest training runs, each run had an exciting feeling of venturing into unknown territory, as I ran the furthest I had for a decade.
I set a date, and felt as nervous beforehand as if I’d been running in an organised event. Buzzing from anxiety and my morning coffee I ran through Grangetown to the Bay. I ran up St Mary’s Street, past boarded pubs, and the Principality Stadium, which is now a – mercifully underused – field hospital.
Running along the Taff, between Blackweir Bridge and Western Avenue, I felt a strange mixture of movement and stasis. I looked up at the trees, meeting above the path like the roof of a church, and was convinced it was them that was moving and not me. I grinned and burst out laughing, giddy with excitement, or perhaps just oxygen debt. Under two later, exhausted and exhilarated, I was back exactly where I’d started.
I never want to forget the strangeness of running through the city during a pandemic. Cars have started returning to the residential streets I used to happily run down. The people who sat in camping chairs in their front gardens, waving because we were both human and there was nothing better to do, have gone. I’ll miss it, but I hope I never see it again.
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from Emily, who has a very important question to ask…
Letter and lessons from lockdown – A letter to my post-lockdown self
Life is, as ever, what you make of it. Sometimes, through times of stress and strain we need a bit of perspective. Lockdown has brought challenges to our household (me, my boyfriend*, and our lodger) so I’ve written a letter to my future self, to remind me of all of the things I’ve learnt from lockdown so far
(*he has a real name too – it’s Chris)
It sounds like something that happens in a Netflix prison drama. A nationwide pandemic is the stuff of Hollywood Blockbusters on the big screen. Then IT happened. You were told to stay indoors. And since mid-June you’ve been living a groundhog day-like existence. I’ve been reading the other blogs, where we’ve heard stories of lost jobs, isolation, relationship fails, green fingers, key workers and alike. But none of them have captured the absolute devastation that lockdown has brought us in our household…
Firstly there’s the fact that my boyfriend is a psychopath. He is one of those hideous, monstrous humans of the worst order: he is a feeder. Goat tartlet, crispy shredded beef, glazed gammon; there is nothing that Elaine can’t whip up in the kitchen. This, paired with the fact that I suffer from an awful condition called greediness, means that lockdown has resulted in us both gaining an extra stone of isolation insulation. I like to think it will help us if food shortages become rife, we have a good head start on most people, having already stored it in our bellies.
Secondly, there’s working from home. We’ve all been there; long video calls, eating your way through boredom, consuming more coffee than a columbian barista convention. It’s insanely boring, strangely tiring and being on calls all day makes you bizarrely obsessed with the appearance of your plain walls. Do you show them your alcohol collection at risk of looking like you might have a problem, or the pretentious bookshelves full of books that you’ve not read yet?
Throw in two stepchildren who visit once a fortnight and rob you of all of your food, sleep and sanity (Especially when they leave strategically placed toys in the shaggy rug – the outcome of which was, in my opinion more painful than simultaneously treading on lego and an upturned plug.)
But, (and you too, dear reader) amidst this tale of lockdown woe, I’ve found some important lessons that I wanted to remember, because I think they are life-changing.
I’ve learnt patience.
I’ve learnt to embrace simple, but perfect things.
A hot chocolate in front of the fire. (Yes I lit a fire in June. This girl feels the cold.) A slow dance in the kitchen, playing rock paper scissors to decide who makes the morning coffee and brings it to the other in bed. We can find surprising satisfaction in the small things that happen when we least expect it. You don’t have to go far, you don’t have to spend money, you can stop and look up to find things you love dearly.
Something else I’ve learnt is how surprising an ‘extreme’ situation can show you another side to someone.
It may not be as extreme as the time I ate a MacDonald’s apple pie without letting it cool first, but lockdown has forced us into some pretty hardcore levels of extreme exposure to loved ones. I didn’t anticipate that my boyfriend would be forced to listen to my ‘work self’ spouting formal phrases about complex legal systems that sounds like absolute gobbledygook, or that I would be forced to spend an afternoon hand-washing his pants. (Another delightful lockdown quirk: our washing has been broken for three months. For this household, social distancing isn’t difficult because no one would want to come into close proximity to anything that’s in my wardrobe.) I know there is a very serious situation that some people forced to be together is negative and detrimental experience but this, for us, has been the opposite. I’ve delighted in seeing him single-handedly home-school, work, cook three meals a day and still remain a kind, patient and phenomenally fun dad. All the while I’m just about managing to do just one thing: my job. I haven’t even managed to feed and water myself – he’s done that too. I’ve seen a wonderful man take the world on his stride and that has been incredible to witness.
Finally, and most importantly I’ve learnt not to wait.
Not to wait until things are “back to normal.” Not to wait for a fresh start. (Why wait until 2021 to start afresh?) No, it’s time to seize the day, not wait around. I’m not waiting until lockdown is over. I’m not waiting to ‘live’ once travel restrictions are lifted. I’m not writing a bucket list of stuff for the future. Why wait? Now is the time, THIS is life. Why miss out on all the fun that we can have now?
Which is why, dear reader, my biggest reflection on lockdown is how lucky I am to have my man by my side making me belly-laugh every day without fail. How lucky I am to love with someone who cares for me so much that they have fed me more calories than a Gregg’s warehouse. How lucky I am to have someone whose children melt my cold heart and ALMOST make treading on lego worthwhile with their jokes, curiosity and constant references to farting and bums.
I said I’d learnt not to wait around; so why wait to make sure that your best mate stays by your side forever? Chris, will you be the bacon to my eggs, the Morecambe to my Wise and the husband to my wife….?
……Will you marry me?*
Tune in to We Are Cardiff to see whether this is a lockdown love story or a COVID catastrophe…!
Today’s instalment for the Letters from Cardiff in lockdown series comes from writer, tutor, and facilitator, Sharon Brace. We’re looking for your stories, so please contribute to Letters from Cardiff in lockdown!
‘We live in interesting times.’
Pandemic… Lockdown… Panic buying… Isolation… As we approach the second month of lockdown, I feel that I have settled into a sort of bespoke routine which has minimal interruptions from the world beyond my walls and ironically, those words of fear have turned this place into one of love and security once again. I don’t plan to stay here forever but I rejoice that the lockdown found me here not elsewhere.
I am comforted that the universe knew the plan even when I did not and, after many years of roaming the world I have returned to the unexpectedly sunny valleys and shores of south Wales only fifty days pre the possibly the grim reality of lockdown.
Lockdown…? The dimensions of this area, so much smaller than the worlds I’ve wandered in the last decade or two, alarmed me somewhat and the thought of being literally ‘home alone’ for the foreseeable future sent waves of claustrophobia through me in the same way that the apprehension of take-off had myriad times before. Yet I had a pre-pandemic mission; to study until my ultimate qualification was complete and then to return to the me this house had created and begin to cram in as much living as I could beyond its confines. However, a microscopic virus was able to change so much.
The reality of lockdown is, however, disparate. I have established my own routine from which I draw comfort. In a bid to diversify and live a more complete life than merely a quest for a qualification, and as lockdown became inevitable I filled the house with food, yanked up my metaphorical drawbridge and prepared for a sit-in but I also invested in a packet of tomato seeds, a packet of pepper seeds and several cumbersome bags of compost which I dragged home and housed in the garage. I’d grown nothing but houseplants so I dug my fingers into the huge newly-filled pots I found in yesteryear and dropped a few seeds into each. Within weeks I had lain waste to my dining room, filled it with constantly developing living things which were a conciliatory paradox to the death that raged in so many homes in so many of the lands I’ve walked.
In an effort to remain at one with the outside world I have now walk at 7. And 12. And then again at 7. I have begun to see the cul-de-sac in which I played and made friends in three different lights, in three different seasons and, thanks to climate change, in an increasing amount of sunshine. These hills which have witnessed wars and previous pandemics look on silently, and as I now have time to look up, I gaze back adoringly never before grasping that these hills have framed my life. Their varying colours of green, a little yellow and a little a brown yet now in Summer, vibrantly green. The blue, unblemished sky is free of vapour trails and the and the clouds which so often appear to be held up by these intangible barriers scurry along unrestricted.
I embrace a sense of community from people whose presence was always on my life’s periphery but where in bygone days I felt the bond of an interloper.
Saturday morning as I queue, two meters away from the person before me, I have time – and interest to engage with others. Once, I would have found their conversation banal and unnecessary but my current lack of human contact has granted me a curiosity in my fellow man.
Friday evening, as I call my newly acquired yet lifelong neighbours and discuss their grocery needs and prescriptions, I feel vital in a way which is quite distinct from the professional imperative of a mere half a year ago. And as I deliver their groceries to their front door and step away, we joke at a distance. I’ll make sure their curtains and blinds are open by 9 and call them midweek just for the joy of an octogenarian perspective on the new world we inhabit equally.
Friendships and telephone calls have become a lifeline and as we gather at 11 each morning for cyber coffee and chats, I acknowledge that those bonds too have intensified, braced and bolstered by the imposed isolation. We fight each day to imprison each other’s isolation and to forbid it becoming loneliness. Friends around the world, traditionally held near often only in Christmas greetings, are now weekly contacts as we Zoom in and out of each other’s realities all in agreement that people are our principal priority.
I don’t go to the shops; I haven’t purchased any new fashions in half a year, yet as I student again, I was expecting not to need anything more than patched jeans and numerous leggings; I order books online in such volumes I now know both postman and Amazon delivery driver by name; I no longer spend £3 a day on coffee but rather have coffee indoors with people who will always be part of my home even when I can’t invite them there; my car has guzzled less than £50 of fuel in three months; my uncut hair touches my belt and my attire is occasionally the same sweater twice consecutively; I cook vegetables each evening and struggle to invent new menus by the next; I try only to imbibe twice a week and still respect the rules of a school night; in the safety of my childhood bedroom eight hours of good sleep has once again become my norm and my mind is grateful for the silence that sleep affords me.
Lockdown has changed us but mercifully and by some quirk of fate and the joy of education, I was home to experience it and ever so grateful that my new chap had stayed over the night it was announced. I fear that things would have been dreadfully different without him.
I am so terribly woeful for the people who have been robbed of their people by the Virus; tears often slide down my cheeks as I absorb the daily figures. Yet somehow this hell has given me so very many people and ironically turned the panic of a pandemic and the loss of so many lives into a reaffirmation of my own.
As I have relegated my triffid-like tomatoes to the sunshine of the garden, my dining room feels empty and lifeless and, with no prospects of a dinner-party to fill it with life and love, with the easing of lockdown on garden centres I bought a goldfish; no I bought five goldfish. Animals can be lovely too. The continual movement of the steady and silent Moby, Jane, Alice, Pip and Stig and the grandeur of the mountains of my childhood reminds me that, despite the hardship we face together, all things will ultimately continue as they have before.
Ironically, the panic of a pandemic, for me, has swiftly turned into consolidated friendship and a renewed sense of community and old-fashioned values. My intention to leave when my purpose is served is unchanged but as is human nature, we face a siege from our stronghold, I have faced this from mine.
As the lockdown decreases, I hope to see you very soon.
Sharon Brace is a writer, tutor, and facilitator. Visit Sharon’s website for more info.