Corona Diaries

Russel “Vera came into my life in 1987 – I found her dumped in an alley next to Phil Footson’s flat in Barcelona and in need of some TLC. We named her Vera during a particularly hilarious acid trip, for reasons now lost to time.”

Background Information Male, aged 45-54, Editorial director (magazine publishing), South East England, White, Co-Habiting with partner Max and their dog Sonny.

March 2020 Sun 29th March. Took Sonny out for his early morning constitutional. In the South Coast of England Sonny spent more time off the lead in our local parks and I’d regularly take him out on longish runs so he was much fitter than he is now. Our ‘runs’ these days are more speed walks with my shoulder or his regularly yanked nearly out of their sockets – mine when he stops abruptly to sniff something, his when I realise he’s playing for time. Today’s run was extra short because it was super windy, which Sonny hates, and because it started snowing. Back home I did some weights for my shoulders and arms. We’ve turned the cellar into a makeshift gym. Fred West would approve of what we’ve done with the place. Depressing how long it takes to build muscle and get rid of flab and how quick and easy it is to lose one and get the other back. This is not helped, obviously, by the fact that we are now drinking like every day is Christmas Day and days without Doritos are a distant memory. I’m now prepping for a phone interview for a feature I am writing on Freemasonry while Max continues with his Keepers project, documenting outsider art sites. Lisa watch! Our next door neighbour, Lisa, has several long-term health issues that put her in the high-risk category for what’s currently going on. You would never guess this by how much time she spends outside, wandering up and down her garden path, in and out of her front door (which she shares with a paramedic) and sitting on the garden wall, disappearing into clouds of vape smoke, reappearing to declare ‘I’m self- isolating!’ to anyone who passes. She and her husband Ryan are in the process of doing up a camper van. Each day someone new will appear to help. In and out of the van, up and down the path, in out of their house. Max and I are convinced Lisa is hoping for the kudos of being the first in the street to get ‘it’ and to add it to the alarmingly long list of illnesses and diseases she has suffered from. Today’s wardrobe. As we live in the coldest house ever I’m in thermal long johns, track pants and a long- sleeved T I loved during my clubbing days. The photo is me showing Max how I used to dance. It might surprise you that I am a really terrible dancer!

April 2020 Friday 3 April Yesterday we indulged in a little civil disobedience, inspired by the recent claps for the NHS, which I’ve commented on here before. Max produced and printed a poster, which we have stuck to lampposts and trees along our daily walk. Max chuckled with delight as I cowered next to him while he stuck them up – I am a terrible scaredy cat in moments like this. Little did he know that I was actually rehearsing what I would say if a policeman came up to arrest us for littering/defacing public property, ‘I was about to do a citizen’s arrest! I’ve never met this man before.’ We posted photos on Instagram and have got the most likes and shares ever! Poster two is currently being prepped. We have positioned one on the tree outside our house so we can see if anyone engages with it. A few neighbours have stopped and read it, and one person pulled up in a car, got out and took a photo. We’ve yet to find out if it was a council official. Talking of which, we were visited by someone from the council because the pavement leading to our off- street parking is in a dire state of repair thanks to PizzaPete and swimmers-arms Dan continually driving up and down it. Dan will make his debut on here in due course. I’ve just done a cellar workout and am now about to do an online group meditation before starting work. Actually have a lot to do today, which is unusual for me on a Friday. Then it’s team drinks at 5.30pm and virtual Literary Salon at 7pm. This lock in is exhausting! Dear quarantine diary, Friday 17 April I cooked bulgar wheat for the first time last night. I thought I’d do enough for the two of us with a bit left over for later but obviously got quantities wrong and managed to recreate The Magic Porridge Pot, so we’ll be having bulgar with everything for the next few meals. Among last night’s dreams was one where I was trying to commune with God via an aerobics class on a glass viewing platform miles above the rain forest! I was awake super early so got up and had coffee and a morning sit while Max was still asleep. When I took him a cup of tea he said, ‘You’ve just meditated, haven’t you? I can always tell because you float in like a slow-motion John Inman afterwards.’ On our morning walk with Sonny we found ourselves talking about Opal Fruits and what a horrible slogan, ‘Made to make your mouth water’ was. Why would you want a sweet that makes you drool! When we were growing up we had four dogs that would sit around the table while we ate, each of them with horrible long strands of saliva hanging from their mouths. Maybe they’d all eaten Opal Fruits.

My mum loved animals, so as well as our own four dogs we had seven cats, a parrot, terrapins and a rabbit. She also worked for an animal rescue organisation so we always had various fosters and strays staying with us. For a while my dad had his own (butcher’s) shop and we started to have a bit more money. When I was seven we moved from a three-bedroom house to a four-bedder. When we arrived, the new, bigger house had a lovely back garden, with a patio with a white fence around it with a gate leading down to a lawn and pretty flower beds. There was also a laburnum tree and a pear tree. Within a couple of years the laburnum had gone as had the fence and the lawn, replaced by an expanse of grey paving, which was easier to pick dog poo off! It was like a makeover in reverse. Lisa watch: Lisa spent most of the day outside yesterday, wandering between her front and back gardens. She’s probably not far behind Captain Tom Moore in distance covered. Clocking the hardback book I was reading she said, ‘Blimey, that’s a biggun’ going on to tell us she’d read War and Peace. I said, ‘Lisa, no one’s read War and Peace!’ to which she replied ‘Well, I ‘ave!’ She then told us she is now reading a book about one of the Medici’s and about another she had read about some other historical figure we’d never heard of. ‘I only read factual books, not novels.’ As I said, no one’s read War and Peace.

May 2020 Dear quarantine diary: Tuesday 12 May During yesterday’s cellar gym session, while I was doing some weights I listened to a podcast from which I learnt that Egyptians used to have sex with crocodiles and that the pharaohs used to masturbate into the Nile to keep their lands fertile. If I had to have sex with an animal, not sure a crocodile would be my first choice. I finished my workout with a 15-minute cycle during which I made an even more amazing discovery. If you rotate your arms by your side like you’re doing the locomotion while pedalling nothing much happens, but if you rotate your arms in reverse, IT LOOKS LIKE YOU ARE CYCLING BACKWARDS! Change the direction of your arms and once again you are cycling forward, reverse them again and IT LOOKS LIKE YOU ARE CYCLING BACKWARDS AGAIN! Mind blown, as young people say. When we were out on our morning walk, Max asked me, ‘Do you do that at work?’ ‘That’ is constantly clearing my throat. ‘I don’t know how your work colleagues put up with it,’ Max replied when I said I did. After various hospital visits, things stuck up my nose and down my throat and blood tests, my specialist diagnosed severe dust and pollen allergies, though I think my constant ‘ahem, hu-hum’ing has become a bit of a habit. I also think it’s the universe’s punishment for all the horrible thoughts I used to have about an old co-worker who would spend the entire day doing high-pitched throat-clears, which used to drive me absolutely bonkers. Max has a new annoying habit to add to air shagging or lip smacking: running around to the newly dug-up side bed and eating the cat shit that Lisa and Ryan’s cat has deposited there overnight. For the last couple of mornings, he has legged it round to the side of the house the moment he is let out and can be seen from the kitchen window guiltily getting stuck in knowing he has limited time to do so. Today I banged on the window and shouted at him to no avail and then managed to slam the door when he came back in, no doubt earning me a moan from Dan upstairs at some point soon. Which is good timing as we have a skip arriving tomorrow meaning neither him nor PizzaPete will be able to park in MY parking space.

In the evening I made veggie Monday pie. I used to say that my mum’s (meat) version of this would be my choice for my last meal, and I loved going to stay overnight with her when she still lived in London because she’d always make it for me. My Quorn version was nice, even if my potatoes were slightly waxy. This morning over coffee I asked Max to tell me one thing about me that he likes. ‘Your ability to wear the same clothes for days on end.’

June 2020 Friday 19 June An early shop. Had to queue for 20 minutes to get into the big Sainsbury’s but have to say it was worth the wait. The aisles were gloriously devoid of space-invading pensioners, so I had a leisurely browse rather than the Covid-dodging supermarket sweep I normally do in Morrisons. Oddly, Morrisons has a better selection of gins. We then went to our favourite garden centre (Vineyard Logs*) and bought a lot of plants including two ‘statement’ grasses. By statement I mean large, and very fucking heavy. I know about this heaviness because, thanks to the lack of coordination so regularly highlighted on my school reports, I managed to drag one onto and down my shin and ankle while moving it, scraping the skin off in the process. *Vineyard Logs and the Fifth Trust is an excellent garden centre and centre for people with learning disabilities. They do woodwork, pottery and gardening workshops and service users also work in the lovely café. Everyone is really friendly and seem to have a really nice time there. It’s one of our favourite places. Bought three bottles of delicious Turner’s cider in the farm shop on our way out. Spent the day digging a bed for the to-be-delivered plants, unearthing more bits of the model garden in the process. Because it had rained the garden was extra muddy and my trainers soon became platforms thanks to so much mud sticking to them. It reminded me of an idea I once had for a piece of performance art: to walk around town in a pair of white shoes treading in every bit of dog shit I could find. Anyway, guess it’s a good job I’m not a performance artist.

September 2020 Update 27 September Ladies and gentleman, it seems we have a “smegma situation” here at our house. Penis bothering and occasional greenish discharge are apparently nothing to worry about – in dogs. We just have to monitor them. From the online descriptions of its composition it must taste utterly vile, which might explain Sonny’s lip-smacking Hannibal Lector impersonation after licking it, and almost certainly explains his utterly vile

breath. So bad, in fact that Max was forced to brush the dog’s teeth. Not sure either of them enjoyed it very much. (FYI We used proper, liver-flavoured dog toothpaste.) I’m back at the gym. We now have to wear a mask when walking around, which is a faff, but we’re allowed to take it off once we’re at our station. My strength is coming back very slowly. My motivation is not aided by the fact that on Monday a skinny child was exercising next to me – I swear he couldn’t have been more than 14 – lifting twice the weight I was. My descent into middle age continues apace, I now enjoy Zoe Ball’s breakfast show on Radio 2 and LOVE Liza Tarbuck’s Saturday show. On Tuesday I met Lisa and Ryan on the green outside the house. They were on their way back from self- isolating at Lidl. Thanks to the new garden fences we hadn’t seen each other for ages and it was nice to catch up. Ryan was wearing a cool parka, ’20 quid in the sale’, and no teeth*. After moaning at them about how slowly our house sale is progressing, Lisa told me about the latest flat they’ve found, this time in the North Coast of Kent. It’s lovely, but too far from the doctor’s, and beside, ‘We can’t move because of Ry’s heart situation. And who’s gonna do all the packing?’ *For balance, when Ry has his teeth in and scrubs up, he’s an attractive guy, and is comfortingly calm and cheerful. I’ve said before that Pete and Dan do so much washing that we wonder if they’re running a laundrette out of the flat. We’re now convinced they’re also moonlighting as really shit club DJs, as their Saturday night raves currently seem to be lasting all week. Max thinks there’s a bit of a ‘they’re moving out so fuck ‘em’ mentality going on upstairs (our house is on the market). Little do they know that our solicitor is so shit she may end up scuppering the whole thing. I cannot understand how long it takes her to send an email and, indeed to send the correct email to the correct person. Our freeholder’s solicitor, who is dealing with the amendments to our lease, tells us our solicitor has repeatedly sent blank emails and has also sent a confidential letter intended for me to her. Why is it so hard for people to do the job you pay them to do? We’re now at the point where we’re having to ask our freeholder to ask his solicitor if our solicitor has sent all the paperwork required in order to progress.

October 2020 Early October In the late 1970s, inspired by I don’t know what, my mum had a burst of culinary creativity. She started making spicy curries, with sultanas, and bananas and coconut on top. She also discovered Monday Pie, a rich mincemeat stew with baked beans topped with sliced potatoes and cheese and baked in the oven. As a meat eater I always said Mum’s Monday Pie would be my last supper (followed by a Milk Chocolate Lovely). Her Martha Washington chop pie, wasn’t so great – a misnamed dish with no pie, just a chop with boiled potato in watery gravy. Lockdown has given me the chance to be a bit more experimental in my cooking. Recent highlights include brussels sprouts nasi goring and a delicious broad bean, tomato and burrata thing. On Monday night I cooked a creamy tomato penne with vodka, which is apparently a staple at The Lake Café. All I can say is that it was a waste of good vodka.

The above culinary adventures, coupled with raging alcoholism and crisp addiction, might have something to do with my ever-softer midriff. This is not helped by my lack of enthusiasm for going to the gym or even to Fred West’s basement, and exercise in general. I have been a member of a gym for more than 30 years (I know, right, should def ask for a refund!) and have pretty much done one form of exercise or other five or six times a week for as long as I can remember. But the combination of dark and cold and Lockdown 2:0 have totally destroyed my exercise mojo. I had a funny text exchange with a friend from their hospital bed (for a foot operation). “I am on the nicest painkillers. Didn’t even mind the injection at 6am this morning I was so happy.” It turns out those painkillers were actually morphine and might explain the next text: “Did I tell you yum has Racine obsessed with watching you tube videos animals being reduced. Endless entertainment.” Now that friend is off the pain killers they have no idea what they were talking about! We are increasingly concerned that PizzaPete (upstairs neighbour) is now so large that he cannot physically leave the house. Not a day goes by without us finding some poor Dominos man or Justeat minion wandering around the old parking space looking confused and wondering how to get to the upstairs flats while Pete shouts instructions at them from the bathroom window.

January 2021 Jan 10 Who would ever have thought I’d still be writing this in 2021! On Sunday I decided it was too cold to go out for a run so thought I’d try a DIY “Peloton for pensioners” on the exercise bike in our Fred West cellar instead. Changing at the top of the stairs from my new luxury fluffy slippers into a pair of old trainers, I found myself thinking, ‘must be careful not to miss my step here,’ before doing exactly that, smacking down on my arse and elbows and bouncing down the staircase. Sonny, who’d been whining for his toys (which we keep on a window ledge at the top of the stairs) legged it, obviously startled by the noise and the sight of me disappearing at (almost literally) breakneck speed. Winded and with a horrible adrenalin rush I staggered to the bedroom where Max was still in bed with Sonny curled up next to him looking half shamefaced and half pleased with himself – he is not allowed on the bed. I have a huge bruise on my arse and one elbow. Max came back from the Co-op in the week and announced, ‘an old woman has just thrown a bottle at me!’ An elderly lady was apparently at the top floor window of a house along the road and just as he was passing launched an empty water bottle at him. ‘Missed!’ she shouted before cackling to herself and closing the window. I would’ve thrown the bottle back at her but Max said he was so shocked he just walked on. We’ve had a couple of much-needed booze-free days this week. On the first of them, I managed to stay awake until 10.30pm before sleeping solidly until just after 5am. I had lots of vivid dreams including one where I was moaning to a friend, ‘I’m so bored and boring!!!!’ I also said I’d really like to go to one of those parties where you don’t know many people but end up just moving from one interesting encounter to

another and have a great time. And I really would – I’d love to spend an evening in the company of others, with Max, obviously. The same night I dreamt I was having a shower in a really grotty bathroom, with a shitty shower and a manky curtain that kept sticking to me. I was having a shower ahead of having a shag with Prince Charles. All I could think was, ‘Poor Camilla has to put up with this curtain all the time!’ Last night (Friday) I dreamt I was trying to walk up some stairs, to another party, but my shoes kept falling off. When I finally got to the party the host was smoking heroin and I ended up wanking off an old school friend in a corner. (Once upon a time I would have actually gone to that party!) Just in time for the new lockdown the neighbours have blocked the drains again. Another Folkestone fatberg that caused our sinks to gurgle and our shower room to smell worse than Sonny’s farts. The management company are on the case. Lisa and Ryan started the week self isolating. We don’t know the details – last we heard Lisa had ‘overdone’ it during a Zoom call on New Year’s Eve – but on Tuesday morning we got a screenshot from her saying she was now having to hunker down indoors for 14 days. Imagine her disappointment when her Covid test came back negative. In more upbeat news, her skin cancer is low grade and she’s on the list to have it removed. Clearly desperate to get out of the house yesterday (Friday) she texted asking if we were going for asymptomatic testing at the local library. ‘Ryan says it’s only 50% accurate so he’s not sure, whereas I think every little helps.’ Quarantine diary, 30 January On Sunday morning, while I was going through the motions down the Fred West Leisure Cellar, I listened to an interview with drag artist Courtney Act. He talked about how his makeup has evolved during his ‘journey’ (natch) and I found myself remembering my teenage years of wearing makeup – how I used to spend hours putting on different eyeshadows, blushers and lipsticks, experimenting with different looks. He then talked about a New York hair and makeup guy who has long hair and wears makeup but is still ‘quite masculine’, and I found myself thinking, ‘Oh, that sounds fun. I wonder if I could shave my beard off and experiment with makeup again.’ I then realised that the ‘I’ I was thinking of was actually me in my teens rather than the wrinkled walnut I am today. So, shelved that idea. I am listening to a heart breaking podcast about an Australian woman coping with the aftermath of her husband’s untimely death. (Goodbye to All This, on BBC Sounds). While catching up on it the other day I realised how much I miss having a family. Like most families we had our issues but my parents, sisters and I were close growing up. It sometimes blindsides me that my mum is dead, my dad is a lecherous fat old loon living in a parallel universe and that my sisters and I barely communicate, and only then over email or text message. I felt the loss acutely this week – the loss of people who know one’s past intimately, for better and for worse, the shared vocabulary, the support and companionship, the feeling of being part of a team, of knowing your family has your back. My therapist once told me “Russell, sometimes there just aren’t happy endings,” which broke my heart at the time but also, I’d like to think, made me better at dealing with life’s unavoidable disappointments. In more upbeat news, I’ve had a wardrobe clear-out, getting rid of those clothes that I hadn’t worn for an age even before lockdown. Getting my suits out, I was reminded how much I used to like wearing them and wondering if I could still get away with suits with trainers if and when I ever do need to get properly dressed

again. I was pleasantly surprised that they still fit me, even if the trousers are a little snugger than I remember. I have another bruise on my arse. This time from falling over on ice in the Sainsbury’s car park. It happened in front of parked car. When I got up I bowed to the man sitting in the driving seat, who gave me a kind round of applause. We then did a scan-your-own shop which ended badly. At checkout we were subject to a random trolley check, during which it came to light that Max had placed some raspberries in the trolley without me scanning them. We had to do the walk of shame to a special checkout where they went through our entire trolley. You could tell that the woman from the scan-and-pack desk, who had the customer service charm of a gnat, and the woman on the checkout were both thinking, ‘Look at those two old homos! Shoplifting organic raspberries.’ Mortifying. I paid a visit later in the week (we were out of gin) and was delighted when the woman on the checkout asked me to lower my mask so she could check my age. Yes, really. We are tentatively starting to pack up the flat and to get rid of things we don’t want to move. I give Lisa and Ryan first refusal on anything we don’t plan on taking with us. When I texted to offer her the 1950s plastercast head I’ve had for years, and which is called Vera, she replied, “She is rather beautiful, but no thank you. I’m decluttering myself. I have actually persuaded Ryan to get rid of his model tractor collection.” I eventually exchanged Vera for a bottle of red wine on Facebook Marketplace. Vera came into my life in 1987 – I found her dumped in an alley next to Phil Footson’s flat in Barcelona and in need of some TLC. We named her Vera during a particularly hilarious acid trip, for reasons now lost to time. Three of the women at the flat during that fateful trip fell pregnant soon after, earning the plaster cast bust her status as a fertility goddess. Vera, all 10KG of her, has moved with me ever since, but I felt it was time for someone else to look after her. On Wednesday afternoon I lit some extremely overpriced (didn’t pay, obviously) incense, or a jos stick as we used to call it. After about 10 minutes I could hear Sonny lightly spluttering in his bed before Max came running in demanding to know, ‘What is that terrible smell! Have you melted something.’ I am forbidden from burning any more.