I packed for March, now I’m here till May

IN March I said a bleary, teary goodbye to the people I worked with for two years and came home for a some badly needed downtime before starting a new job back in London. Six weeks later I’m still here (had I known, I would have packed more knickers). For a minute I feared (and maybe secretly, for a split second, hoped) that under the circumstances my contract would be ripped up and I’d be an out-of-work editor, but I started as planned, from a makeshift desk in Kerry on my mum’s ten-year-old laptop (which is missing the ‘Enter’ key) instead of from a swanky office in Mayfair. Three weeks in and I’m getting the hang of it, even though I’ve never seen the place I work or any of my new colleagues from the neck down.

As well as the job, I’m trying to come to terms with my new living arrangements. It’s been almost two decades since I lived in the same house as my parents so that’s been an adjustment, although it’s reassuring that my dad still talks over the news and my mum is only capable of speaking on the phone at a volume I would classify as a dull roar.

Still, I’m grateful for their company and consistency at this anxious time. There have been nights I’ve woken up sweating, the weird fog of a dream about my teeth rotting out or crashing a car still lingering. I hear lots of talk about “When things go back to normal” or “When all of this is over” and it makes me worry more — if I left my flat in a mess, or if because I haven’t topped up the electricity meter the power has gone off and the fridge is defrosting and leaking into the neighbour’s flat, and if that happens who is responsible for paying for the damage? And then I stop myself and think I’ll just have to wait to worry about when this is all over until it’s all over…