Lockdown day one: realitea

Looking back, it was inevitable. In the days leading up to the dreaded five words (‘I think I’ve got Covid’), my flatmate and I had been having a bout of bad luck. Around a week before, we’d had a long day working from our flat. Realising we both needed to get out, get some fresh air and relieve ourselves from ‘these four walls’, the two of us had decided to really embrace the London life. We cooked our dinners, got the Tupperware at the ready and headed out the door to have our tepid teas in London Fields. Bliss.

Georgis sat in a park in London Fields.
Georgia laughing (not crying).

Georgia in particular had put a lot of effort into making dinner. ‘I’m going to try replicate that fancy meal we saw in the restaurant the other day,’ she’d said. Into the oven went aubergines, halloumi, sweet potato – and all the other bits that make the restaurant able to charge a premium on what is essentially some cooked veggies. Seeing her little face light up at her yummy dinner gave me a sense of pride though (if not a little jealousy whilst looking at my basic pasta and sauce).

Into London Fields we ventured, we parked ourselves under a tree – settling into the evening sun and friendly hum of voices all around us. As we began tucking into our dinners, a rather ugly looking chihuahua is suddenly charging a -million-miles-an-hour towards us. Will we get bitten? Is it just running towards the dog behind us? Of course not, naive reader. The tiny beast has its eyes set on the ultimate goal: Georgia’s dinner. It’s hectic, it’s primal, it’s a loud and unpleasant experience. Georgia’s screeching in disbelief, I’m trying to pull the dog away whilst it growls at us and the dog owner is running halfway across the park to get his rabid pet under control.

Ten minutes later, Georgia has risked eating the final forkful of her food, the dog is getting an absolute finger wagging from the mortified owner and we are beginning to see the funny side of things. We laugh, saying how Bridget Jones-esque our lives are. ‘Oh well, hopefully that’s our last bit of bad luck for a while‘.

Roll on less than a week later, when we had once again headed out for an evening stroll. Beautiful evening, lush scenes – but a hot one to say the least. What better than a chilled bottle of Diet Coke to take back to the flat? We step into the lift for our flat, I hear a gasp and before she says another word, Georgia’s 2L fizzy drink has hit the bottom of the lift, sprayed in every direction and proceeds to drip from the ceiling onto our cute summer outfits. We can’t see each other for the sticky brown syrup falling between us, but it is a shared moment in which we simultaneously think, ‘how is this happening to us again?’.

Cleaning up the spilt bottle of coke in the lift.
Cleaning up the mess.

So just days later, when my boyfriend arrives into the Big Smoke for a weekend celebrating him getting a job, it really comes as no surprise that 24 hours in, we realise the three of us will be spending 10 days isolating together in our flat.

Of course, Georgia’s third and (hopefully) final bit of bad news means that she is the one suffering from Covid-19. As Finlay and I try to avoid catching it and clean down every touch surface in the flat, I realise what an utterly shit situation my flatmate is in. I want to give her a hug, make her a cuppa and get her parked up in-front of the TV whilst she recovers – but these go against every rule in the pandemic handbook.

Instead, we spray, we wipe and we wave through our balcony door – praying she feels much better soon and that we don’t catch it (queue the extended ten-day lockdown).

Not quite the ‘London city girl’ dreams we had in mind for our first month together in the flat – but I’m sure one we won’t forget. We are already planning our fire outfits and boujee meal on Monday 21st.

Dear reader, there is little to no point in this post, other than to say: please send good wishes and buckets of good luck to G as she battles this raging pandemmy. Us young ‘uns are still at risk, so keep safe fellow compadres.

As we prepare ourselves for ten days of insanity, a 28-degree heatwave tomorrow and the possibility all three of us go down with the big C, I’ll be delivering daily updates* and amusing momentos for anyone willing to waste their time. After all, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Right?

* including the fact my bed just broke.

Fixing a broken bed.
Attempting to fix my bed.

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