Week 7 and a half? The end?

Word of the week is: Confusion.

Does anybody know if lockdown ended on Wednesday?
Are we now meant to start releasing ourselves from seven weeks of hostage situation and onto the streets? And if so, how? Whatever feels right for each of us individually, or is there in fact a method in this madness and I simply missed the memo?  Does it mean I can stop writing my lockdown diary without being seen as somebody who never sees anything through to the end?

Schools are still closed, but if the unions have their way, they will remain closed for the next decade, so that is no longer an indicator of anything.

My daughters have arranged to meet up with a school friend later today for some socially distanced face to face time, as my understanding is that we are now allowed to socialise with one person from outside the household. This means that the three of us will stay within current guidelines, but their friend will be three times over the legal limit, as she will be meeting three people from outside her household.

I still cannot go to the hairdresser’s, I am however encouraged to go back to work, but preferably not by public transport, which is equal to saying don’t go to work, because how else do I get to Central London? I look at photos of overcrowded rush hour tube trains, and there is no way in hell I am going back there. Not to mention that going to work without seeing my hairdresser first is totally out of the question.

Freecycle websites are confused too. Lambeth, Southwark and Wandsworth are opening for business slowly, but Croydon, Merton, Lewisham and Sutton are still firmly locked. That’s right, I am a member of 7 local Freecycle groups; what is your hobby?

Crystal Palace Park traffic levels leave me none the wiser. Saturday night was packed with gangsta boys burning rubber in the car park, blasting rap out of mean looking trucks, and giving us dirty looks for daring to glance at them, but Sunday was back to usual grannies with their shaggy dogs, plus a few skaters and roller-bladers on the bridge.

Another dilemma. Do I invest in a pair of insanely overpriced Sweaty Betty jogging bottoms, to give my lockdown-inspired running routine an early boost it sorely needs, or do I save the money I don’t have for a series of hair and beauty treatments that are desperately overdue? My face and its surrounding areas are so washed out, all my features have blended into this beigey-grey pixelated blob. Restoration work will be neither cheap nor easy, and I am fine with that. What I would like to understand though is when I am going to be legally allowed to have my eyebrows plucked by somebody else rather than my daughters.