The end of lockdown appeared to be in sight. The end of furlough, the end of sitting at home staring at the walls. Joe Wicks and banana bread could go fuck themselves. There had been no self improvement, no languages learned, no hobbies adopted. Sleep, eat, game, drink, eat, game, film, sleep again. On and on and on.
In the beginning it hadn't seemed too bad. They tried to set him up to work from home, but quickly realised it wasn't practical. Too much hands on required. So he'd been furloughed. The reduction in income didn't hurt at all, for there was nothing to spend it on. No gigs, no films at the cinema, no nights out at the pub. He found himself with more money than month for the first time in his life.
There was even a briefly, socially distanced, period back at work, but it hadn't lasted long. Back to his wee flat again, back to sleeping at any time that suited, back to only leaving the flat for milk, bread, beer and a few ready meals. And cereal. How many Coco Pops can one person eat in nine months?
But now. Even the gaming held little appeal. He'd tried to read, but his concentration was shot. In the beginning he'd gone out every day, into the Spring sunshine, he'd walked, he'd Whatsapped pals, called his mum, tried to build up a healthy routine. By October it had all unravelled. What was the point in going out if there was nowhere to go? What was the point in talking to people if you couldn't arrange to meet up? What was the point in trying to cook when it was just for you, and your taste buds had atrophied along with the rest of your body? What was the point in anything?
2020 could get in the bin of memory. So far 2021 could join it, although the recent government announcements flickered little spasms of hope before the eyes. Except that he didn't know if he could cope with hope right now. He didn't think he could cope with going out, with people, with work - with getting properly dressed or having to jump to the tune of the alarm. He didn't think mornings existed any more. The strangeness of this covid world had become a normality.
This was making him ill, and he knew there was a need to break from his senseless nihilism. He commanded Alexa to select a random track and half listened to what emerged. He didn't recognise it at first, until the words connected in his synapses.
#We're living in a strange time
Working for a strange goal
We're living in a strange time
Working for a strange goal
We're turning flesh and body
Into soul#
"Alexa, repeat song" he pleaded.
#We're sailing on a strange boat
Heading for a strange shore
We're sailing on a strange boat
Heading for a strange shore
Carrying the strangest cargo
That was ever hauled aboard#
Strange Boat, by the Waterboys. Strange times, even then, back in the eighties. Mike Scott had it right. Times were always strange, for strangeness was simply newness. New situations, new people, new ways of working, new routines, new habits, new life. New pandemics. Always, for ever and ever. Nothing was strange, just different.
He felt surprisingly cheered by this revelation. People demanded a return to 'normal'. But this life, the one he was living, had become 'normal' through these strange months. And when that 'normal' changed it would never be the same as the one he'd had before. If he was heading for a strange shore that was fine with him. He'd ride the boat and see where it took him.
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