Lockdown: The Prequel of The Sequel
Pre-lockdown Part I : Wednesday 28th October
14h08 - I receive an email from a colleague (I have colleagues now - more on this later) in which she says, ominously, “Happy Wednesday before lockdown!”
When I receive this missive I am draped over my armchair, legs over armrest, cup of tea to my right hand - an attitude in which I currently spend approximately 15 hours a day. My laptop is perched - appropriately - in my lap. I raise an eyebrow. I probably raised an eyebrow. Let’s say for the sake of cinematographic imagining that I raised an eyebrow.
There had been mutterings, of course, there are always mutterings. There was a meeting of the Powers that Be yesterday, one of those assemblies from which no good things come. Curfews suddenly appear in your life as real things, and for about 10 seconds you feel like you’re living in the opening scenes of V for Vendetta, all shadows and trench coats and berets and pools of street-light. Of course the reality is you’re just forced to down half a pint at 8.45pm while the barman takes your chair out from under you. But on Tuesday morning there had been decisive talk against a total lockdown - it was still off the table as far as Macron was concerned, they said.
14h42 - They said. Gina texts me a link to a Guardian article, headline: France to impose four-week national lockdown. This is not what They Said. I send it to the usual suspects and they reply with an inspiring range of expletives. It seems nobody really saw this one coming, but it looks like it’s definitely coming.
15h30 - Message from my colleague on Slack (I have Slack now, more on this later) saying “Ready to be locked down?” and a laughing face. I say I am stockpiling wine in a corner of my flat, then take a long moment to stare out of the window and process the fact that I should definitely be doing this. Then I remember I have €9 in my account until payday and decide to wait a few days. Then I wonder how I’m supposed to get through the next few days without any wine. Round and round we go.
17h39 - Text from Laur: “Piiinnnttt?” It’s tradition that she and I witness the various endings of the world in each other’s company, so despite the wind howling through the building and the leaden skies it seems only right and proper that we clink glasses at the imminent and unfortunate turn of events.
8.45pm - We all sit there, three pints in, in a bar in the 20th, refusing to check our phones for confirmation of what we know Macron has already said. We neck our remaining half pints at 8.45pm, and the barman takes our chairs out from under us.
Pre-Lockown, Part II : Thursday 29th October
18h20: People who were usually still logged into Slack at 18h20 had disappeared. This was the first sign. No doubt they were doing what every other person in Paris was doing at that moment: 1) Escaping by whatever means possible 2) Meeting friends to drink as much wine as they could manage before 8.45pm 3) Hauling a month’s worth of belongings to their Significant Other’s 4) Stocking up on tinned tomatoes, toilet roll and wine. I think we all know which of these four categories I landed in.
The journey to meet friends and drink as much as we could manage before 8.45pm was like a scene out of one of those disaster movies - Deep Impact, The Day After Tomorrow, Armageddon, take your pick. Mopeds were mounting pavements and mowing down pedestrians, sirens and flashing lights were going everywhere and going nowhere, gridlock was a humming mass of rage and belligerent horns. It was mayhem. Mayhem! I’ve never seen anything like it. We sat outside a bar drinking white wine like the clappers, not least because the city was seething with stress. People walked past with enormous computer monitors under their arms and bags over their shoulders, decamping. We watched them go and said, “This is how it would be anyway, if the world was actually ending. Everyone else trying to escape and us, sitting here, ordering another 50cl of whatever white wine’s on Happy Hour.”
9.10pm - I sat for a good 15 minutes on the floor by my fridge staring into it at intervals, as if what I wanted to eat would miraculously appear if I just closed and opened it one more time. I stared into its buzzy white interior for the fourth time and then gave up and swiped to Deliveroo, where I ordered a pizza from my favourite place down the road. An easy gig for a Deliveroo man; an even easier gig for me. On my account I have a delivery note that says “I live on the fifth floor but call me when you get to the third and I’ll come and fetch it,” because I’ve climbed those stairs for 5 years and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.
This done, I find a Poirot I haven’t seen and then pause it, unable to concentrate until my pizza arrives. A sensible choice, since I might miss the 5 second appearance of the utterly insignificant maid who, in an hour and a half’s time, will be unmasked as the murderer with a motive so convoluted it forces you to realise you never really cared Who Did It anyway.
When I gauged that Mr. Deliveroo must be in the building I padded out in my socks and down the two flights of stairs to meet him, and said thank you very much, and then padded back up again and closed the door behind me. And that was that. Door’s closed. Curfew’s locked it, confinement’s barricaded it.
And so here we are again. Day One, Take Two.
How nice to see you.
