The small things

This great big bastard of a year has changed us all forever. It’s somehow taken away our innocence and our ability to be truly carefree. Things are different now.

No more mindless shopping, lifting objects and feeling their weight, turning them over and setting them back down without a thought. No more pinching the fabric of a dress to examine the quality of the material.

No more cramming on to a full No. 14 bus, sitting squeezed beside Leith’s finest, drizzle evaporating from our damp clothing, creating a kind of skanky public transport sauna – and not giving it a thought. No more tipsy taxi rides home from jolly booze-ups that we took entirely for granted, but still alas the hangovers persist – this time borne out of semi-solitary drinking to dull the sting of 2020. And no Edinburgh August – hot but thundery wet and full of plastic-smocked tourists jostling with cabs and silent discos in the rain. 

The big things that we’re missing out on are always present – the family we aren’t seeing, the weddings, the funerals, the parties, the celebrations and commiserations; the pain of their absence is never far from our minds.

But the little things are harder to hold on to – they’re starting to fade for me, it’s been so long since they were normal. I don’t want to forget going to the cinema with friends or mooching round a car boot sale. Chatting in the kitchen at work about nothing-much. Going outside at lunchtime to get a coffee and have a blether with colleagues. Having friends round for a few beers and a movie or a takeaway. All the fun of spontaneously jumping in the car and going for an adventure somewhere.

I don’t want to forget that people smile at each other in shops. I don’t want to forget that before all this I had friends and a social life – I’m starting to believe that I didn’t, somehow. 

The small things keep us afloat when big things happen. My foundations feel wobbly without them to prop me up. 

I can honestly say that I believe we are an adaptable species and this shift is partly seasonal hibernation and partly a coping mechanism. My brain is just telling me it’s ok to exist in quite a reclusive way. I also believe that we will adapt back to our previous society in time – but we will be forever marked. 

Collective trauma can have lasting consequences as the suicide rate in Northern Ireland today illustrates. When a society suffers an ordeal with serious economic impacts, we see wellbeing plummet and social problems like poverty, addiction and abuse increase. 

But perhaps the COVID effect is more subtle – although the death toll is a lot higher than the Troubles it’s not been a 25 year campaign, ingrained in culture and politics and (to this day) holding people back when they want to move forward. 

Maybe this is more of a short sharp shock that can teach us to be more appreciative of the things we are missing, and see how fragile the structures of human life really are.

We now know what it’s like to see empty shelves in a supermarket – to not be able to find bread or broccoli or toilet roll. In the developed world, in the UK, that’s quite something.

We have weathered economic difficulty already in our lifetimes, and Brexit will bring more still. But it’s clear this is more acute than the previous recession, as businesses close and friends on furlough start to be made redundant.

As the effects of the whole shambolic affair start to become clear, and the days become short and (frankly) quite depressingly dull, the absence of the small things is more painful than ever. No wonder we’ve all had our Christmas trees up for weeks – we need something to look forward to. 

So lets pull our socks up and reflect on some positives. They don’t outweigh the endless downsides but there have been some benefits. 

I have plants that have been alive for over 6 months. 

I have had no choice but to learn how to programme my heating.

Although I am sick of zoom I have genuinely enjoyed a regular quiz with a lovely group of mates dotted all over the UK. We don’t see each other very often in normal times, so it’s been lovely to see them more than usual.

We’ve become closer with our neighbours and bonded as a wee community. We clapped. We stole conversations across fences and over walls. We let our kids race up and down the street on their bikes as we watched from opposite sides of the road. We also came outside for a costume parade and sparklers at Halloween, and all laughed awkwardly as the kids swapped sweets, knowing it was probably a really bad idea but just kind of going with the flow…

We painted these rocks during the first lockdown.

I found so many new places to walk to in my local area – ok it’s too dark and cold and wet to enjoy them now but shout out to Warriston Cemetery, Wardie Bay and all the secret paths around Inverleith.

We took the opportunity to do up our bathroom and do a few other home/garden projects – we’ve added value to our home and -more importantly – made it more functional and comfortable to live in.

We have seen just how resilient and tough our kid is. Adam has taken everything completely in his stride – school closing suddenly; home learning; not seeing friends for months; play parks closed; no birthday parties for him or his mates; no grandparent hugs. He’s an absolute king and I couldn’t be more proud and thankful for him. He’s been a great example to us all. 

My cat seems to have developed a deep and profound affection for my husband which gives me the feels. 

These are small things, yes. But it’s the small things that keep us going when big things happen. They keep our foundations steady. 

Look for the small things.