It’s day one million of the lock down and the doors of my flat are starting to narrow. So far, I’ve been passing the time by drinking heavily and making my own dough. The repercussions of my newfound hobbies have meant that soon I’ll have to carry a pack of Lurpak in my pocket so that I can slide myself from one room to the next.
So here we are, looking week three down the barrel. Even the lovely Adrienne can’t pretzel me out of my panic. My only remaining bunker buddy, Señor Televisión, informs me that despite our valiant efforts and pub deprivation, things are indeed Not Getting Better. As I write this, Bojo’s addressing the nation from home, Corona-bound, in a suit and a tie. The sight of him makes my skin itch. Outside, my neighbour appears to be going for her second (!!) walk of the day. But most distasteful of all, is the sight of her jeans poking out from underneath her coat. What, oh what, have these people got to prove?! Honestly, if you’re still putting a bra on every morning, you need to take a long, hard look in the mirror and, to quote the great Ali Wong, Grow. The. Fuck. Up.
Since our great leader is not leading the Conference Call army by example, I’m happy to take the reins. When we’re down and out, we’ve got to take the wins where we can find ‘em. For me, that’s spaghetti for breakfast and an elastic waistline. But why stop there? Raid your wardrobe for something larger than life (and your exponentially growing arse). Commandeer your neighbour’s bins with the authority of a co-ordinating pinstripe. Deliver your presentation with Va-va-Zoom in an ostrich-feather sleeve. Call your Grandmother in home-made nipple tassles, for God’s sakes. This is a pandemic! Let us run amok!
Because if it makes you smile for a second longer; if it makes you forget about the Doomsday mundanity of it all, then nothing is too elaborate, too extravagant or too luxurious to lounge in. If we can’t actually escape, I choose escapism. Whilst my colleagues dial-in in ubiquitous Uniqlo, I’ll be waifing around the house like Grace Kelly. Dancing like an American in Paris. Outcamping Billy Porter at the Met. The way I see it, a transparent nightie and a strategically placed martini could be our ticket to Furlough, hunnis.


Failing that, I’m confident that soon, in a flutter of a Breakfast at Tiffany’s eyemask, this apocalyptic nightmare will be over and we’ll lying flat on our backs at 7 AM, struggling to do up our jeans, dreaming of the days we wore our pyjamas to work. 




Written by Georgia Horrocks

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