I should quit - or should I?

 I should quit.

It’s going nowhere.

It’s a useless activity.

These were my thoughts after I joined the church mice writing group. 

Or should I say that I was actually quite ambivalent about it, my husband was the dissenter. We both continued taking part, however, meeting in our church at first, then at our house, until Covid drove us to the Zoom Room where we remain in touch. 

We are a group of five. Over a period of 2 years we have gained 3 members, lost 2 and kept one, and we all enjoy writing, listening to each other’s scribblings and the companionship that goes with this activity.

From reluctance, my husband progressed to be an aspiring writer, enthusiastically outpouring and submitting virtually everything he writes to our leader, all the while improving and extending his repertoire.

It is worth mentioning that our five members have 5 different styles and some of us have discovered skills that we were previously unaware of. Listening to each other is entertainment par excellence, much better than TV shows where the current trend seems to be to cram half a dozen ‘celebrities’ onto a couple of settees, where they have to out-shout, outwit, out-laugh and show off to each other until I cannot bear the racket and switch channels or switch off the telly. 

No, our writing group is not 'going nowhere'. I have written a book! One of our group members has also written an excellent book, and I would be very pleased with myself if I could persuade my husband to follow suit.

Far from being a useless activity, writing has allowed me to examine, process and deal with aspects of my life that needed closure.

So no, I am not going to quit!

Jean Taylor

Photo by Alison Mott

The positives - and otherwise - of lockdown

Unprecedented – perhaps the most used word of 2020/21.

The Covid 19 news each day spewed out figures and statistics of the daily deaths, dying and hospitalised. Clarification of the rules on what we could and could not do were delivered by Boris and his ‘experts’ on the evening news.

TV images showed packed hospital wards. Students unable to leave their rooms appeared at their flat windows with placards spelling out ‘HELP’. People were filmed walking their dogs in the open space of the peak district. Here they were socially distanced in the fresh air, the conditions being encouraged, but were ridiculed and fined for unnecessary travel.

We washed our hands until they were sore along to two recitals of “Happy Birthday to you.” We used antibacterial sprays, if you could buy any, on our door handles, shopping bags and anything exposed to the outside.

For me as a retiree, lockdown was actually no hardship. The daily dog walk was not restricted and allowed to continue as long as I did not speak to anyone else, or at least only from shouting distance. 

Prior to covid, reduced mobility had correspondingly restricted our social life. It now consisted mainly of a ‘run out’ in the car. Such trips are enhanced by a stop off at a quaint café or one of the many garden centre facilities designed to serve coffee and cake to the inflated grey population and separate us from our valuable silver pounds.  

Never, historically, has there been such a top-heavy population - created by the explosion of babies at the end of the second world war, of which I am one such baby boomer. Nice as these trips are, it inevitably adds another type of pound to what used to be a waistline.

So ... I joined Weight Watchers online. This proved to be the ideal portion control. Our diet could only consist of what had been the planned weekly meals on the shopping list. Shopping was limited to the one day where pensioners had exclusive priority for the first couple of hours of the working day. Only one person could shop. As I no longer drive I could not accompany my husband, and thus unable to toss biscuits, cake, or other desirables into the moving trolley.

Tuesdays suddenly became exciting as weighing day. Entering the loss each week was shown with a running total and provided a focus as the weeks mounted. At waking, I leapt out of bed (I wish) to jump on the scales before even a sip of tea had passed my lips and wearing as little as possible - not an image to behold.

As the weeks rolled by, I could envisage myself leaving the confines of these four walls a few stones lighter, wearing summer dresses that had not seen the light of day for many a year.  A chrysalis emerging as a butterfly. Thanks to lockdown this almost became a reality if that is a little rose coloured.

Another positive of the time were the classes organised to keep us occupied. Zoom classes and quizzes meant we did not have to get dressed or made-up to visit. Our hair grew to lengths previously not seen with grey roots for some of us, also never so clearly defined. It did not seem to matter too much as we had nowhere to go. The car only moved once a week and everyone else was in the same boat.

From my laptop on the kitchen table, I could access all manner of classes that provided projects to keep me busy for the entire week.  

Although it seemed that the situation would never end, it gradually tailed away. Life returned to normal-ish and the businesses that had suffered so badly for almost two years needed their customers back.

By the end of the pandemic, I found we had actually missed the cappuccinos’ too, along with the people watching, human interaction and browsing around the shops. Being separated from family was tortuous. Video calls could not replace this. A new great granddaughter who was 3 months old before we could hold her had been born into a world with just the two faces of her parents.

For a time, we scanned 2D barcodes at each venue with our mobile phones, hoping not to get pinged about a contact with the ‘infection.’ The greatest fear was of unknown contact and innocently passing covid onto our loved ones. Screens or pods appeared to separate us from the next table. We used disposable cutlery, food served in take-away boxes rather than plates.

Eventually, the heat of the epidemic subsided. Unfortunately, so did the diet. No more getting on the scales as I did not want to see the evidence. Favourite dresses are again moth-balled in the section of wardrobe designated to the ‘too small.’

Oh well, we know what to do if there is a repeat and it can no longer be excused as unprecedented.

Carolyn Wheatley

Photo by BRUNO on Unsplash