Lockdown: Day 53
I take to my bed. I amass a pile of books and close the shutters against the afternoon sun and the door against the rest of the house. I’ve decided to stop my forced march of productivity and declare myself an emotional wreck. I made an uncharacteristic midnight phone call to my girlfriend last night, unloading all my feelings about this past week: how emotional it was saying goodbye to my friends in the UK; how nervous I was about traveling; how my bed doesn’t have proper sheets, and how my bed doesn’t have her.
The fight that seemed to have died down yesterday evening has bubbled up again and I’m once again getting curt, staccato replies to my queries. I’ve retaliated by being pissed off that she’s pissed off. We don’t have the luxury of being angry with each other, I declare, there’s too much to be done. What I really mean is: I’ve had a fucking hard week and I shouldn’t have to put up with this shit too.
At last I emerge, discovering I feel infinitely better for having taken the time to feel bad, and take myself for a walk. The coastal path is a single dirt track trapped between the cliff’s edge on one side and the private entrances to the holiday complexes. I only plunge into the coarse vegetation a few times to avoid another walker, but the padlocked gate at the five-star resort stops me in my tracks. Due to COVID-19, we ask that people only enter by the main gate.
Privado Blockado.