Today is seemingly one of those days when I am at my worst with productivity, concentration and the like: of course, all of a sudden it provokes all my frustrations and ennui, which are even more unpleasant, when there is a holiday and glorious weather outside. Quite frankly, there is nothing beneficial about such mood swings: they are able to put you in a very unsettling place, and it’s bleak, to say the least.
So there: the lack of ordinary (ok, silly) activities feels more acute on these days. You could’ve gone to that foolishly pretentious new cafe on the corner of your street, where they make excellent espressos, but pair them with those stupid fancy-pansy-god-forbid avocado sourdough toasts and flapjacks coated with that awful, but presumably fashionable salted caramel, and you’d enjoy your scaldingly hot and rich cup of divinely bitter coffee—and criticise, criticise, criticise, but of course! It’s not that serious, because of those delicate interactions with people inside, who are working on their PhDs, or are stuck with their deadline papers, or having chit-chats, just like you with your significant ones, and damn, you got to the point now that you really start feeling how you miss all of that.
Or going to London, or to Cromer, or elsewhere? Wasn’t that great that you ordered your ticket online, then, after an endless struggle with a clunky ticket machine inside the rail station (“ugh, why so idiotic? I look cringey!” you mumbled to yourself, although nobody cared), then proceeded to your platform, usually 1 or 4, bought a cup of coffee at ATM, and then jumped inside to take a seat near the window and, whilst you had your book in your purse, you’d been constantly distracted by the views from the window — rainy meadows, horses at Waterbeach, Ely Cathedral, a Pumpkin cafe in Peterborough, the industrial skeleton of Kings Cross?
Human nature is a funny thing: as a skeptic, I am sure we will forget about this strange time of quarantine when it’s over, and will return to our usual routines pretty quickly, without any sentimental shticks. Yet at the moment each and every of them are perceived as precious. And, I guess, rightfully so.
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