As life on the coronacoaster continues, I’m finding myself clinging to the small things. I’m living via notes. VoiceNotes, Post-Its on the fridge, things I’ve jabbed down during Zooms on scraps of paper – even the simple three letters my sister texts me before I go to sleep: NDB, an acronym of ‘Night, Dreams, Bless’, shortened over decades from our original nightly send-off, whispered between bunk beds: ‘Good night, sweet dreams, god bless.’
That one roots me entirely. I’m convinced it’s the only reason I’m getting any sleep.
The mini missives come at me from all angles – friends, colleagues, neighbours – and give me a burst of feeling. I’m craving the quick hits. Now that we’re all socialising almost entirely through our devices, messages have become both more casual and meaningful. I invested in a set of personalised notecards the other day and it felt like a bold, optimistic move – that there will be parties again, where I’ll get drunk and fall into the bath, but then I’ll be able to send a cream-coloured, high-quality thank-you card apologising for getting drunk and falling in the bath. Like a real adult.
In the meantime, I’m enjoying an arrangement with my friend Annie, which involves us sending each other a VoiceNote alternate weeks. It’s not too much to do, and it’s like a personal podcast from someone you love. ‘I like hearing your voice,’ she says. I feel exactly the same. Just to hear her voice and savour it. And if you know one’s going to land every other week, it’s something to look forward to. It’s the kind of regular briefing I can handle: the feelgood, loving kind.
I have had to stop myself over-analysing (a peril of being at home, and of paying attention to small details).
‘We’re VoiceNote penpals,’ I said to Annie, gleeful at the romance of it. It’s even more apt because we’re both on the coast – albeit at opposite ends of the country. So every time I send her a little sonic postcard I tell her about my sea, and in her note back she tells me about hers. It’s the communication equivalent of modern British comfort food.
However, I have had to stop myself over-analysing (a peril of being at home, and of paying attention to small details). Like suspecting a friend is being passive-aggressive when they text me to say I haven’t been in touch for so long they were wondering if I was OK? My monkey mind screams: They could have been in touch, couldn’t they? They don’t really think something might be wrong, they just want to shame you into replying! I’m trying to shout over my monkey mind: they just miss you. The monkey mind is not your friend, or your friend’s friend. It wants you to be a miserable loner.
Yesterday I posted a note through the letterbox of the flat beneath mine, asking them to please turn the music down in the evenings because I have a three-year-old and my partner is working as an NHS doctor with early starts. Then I regretted it because: who the hell have I become?
Later that day, I got a note back through my letterbox, saying sorry and listing their phone numbers, so I can text if it gets too loud again and they’ll turn it down right away, and to take care and shout if I needed anything, and they signed their names, and there was a little cactus motif in the corner. I haven’t cried over a love letter since 2007, but I cried over that one.
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