It’s been tough. We’ve had to be piercingly clear just to get things done: all SAS carapace and no-nonsense attitude. Now we look 1000 years old and haven’t slept for as long. So what to do? Step away from the chilly modernity and eye-watering Zooms to connect with a more innocent time. A more spontaneous (now, that’s a rude word) time. A time when woodland was our Netflix and real life conversation was our Instagram. So here are some moods and modes and mini-modules served up with lashings of good cheer….
When was the last time you had a frolic? Or frolicked? Or had a frolicking experience? When was the last time you cheerily, playfully, merrily wended your way with a spring in your step? Gamboling through life like a young foal in a prairie rather than a packhorse lumbering down the mines? Why are we not frolicking EVERY SINGLE DAY? What happened to us? *cries* *writes long list for Zoom therapy* *obsesses about Zoom therapist’s backdrop*
Yes, time poverty has made you so concise. No there hasn’t been much time for extraneous chit chat what with the hours spent disseminating endlessly shifting guidances, rules and statistics. But now for some blithering, excess bloviage, full-fat conversations that just are. Why does everything have to have a point? No wonder we are all depressed – all the feathers have been taken out of our plumage. Bring back our words.
You are tired. Everything has such purpose. No room for spontaneity. Full bunker mentality. Mask? Check. Sanitiser? Check? Reservation? Check? Hyper vigilance? Check. Crying in the coat cupboard? Check. Check. Check. There has been no space for a meander. For a wander. For a moment not subtitled, ‘Let’s get this shit done, shall we? And then we can move on to the next thing on the list’. See also…
Why are you not wandering around the streets like a well-to-do 19th Century French gentleman? Good Moaning…
Hopefully cardigan weather is going to soothe you back into daydreaming as opposed to catastrophising. You can slowly pull it tight and wrap your arms around yourself with a French Lieutenant’s Woman vibe as you worry about your fisherman husband battling the high seas as opposed to whether or not Dan from Accounts is going to Google Hangout the joy out of your life forever.
Time to feel free to fuck up. You’ve been forced into a perfection position and now you are so fearful of getting things wrong that you don’t say anything at all. The thing about blundering is that it is completely without spite. You can say, ‘Sorry, I am a dick.’ There’s no malice in a blunder. But there might be learning. Let’s just fuck up a bit for a bit.
You’ve been cooped up, keeping a lid on your horrible personality for TOO LONG. You have been such a good girl/woman thrown under the metaphorical bus by the pandemic complete with rights eroded and a return to 1950s oppression. Hey ho, it’s time to have a thunder. Fuck the niceties. Thunder around about everything. Be heavy with it, cumbersome and thick and lumbering. All those words that we’ve been taught to hate about ourselves. Who cares? If we don’t fight, they will take everything away and we will have been so busy emptying the dishwasher for the millionth time we will not have noticed. Thunder Woman is your new super hero name.