Before the pandemic, I crammed my schedule to the point of exhaustion. I hope I remember the lessons the past year has taught me
I have to believe in 21 June. Friends keep warning me it is only a proposed date for the end of England’s lockdown and no promises have been made by a government that isn’t famous for keeping its promises anyway. Frankly, though, I would believe it even if Boris Johnson personally spray-painted it on to the side of a bus and drove around, shouting: “Not really!” out of the window.
I have to believe it, because I need the thing with feathers (that is hope, for those who aren’t fans of Emily Dickinson). If I give up on the feathers, I fear I may never fly again. I long to stand in platform shoes, half a size too small, being rigorously ignored by a handsome barman. I would pay to have a glass of wine knocked down my cleavage as Jason Derulo underscores everything so loudly that my friend has to keep repeating the story of her lockdown breakup. I would even go to a music festival.
