Has it really been one hundred days?
One hundred days of being inside. One hundred days of hand washing, of daily briefings, of wearing masks. One hundred days of wiping door handles. One hundred days of keeping your distance, of being suspicious, of things being closed.
I’ve both loved it and hated it, often at the same time.
I’ve had days of being creative and days of doing nothing. Days of feeling trapped and days of feeling free. Days of feeling positive and days of feeling scared. Days of thinking it’ll all blow over and days of thinking it’ll never end. I’ve had my faith restored in humanity and I‘ve despaired of it too.
I’ve loved slowing down, but I’ve also been bored.
I’ve loved the togetherness we’ve shared as a three, but I miss our family and friends.
I’ve loved the quizzes and the chats and the videos calls but I miss people’s faces. Their real faces.
I’ve loved being off work, but I’ve hated feeling useless.
I’ve loved not making an effort, but hated having nothing to make an effort for.
I’ve loved having no plans and I’ve hated having no plans.
I’ve loved having my son all to myself. But I’ve hated not sharing him too. He’s one hundred days older, one hundred days different, one hundred days more wonderful than before. I’ve loved having the time to watch him grow, but I’m sad no one else has seen it.
I’ve loved my husband being at home and weekend lie ins and having a beer in the garden when the sun comes out.
I’ve missed restaurants and art galleries and pottering around. I’ve missed meandering along Southbank on a Saturday afternoon. I’ve missed food markets and festivals and the cosiness of pubs.
I’ve missed things being normal but I can’t quite remember what normal was.
I remember we used to hug. Can we do that soon? I think that’s what I’ve missed the most.
You can’t put a price on a good hug.
But I suppose Boris knows that all too well.
