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Lockdown Has Murdered My Social Skills. Where Do I Go From Here?
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This may sound odd, but do you know how I might go about skipping the country, and starting a new life under an assumed name? It’s just that, this morning, I raised my fist at our local window-cleaner.
There was a knock at my door, you see, and I answered it to find our friendly local window-cleaning duo on my doorstep – hands on hips, like superheroes – to announce the return of regular service now lockdown was easing.
How did I choose to respond to this? Did I say “hooray!” or “thank goodness!”, or offer them a cup of tea and enquire after their wellbeing? Oh, no. Not me.
What I chose to do was raise my fist. I raised my fist at the window-cleaners, as if to say “fight the power”. Even as my arm was ascending, it occurred to me that this wasn’t quite the appropriate response, so I took the only next step that made sense at the time: I closed the front door.
That’s right – someone said something completely unremarkable to me, and I responded by silently raising my fist, and then closing the door.
The thing is, I didn’t push the front door hard enough, so while it creaked shut there was plenty of time for my small, half-dressed, paint-caked sons to halt their patio-based finger-painting activities and join me in the hall. And, seeing that I had one arm up in the air, they each raised an arm, too.
More from Robyn Wilder:
I will never forget the petrified look on the window-cleaners’ faces as they watched the front door eclipse this horrific vignette – three figures, two smaller ones in some sort of primitive warpaint – waiting silently in the gloom of the hallway, each with one arm raised, glaring malevolently at them.
So you...
