Thanks to lockdown, I have finally learnt to rise and shine for me time

The world is divided, or so I have always thought, into two camps. There are the morning people – those whose eyes ping open at dawn and who cannot wait to spring out of bed to begin the day.

And then there are those who might like the idea of being a morning person, but who cannot imagine anywhere they would ever rather be than the cocoon of lovely bed. All the worms in the world are not persuasive enough to turn them into an early bird.

Always, and forever, I have resided firmly in the latter camp. And, while I have often studied enviously the habits of those people who owe their various successes to a 5am start for tennis and meditation, hoping to absorb this tendency by osmosis, that has never occurred.

But everything has changed now. And we all have new ways of living.

One defining feature of this locked-down life is that, while anyone from the outside world remains at least six feet away at all times, those people who we chose or happened to be locked down with are often a great deal closer than that.

In fact, inside, we are all together most of the time. And when we venture outside to stroll through the park on our daily walks, we are free to roam but only until we encounter others, at which point we dart back to rejoin our bubble so as to allow the requisite space to exist between us and them.

Where once we were individuals, living separate lives, lockdown family units must now move as one.

And I think it’s fair to say that, for those of us who are not alone in self-isolation (which brings its own set of challenges, I know), the very notion of something as frivolous as me-time feels like a thing of the past.

But where there is a will, there is a way.

And that is how, after a couple of weeks of living like this, with no effort on my part to do so, I somehow became a morning person.

I have not set an alarm since lockdown began. I wake with the dawn now; my alarm is the chorus of birds outside the window. When my eyes open, I am alert. I’m ready.

I steal out of bed. Like a thief, I creep downstairs. I have become an expert at avoiding the creaky steps that will jeopardise my plan: one silent, solitary hour to myself.

The streets are silent, apart from the odd jogger. Nobody knows I am awake.

Downstairs, I make coffee. I pad about. I sit at my desk and do some work. I stare into space. I do… whatever I like. And it is bliss.

Then, slowly, the house comes to life. Doors fling open; the dog skedaddles up and down the stairs; songs are sung at top volume, sometimes through tiny little voice-changing megaphones; showers are run. There are breakfasts to be made, Joe Wicks routines to tune into, and work to be done. It’s time to begin the day.

But I am a morning person now, and nothing can take that away from me.

I wake with the dawn now; my alarm is the chorus of birds outside

Victoria Young