Lockdown is so fucking tiresome, isn’t it? It’s a relentless Wagnerian lament; it’s the most boring guitar solo ever initiated; it’s like driving a car down an endless road full of potholes that make you keep spilling your drink over yourself.

Like many, I had very high hopes for 2020 (despite the ending of free movement among EU countries, but that’s another story…). 2020 had such a futuristic ring to it. The Olympics were on, Glastonbury looked good, but little did I realise this year of the rat would turn out to be such a frankly unpleasant and dystopian Orwellian experience.

I got the ‘Covid-19’ (always sounds best in a Geordie accent) virus pretty early on in March, just in time for my birthday. I felt like I had been poisoned, as if I’d drunk a nasty tincture that had boiled my blood and knocked me down for a couple of weeks. It didn’t go onto my chest and I didn’t get a cough, but I had the fevers, migraines, nausea, loss of smell, and a tiredness that certainly didn’t fit at all with my usual playful energy and gay abandon. And this kickstarted an apathy and disconnect that would come to signify most of the ongoing feelings I have under lockdown.

An enforced rest period

As a touring musician and producer I’ve always experienced ‘rest periods’, however this time I’ve seen the live music industry evaporate into thin air and have had to accept that we will be among the last to unlock and assimilate. The luxury of fun and live entertainment isn’t deemed as essential as IKEA. But chin up, eh….

Before, if I stayed beyond three weeks at the Ranch I would start to go a bit loopy

I live nestled in a valley in the Cognac vineyards on the South-West coast of France, down on the ‘Ranch’, as I like to call it. It’s an idyllic 500-year-old farmhouse, and my delightfully clever partner and I are used to getting out of here at least every couple of weeks for work. Her for radio presenting, and me to hop on a flight to perform a gig or to work remotely in a studio with other recording artists. For me a flight has always been an essential vein, as easy as hopping aboard a bus.

You see, you find out very shortly after you leave a city and live in the country full time that you have to create your own magic. Literally everything has to come from within. We are so very lucky to live here, but we need to get away regularly. Before, if I stayed beyond three weeks at the Ranch I would start to go a bit loopy. Now that loopiness is ingrained. An enforced travel sabbatical has had to be accepted, and I have to find my pleasure in simpler things.

Without the pressures to hit numerous deadlines or to manoeuvre the endless logistics you perform to take your show on the road, you have more free time to create in the studio. But somehow you don’t have the same inspiration.

I am writing this while ‘Gilbert’ is tuning my beloved 100-year-old grand piano. Reminiscent of Giuseppe of Pinocchio fame, Gilbert is only the second person to enter the homestead since the Ides of March brought the lockdown in with it. The first was a mate en route to the Balearics from the UK.

Gilbert is proper analogue, at his happiest with tuning fork in hand. I admit it begins to feel triumphant as he ascends his way up the keys, tuning the old girl up to the concert pitch 440 Hz (shame there are no concerts, huh…). I am his first client in the 12 weeks since lockdown started in France. The cogs here sure turn slowly, but it seems we have managed to grind into first gear again.

Different coping strategies

About a quarter of the way through the (severe) French lockdown I did a live-stream poem in a Liverpudlian accent about how I felt up and down ‘like a fucking yo-yo’. I started writing poetry and acting characters, lost any sense of ‘selling the brand’ or indeed giving a shit. It seemed pretty ridiculous to sell anything.

To the people who say they have enjoyed it – horses for courses, sure, but you really need to get out more. I have sulked, binged, drunk, punished, laughed, cried, banged my head and sat in a vacant stare, all in the space of one afternoon. I have felt a grief, and all the stages of it. The denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, the dragging acceptance.

I have felt a grief, and all the stages of it

But here’s the thing: I managed to get fit when I hit 40, and am still in better shape now than when I was a teenager, having shed some 30kg of excess weight. These days, I keep myself fit, I practise intermittent fasting, I train every day, do fasted cardio and body resistance. I meditate, I juice, I grow my own food. My BMI is resoundingly balanced in the middle of the green zone, which was no mean feat for a bon vivant such as myself with a challenging propensity towards addictive behaviour.

Another coping strategy is breathwork, which I’ve been studying and practising for a while, through a few YouTube gurus and various old books around the house. I have a pretty severe stutter triggered by anxiety, and breathwork has certainly helped. ‘Getting high on your own supply’ as Wim Hof coined, is a fantastic way to get out of one’s thought cycle and head. Too long inside your own head and without enough stimulation can make you begin to over-analyse every tiny thing.

Too long inside your own head can make you begin to over-analyse every tiny thing

Sometimes my mind still races with thoughts like ‘Am I just going to write songs if I no longer want to “play the game”? What about all the unreleased music that’s sat on my countless hard drives, all that work I have done, all the late nights and events I missed, the albums I never released? Why am I doing this if no one’s ever going to hear it? What’s the point of any of this?’

Ok, stop there Gandey. It’s time to get out of the house and go for a bike ride, meditate, sow a seed, plant a flower, play the piano, have a bath, offer some support to someone else, call a friend, be kind, find a distraction, give your partner a kiss. Just get out of YOUR head for a bit…

There is much to be thankful for

In one way I’ve been a Doomsday prepper for many years, a magpie collecting shiny things. The smallholding we have here provides much of our culinary requirements. To have everything at hand has given me a sense of achievement and a validity in the process it took to get to this stage. I always over-spec’d a camping trip at a festival, ice and tomato juice still in my hamper on the fifth morning of Glastonbury. So the fact I was somewhat ready for the ‘rug to be pulled’ gave some satisfaction.

I do my best with my garden, but I know I am also at fault with the heavy carbon footprint I have laid on the planet

The slightly naughty misanthrope inside me took some salvation seeing the humans getting their bottoms spanked and nature getting a beautiful, albeit temporary, reprieve. I have a deep-rooted eco anxiety. It twists me up how powerless I am to stop the rampant destruction of the balance of the natural world. I do my best with my garden, but I know I am also at fault with the heavy carbon footprint I have laid on the planet. So for now I’m glad to not be stuck in mindless traffic jams, and the cleaner air that brings.

Mother nature is EVERYTHING. I think about rich, vibrant oceans full of life and colour. Blue skies and tropical islands. Trekking through jungles, diving the barrier reef, sailing in the Aegean. The gentle throng of a beach club in the distance with not too many people dancing barefoot in the sand.

A paella in Sa Caleta on Ibiza with my partner, a taster menu in San Sebastian, a party that goes on all night with a few best friends. Spinning some tunes and giving people a great time. Searching for new outfits in Japanese boutiques. Snowboarding on a fresh powder day in the Alps. That feeling when you write a new song that for one moment feels like the greatest track in the world. Playing my synthesisers and creating soundscapes, and of course going on tour into the unknown. These are all rewarding experiences, where you are totally in the moment, and yesterday or tomorrow don’t matter.

Now, I’m thankful for harvesting about 10 kilos of mulberries from the tree over the past few days and watching the various birds flock to devour them. Seeing the first strawberries ripen and picking a punnet of golden raspberries. An unusual insect on the nasturtiums, the petunias grown from seed, the taste of the first courgette of the season.

I am a keen naturalist and am very proud of the wild garden here at the Ranch. I have never weeded so much in my life. I started to get OCD about the garden, actually watching the plants grow, willing them to flower and the insects to feed upon them.

When I can face it, I will go back to my roots

During lockdown I’ve been thinking about my childhood home in East Sussex. In some ways where I live now is a carbon copy of that, albeit a long way from Brighton. It’s the same set-up – a magical setting in which to enjoy and celebrate life, just with a warmer climate.

I remember crying when we moved away. They were packing up the lorries and I was bawling my eyes out. It was an incredible Tudor barn conversion built by my parents right on the river, and I’ve never been able to go back there. I just couldn’t face it.

It’s funny, thinking about it now. I loved that place and I guess the deep-rooted memories of growing up there with a close community of crazy friends around me as teenagers will imprint such a beautiful memory on a young impressionable mind.

Now, with time to reflect, I realise it’s a bit silly to deprive yourself of something just because you haven’t dealt with it. So when I can I will make a point of going back there and walking along the river again.

Tom Gandey (aka Cagedbaby) is an acclaimed electronic producer, DJ, live artist, vocalist, and keyboard player. thomasgandey.com; thomasgandey.bandcamp.com

Tom Gandey

The post Always something there to remind me… the edge is never far away appeared first on Silver Magazine.

The first two weeks of lockdown here in Mallorca were brutal. My dearest friend had arrived from Amsterdam for a ten day visit. In the rapidly changing circumstances he stayed for just 48 hours, and managed to get one of the last flights home. And then it was my birthday.

I had never felt so alone. I had planned a long boozy lunch for 10 at my favourite local restaurant. Suddenly, the whole world collapsed.

Police were out in force and we were told that we were only allowed out of our homes once a week for essential trips to the supermarket or pharmacy. All the police here are armed and it was unnerving, to say the least, to be stopped by them, demanding receipts to prove you had been to buy essentials.

Thank god for the dog

Luckily I have a little dog, Kitty, and she became a life saver. The (rather dishy) PM of Spain, Pedro Sanchez, in declaring the state of emergency specified that we were allowed to take our dogs out ‘for the necessity’ 50m from our homes.

I wandered the deserted, silent streets sniveling. It felt like a really bad dystopian novel, and I was sure that Mad Max was gearing up in the totally empty car park. No children were playing in the streets, nobody was sipping a ‘copa de vino’ in the cafes, no traffic, nothing. The death count was spiraling out of control worldwide and it was terrifying.

I cried a lot

I spent my birthday sitting under the lemon tree in my courtyard, cuddling my dog and feeling scared. I received a text from a friend who lives a mile or so away in the countryside, saying ‘Look outside your front door’. There was an enormous bouquet of mimosa cut from her garden, a bottle of wine and a card. She had permission to drive to the pharmacy and had made a quick detour (strictly illegal) to bring me some birthday cheer. Needless to say I dissolved in tears. Again.

Every two weeks the state of emergency was extended, and none of the rules relaxed. I became used to living in my jimjams, and binge-watching box sets, as well as binge-eating the contents of my pantry and freezer.

My all-time personal low was when I went out in said jimjams to walk Kitty, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn’t meet a soul. My entire street, indeed, all of Mallorca, keep their shutters firmly closed, so no neighbours would see me either.

Learning how to live with it

Phone calls on a daily basis with my best friend kept me sane, though they were at times heart-breaking as he had contracted Covid and was very ill, and I felt we would never see one another again. (Luckily completely recovered I should add).

All those online free courses for yoga, learning a language, baking bloody bread and Zoom Quarantini parties made me want to punch someone

I understood the need for a routine, to work, to keep busy but honestly it all seemed too much of an effort. Sure, I cleaned the house, but no more than usual. What was the point? Nobody was going to see it. And all those online free courses for yoga, learning a language, baking bloody bread and Zoom Quarantini parties made me want to punch someone.

By far my biggest challenge was to find something constructive to do. So after six months of not writing, that’s exactly what I did. I started a drama series for the podcast The Other 1% and collaborated with my writing partner in London, and gradually the days started to have some structure to them.

Writing ‘online’ is very different

Of course in normal circumstances both he and I would make a flying visit to the UK or he would come here and copious amounts of wine would be drunk, and gales of laughter heard. Late nights, hangovers, and ideas would be hurled around and bounced back and forth.

Yes, technology is great. And yes, I wish I had bought shares in Zoom, but it ain’t the same. I was always at my happiest with friends, working out ideas and writing together, face to face, usually around my kitchen table with the empty bottles piling up.

But I had to make the best of it, and gradually the feeling of missing out eased into acceptance of this was how things were now. And that was OK. Not great, but OK. I then had a call that made me so happy I whooped around the kitchen and popped a bottle of cava. Mallorca Film Production asked me to write a screenplay. Carmen Molinar is directing and we start shooting at the end of the month.

It was made extra special because my great friend here is an actor and I wrote a part specifically for her. Working at something you love, in the company of friends is the best thing. Ever.

The sadness comes in waves

Sadness for the whole world and specific sadness for friends, and of course for myself. There was also a lot of anger. Anger at the flouting of rules that I saw going on back in my home town of Brighton. When I saw pictures of the beach I was really shocked at the sheer amount of people crowded there. The beaches were closed here for two months.

And the idiocy of people thinking that somehow the threat of Covid wasn’t ‘real’? I had to ration the reading of the news as it just raised my blood pressure, along with the conspiracy fools and their posts on social media.

Death is always closer than you think

I had a near-death experience last year when I had sepsis and severe pneumonia and ended up in ICU in Manacor Hospital here in Mallorca. All I can tell you about that is though the doctors and nurses were lovely, the care phenomenal, I resolved that if I was unlucky enough to catch this bloody virus I’d rather die in in my own bed than face the rigours of ICU again.

I had a near-death experience last year when I had sepsis and severe pneumonia

I think of my mother a great deal during lockdown. I do anyway, but even more so in these dreadful times. She taught me to make the best of situations; to laugh when you can, to drink a glass of wine when offered, and not sweat the small stuff.

I wear a ring that I had made from four of hers, and I never take it off. It’s a constant reminder that she is always with me. Taking life day by day seemed the only way I could cope, even thinking about next week was too much for me. I also thought about death a lot, too.

I yearn to go back to my favourite beach

One of the compensations if I ever missed Brighton too much was to go for a dip in the Mediterranean. And gaze upon the green mountains, and marvel at eagles flying overhead, and think how lucky I was.

No fruit man. No sunbeds. No tourists. No buzz. We all cried a little.

The sound of the fruit man plying his wares on the beach and his distinctive yell of ‘Pina! Coco! ME-LONNNN!’ and watching him slash the fruit with a machete was a joy. As was lazing around with friends under the pine trees till we got too hot and had to go into the sea again, and planning where to go for a cold glass of wine later.

The beaches opened last week and we went there. No fruit man. No sunbeds. No tourists. No buzz. We all cried a little. It was a sweet sorrow to be there on that sparsely populated beach, which is normally vibrantly busy.

Of course, some might say it was all the better for being nearly empty, but the beach begs to be enjoyed by all, and I loved seeing the rag tag of humanity there. The fat old men puffing on cigars; the middle aged women topless and not giving a damn; the naked kids splashing around; the waiters in the beach café frantically trying to find a spare table in the shade; the smell of suntan lotion and calamari being fried, all of that had gone.

I hope with all my heart it comes back.

Laura Lockington is a writer and is currently in pre-production for her screenplay ‘A Little Less Conversation’

Laura Lockington

The post Always something there to remind me… I’ve never felt so alone appeared first on Silver Magazine.

Generally speaking, I’m coping with the lockdown very well. Although having said that, next door is a building site. Literally. Each morning I am awoken by the vibrations of the drilling and my doors and windows are shut against the constant banging.

I have just come in from shouting at the builders. I told them I understood they had to do their jobs but today was a bad day and I needed to express myself. They said sorry.

Deep breath.

If I’m honest, lockdown isn’t hugely different from normal life. I’m a single woman and live alone with my dog. I’m lucky to have a garden and I say a prayer of gratitude every day for my good fortune.

Getting through each day

I decided early on that the best way for me to get through this was to have a routine. Structure always helps me. So I do twenty minutes of yoga when I wake up, walk the dog, have lunch. Then do an hour of Spanish, practice my guitar, and then write for three or four hours. I’ve got a good third of my second novel down.

At first, like most of us, I was drinking way more than was good for me

Then I have dinner. I’m bored with my cooking though. I usually eat out three or four times a week and so my home cuisine is adequate but limited. Oh but I yearn for a decent restaurant! And for someone to place a plate of well-flavoured food in front of me, and bring me an espresso martini or a glass of champagne, or an affogato.

At first, like most of us, I was drinking way more than was good for me but seem to have this under control now. Thank you Waitrose alcohol free cider.

Locked in with the wrong person

I decided around Christmas time that I could earn some extra money by renting a spare room. A friend suggested that I have a “Monday to Friday” lodger. This would be a way of putting my toe in the water and see what sharing my living space with someone might be like.

I was stuck full time with someone I had absolutely nothing in common with

Lockdown was declared about a month into this arrangement and unfortunately for me the lodger’s boyfriend did not want her to stay with them. So I was stuck full time with someone I had absolutely nothing in common with – not age, interests or nationality… A delicate flower who could barely lift the clothes line into position and would throw fruit away if it was past the sell-by date.

Barely out of teenage-hood, she slept in bed till three or four in the afternoon and made no effort to clean, or tidy, or empty the dishwasher. You get the picture. Like having an adult child, but without the forgiveness that comes with a blood tie.

Things came to a head when she went to visit her boyfriend and I must confess I lost my rag. I had not realised how hard I had been trying to keep everything on an even keel, and this pushed me over the edge. She has now left, and I’m far happier.

Things I’m missing

The usual really; like carousing with friends in restaurants and bars. And playing tennis. Whilst I work out regularly, I had never played a competitive sport before. I found it incredibly challenging that a partner would be reliant on my skills, or lack of. And of course I hate losing. I was just getting over this when they closed the courts.

I’m actually really enjoying time, knowing that people aren’t going out and having a good time without me. I’m also loving rioja, my dog Vince, and the opportunity to get stuck into writing without distraction.

I don’t cry much but…

I’ve cried during lockdown. Once after the screaming row with the selfish lodger. And last week when I bumped into the mother of Freddie the sheepdog. We had known Freddie since he was a pup, and I have never seen a dog love another like Freddie loved Vince.

Last week Freddie went to his meet his maker (don’t make me say ‘over the rainbow bridge’) and when she told me I started crying. I couldn’t stop. It was quite embarrassing. And of course no one could give me a hug. In reality I guess I was crying for Vince who will be sixteen in September.

I think about death quite a bit, which I suppose is natural in the current circumstances. I’ve known five contemporaries who have lost a parent in the last couple of months.

I miss my mum

I think about my mother every day. When mum went into a home about eight years ago we cleared out her house and I wrapped up her collection of Royal Doulton figurines and put them in the garage. Last week I finally got it together to photograph, wrap them put them in the shoes boxes and on eBay. It was very satisfying.

I walked past Mum’s care home the other day. I used to stand outside and give her a wave

Now of course I have to spend hours queuing outside the post office to send off something which costs more to post than profit.

I walked past Mum’s care home the other day. I used to stand outside and give her a wave when out with the dog. There’s no Covid there, thank goodness. I don’t go there any more.

I can just imagine her face if I had to tell her I wasn’t allowed to go in, and her saying ‘for feck’s sake’. Holidays with her were extraordinary. Her idea of tourism was to book every coach tour and then sit at the back, with the window open so she could smoke. I remember waking up and finding her drying the mattress with her hair dryer once, because her hot water bottle had leaked and she didn’t want anyone to think she had wet the bed.

She was a nurse and would have been among the first to stick her cap back on and head into the fray. And the last to be told she couldn’t go there, or do that. I am glad she is not here to see this.

After the lockdown…

Despite being thought of as quite a gregarious personality, I have always enjoyed my own company. And over the last couple of months have become increasingly isolated in my chrysalis.

I think a lot about death and rebirth and think of this time as #reset. And I believe I have also changed as a person; more forgiving of others maybe, more accepting of queues.

I don’t know what it will be like when I emerge, and to be honest I am slightly frightened. I am hoping it will be as a slightly weathered butterfly.

Caraline is currently working on her second novel. You can pre-order her first book here – The Candlelit Menagerie

Kari Brown

The post Always something there to remind me – my mother and me appeared first on Silver Magazine.

With characteristic bumptiousness, I’m very pleased with the way I’m dealing with lockdown, especially as for the past four decades I’ve been something of a convivialist. My idea of heaven is a big table in a warm restaurant, the table glugging with the pouring of wine, shimmering with the laughter of friends and me picking up the tab.

But long before I was a lunch-monster, I was a solitary and self-contained only child; one of my earliest memories is begging my mother to send putative playmates away when they called for me.

It’s that little me which chose to isolate in my new flat on Hove seafront rather than stay with my husband in the marital home – and there’s not one moment I’ve regretted it.

Happy in solitude

From my balcony I have a beautiful view of the sea, from one window I can see all the way to Worthing, and through another the start of the sprawling Sussex countryside. I couldn’t feel less hemmed in and every morning I settle down to write my book, aware of how fortunate I am to live in a place I love, doing work I love. And due to lockdown and the lack of entertainment that spring/summer usually tempts me with, I fully expect to hand the book in on its October delivery date.

I love my early morning walk to the neighbourhood mini-marts and seeing the small shopkeepers thriving now that supermarkets seem so full of hoarding hordes seemingly unaware that if you’re squashed in with several hundred similarly-minded souls, you’ve got every chance of catching that virus you’re banking on all that toilet paper to save you from.

“…nothing during these two months has left me as sorrowful as that walk from Hove Lawns to Brighton Pier”

But though the seafront is at the other end of my street, I keep away from it. Because the Sunday after lockdown, I decided to use my hour of allotted exercise to return to the scene of so many good times – and though I’m a cheery person and rarely let anything get me down, nothing during these two months has left me as sorrowful as that walk from Hove Lawns to Brighton Pier.

The sun was shining, the canned cocktails were cold – and I felt like I was walking towards my own gallows. For some dumb reason, though the bars and restaurants of my mainstreet ‘hood were closed, I imagined for some reason that the seafront at the bottom of my street would still be open for business.

Why? Because I saw it as some fantastic fiefdom which was a law unto itself, I think; Narnia with hen parties. But rather than cheering me up it caused the only fit of the blues I’ve had during the entire experience because of all the memories it prompted.

A melancholy sea of lost love and laughter

There was the Metropole Beach, where I snogged my girlfriend that summer when we came here for the weekend to escape the tabloid door-steppers. There’s the Metropole Hotel, where I bagged her brother’s virginity a few weeks later. There’s the shingle where I almost bit my best friend’s earlobe off after drinking too many Hanky Spankys at the Salt Room.

There’s where I took Rebekah Brooks to have her fortune told, and she came out laughing that the gypsy had told her she’d never succeed in her chosen career. That’s where I was standing by the carousel next to a beautiful mixed-race couple obviously down from London for the day and the girl turned to the boy and said ‘O, it’s just like Sugar Rush!’ There’s the walkway where I watched Sugar Rush being filmed.

There’s the i360 tower that I’ve been up with half a dozen times with out-of-town mates – and I can’t remember any of them because I was so drunk. I wish I didn’t remember all the fun I used to have at the Palace Pier, where I’d take my son Jack every weekend after I lost custody of him, because he committed suicide five years ago.

It’s the melancholy unique to abandoned pleasure domes which makes Brighton seafront so sad. When I was a little girl, I had a recurrent dream of a pier burning down and the horses from the merry-go-round all lying at the bottom of the sea, their big grinagog faces oblivious to their own ruin.

That’s how I feel about the seafront now – that it’s the graveyard of all the good times. I won’t go back there until we’re alive again.

Julie Burchill

Julie Burchill’s hobbies include luncheon, philanthropy and spite. She has published more than a dozen books, the latest of which is WELCOME TO THE WOKE TRIALS: HOW #IDENTITY KILLED PROGRESSIVE POLITICS, Academica Books, on Amazon in hardback and Kindle. She has lived in Brighton/Hove for more than a quarter of a century – and still feels like she’s on holiday.

The post Always something there to remind me… my now-dismal playground appeared first on Silver Magazine.