68 Days — Despatches from Manchester in 2020
On March 23, England went into incredibly necessary, incredibly restrictive, lockdown.
From June and into July, we tasted some small morsels of everyday freedom.
On July 31 2020 — Greater Manchester entered its very own lockdown.
What does lockdown mean for us in our house?
We live just north of Manchester and fall into the Bury region. So, it means continuing to work from home (we are lucky, we still have jobs). Not entering into anyone else’s house or garden. Not meeting others in indoor settings.
We can meet people we know outside, keeping our physical distance from them and ensuring there are no more than four of them. Simple.
It is now October 7 2020. The above ruling came to pass 68 days ago — I would call that just over two months — and I get the sense that the ruling is about to become more strict.
I think that’s why I’m choosing to begin a daily despatch from here.
To say the last few months have been a strain on people would be too anemic. To say I’m consuming information, obsessing over things I never thought would distract me and questioning some fundamental elements of the societal structure around me — would be very true.
And yet, some days I do all that and still feel intense joy that I get to practise yoga and have three home cooked meals. How is it possible to feel both at once? And what, I mean this genuinely, just what is this year doing to our brains?
It strikes me that before I get in the shower, open the curtains or put a fresh pair of knickers on each day I’ve already consumed enough information to make me dread what’s coming next, or, to the counter — feel a sliver of hope that I might be allowed to have someone around for dinner before Christmas. I’m not sure that the way we live our lives now is cut out for the way we need to live our lives now.
I can’t be the only person who lives in a local lockdown zone that feels like they’re treading on eggshells — waiting to hear if, when and how the nuance of their rules will change enough for them to go in another house again and to sit near their loved one/s under a roof.
I’m committing to tracking this experience, for however long it lasts. It’s taken me 68 days precisely to realise that writing it down is the only thing that may help me gain (instead of lose) the plot.
And so goes today’s despatch:
AM
Key notes from this morning’s feed.
Twitter: A very strong presence that Kamala Harris will debate overnight tonight and a very strong notion that Donald Trump is a monster that clings to ideas of toxic masculinity ‘don’t be afraid of it’ blah.
Stop and remind myself that morning scrolling is B.A.D. Say hi to Rob, he sleeps, so nothing for it. We got one of those embarrassing S.A.D alarm clocks because I was very intimidated by this next few months of continued hibernation. They do work though. So I wake up optimistic, as the fake sun rises.
The most miserable thing I have to do when I first get up is fire up the laptop my employer has given me. It’s so clunky that giving it at least an hour to really get going before I need to use it, is the kindest thing I can do for it.
News sites: (I’m a glutton for the usual, Guardian, Huffpost, New Yorker maybe a little of BBC which always makes me nauseous): Not much in the way of specific updates that get down to the nitty gritty this morning, what I really want is a rolling feed that tells me how I can help my council and my neighbours out of this mess. Instead most focus on Rishi Sunak’s soundbite that creatives better re-train. I scroll desperately in search for signs of hope that things are getting better only to be distracted by Eddie Van Halen’s obit and a story on Manchester’s students having lockdown parties (I mean, if I were locked in halls I’d party — although I feel for the ones sharing a bathroom).
Instagram: A happy place, where I’ve tried to curate a feed that consists mostly of women, interior designers, things that make me laugh and — oh yeah, my beloved friends and family. American election is really driving up the stress levels on here this morning.
Stop scroll. Shower. A morning walk along with a Guardian podcast that intimidates me beyond belief thanks to the people of Florida.
Back home, some porridge, I open up my laptop, who’s also been awake for an hour — for at least five hours of Zoom calls and four hours of laptop working.
My work laptop is terrible.
PM
News and Twitter become one: I’m honestly flicking between apps and sites like a concert pianist at the keys because Keir Starmer mentioned Bury in PMQs this afternoon. What will this mean? Will anything happen? Someone has noticed us up high — then I worry that his comms advisers have chosen the three Bs because the soundbite is more likely to be picked up ‘Bury Burnley Bolton’. Surely science doesn’t pick places out by alliterative, tripartite lists? Anyway, i sort of let this scroll melt away until Rob says: Looks like they’re going to close our pubs and restaurants.
This doesn’t sound great.
I open up again and can’t find anything specific. A message on whatsapp says: something will happen next Monday.
Monday. Where do I find out what they will say about Manchester on Monday? The search is exhausting and I’m left with nothing but Andy Burnham’s exasperated Twitter feed. I definitely also saw something that suggested poverty versus wealthy Tory constituencies were playing a factor in how rules are being imposed and I curse myself for not being detail focused enough to follow this lead.
I read some of a book, cook dinner from scratch and celebrate the female plasterer/decorator I’ve asked to help with our bedroom makeover on Instagram.
I turn on the S.A.D alarm — sunset.
