Ma work ethic helped me through lockdown in the Spring of 2020. Ma work ethic is to work as little as possible by spending as little as possible.

It began a few years ago as a kind of experiment when I was made redundant. I was scunnered by the community sector a worked in, and decided a was goin' to use the payout to not work for as long as possible. A managed to go eighteen months before a was forced into the labour market once more.

Durin' they eighteen months a honed my skills in bargain hunting, charity shopping and living without a car. Inadvertently, reducin' ma environmental "footprint" by more than a ever managed when a was tryin'.

A now work on a sessional basis as a social care assistant. A get regular work with regular clients and a retain some control over when a work. The "sessional" status has not been a problem as there is always plenty a work.

Well, at least, that was the score before the pandemic. Even now, a year later, many colleagues are on reduced hours because people are shielding, we work in bubbles and activities are curtailed. Am no sa bad. Av nae dependents, have some savings, and don't need too many hours a week to get bye.

Workin' durin' lockdown was not stress free, but it was good to have a purpose and a reason to go out. At the same time, it was good to also have the time to enjoy the sunniest spring ever. A spent many a lovely day up the hills, reading a book and bathing in the warm sunshine. It was also a joy to cycle on traffic free open roads without getting a mouthful of petrol fumes. But, a also discovered that a could not only breath deeper, a could think deeper.

The best example a this was when a was out one day enjoying a quiet spring walk. By this point, time wasn't really a thing anymore, as there was no where to go or people to meet. The part of ma brain that worries if I'm on time, got enough time, or am where I should be at this time, was pretty much redundant. This meant the part a ma brain that gets lost in thought or conversation had free reign.

On this particular day in May a was concentrating on boggy bits in a field churned up by cows. A balanced on a dry ridge of earth while a looked over the terrain for ma next stepping stone. One wae a good chance a keepin' ma feet dry. Progress was slow but time didn't matter.

Thoughts on dry clumps a earth turned to A Tenant Ballot we were subject to during lockdown. Next thing a know am a bystander as ma mind starts joinin' dots. A stood amazed as ma mind found the maist pertinent bits a information a had consumed on the subject, and sorted them intae a deeper understandin' a whit wiz actually goin' on.

A know from experience I'm tilting at windmills when I challenge The Housin'. Even so, a negotiated the remaining cow pats and mud wae a renewed spring in my step. Far below, The Clyde from Dumbarton to Greenock seemed to sparkle brighter.

This was our second ballot in five years which is unusual. Now a understood why they needed it, and a wanted to test ma revelation wae the "Independent" Tenant Advisor.

Is it true, a asked them, that Caledonia are ballotin' tenants because, although they already own Bellsmyre Housing Association, they don't yet own the actual deeds to our homes? Do they now need the deeds so they can use them as collateral on loans?

The other thing ma mind had shown me was that they'd messed up on commitments they'd given us in the first ballot. So, while they spent a lot of time assuring us they were very efficient, their own newsletters demonstrated they now planned to demolish flats they'd recently spent substantial amounts of money improvin'. A asked the ITA to confirm this as well.

A would have been very surprised if a had got a clear admission from the ITA or Caledonia. In the murky world of tenant liaison, success is judged by how squirmy the response is. How much of a brass necked body swerve is necessary to maintain the status quo. So, a knew I was on the right track when it took two complaints to the Housin' Regulator before I even got the body swerve reply.

A asked for more help from The Regulator to get clear answers and a requested help from ma MSP. However, it's not a vote winner, so that was the end of that. Am often asked why a bother.

It's partly because a cannae help masel, and partly because it feels good for ma soul, to have a good clear out of the things They want us to believe. Testing their version of the truth to find your own truth never done a tenant any long term harm. As far as a know.

Anyway. That's no the main point am makin'. The point am makin' is that ma brain functioned better when it was allowed tae function. It's as if a hostile environment is not only maintained for asylum seekers and benefit claimants. Maybe "normally" we're all subject to a hostile environment, so we don't think too deeply about what's actually goin' on.

I had committed to my trade union sister that I’d write an article for The Workers Story Project right from its inception and nearly 12 months later, I’ve finally got round to it. 

I suppose it’s been representative of a lot of other commitments I’ve given that have been placed on the back burner as work involving the response to COVID-19, representing FBU members, was always a priority.

I said I wanted to write an honest and open account of my experience of being a trade union official during COVID-19, the expectations of that including priorities, pressures and responsibilities and hoped that others in similar situations could relate. It’s a very personal experience about working during a time when there was also a period of loss, grief and an urge to reflect on all of that. 

This is probably the first time I’ve written in this way. Articles I usually write are predominantly highlighting industrial issues for my members and the wider trade union movement. The important issues firefighters face, the cuts to my profession, the investment required to support our public services and public service pay as well as the politically motivated attacks on our class. These have all been key features of past contributions to my political writing in Scotland. Whether that’s been articles in the Morning Star, Scottish Left Review or for the Fire Brigades Union.

The above four paragraphs were started as my introduction to The Workers Story Project. I thought about deleting them and starting a fresh as I didn’t think they would make sense to what will follow next with this article. I felt it would have taken away the moment where my thinking, on what was a priority to write, had changed. 

That priority changed at the time where an outpouring of grief, anger, and activism was happening as a response to the death of Sarah Everard. It stopped me in my tracks to see such an overwhelming expression of anger that united so many women from all walks of life. Very personal stories that had never seen the light of day before were now all over my social media pages and in my phone messages as women found the strength and courage to share their experiences of misogyny and sexism. It felt like a pressure cooker was about to explode with an eruption of emotions and I thought, we need to organise the hell out of that if we are truly to make a dent in changing the systemic oppression and violence towards women and girls.

So my contribution to The Workers Story Project has taken a sharp turn from writing about my COVID-19 experience as a lay trade union official representing firefighters to now using this platform to highlight the accounts and activism of sisters in our movement, which at times, moved me to tears. I asked a sister whose experience is quoted below to write the title of this article. Her control and agreement of the content was important. She came up with this. “For Sarah... for all of them.” And this is for them.

“I want patriarchy to know that feminism is rage unleashed against its centuries of crimes against women and girls around the world. We must declare a feminism that is robust, aggressive, and unapologetic. It is the only way to combat a patriarchy that is systemic.”

“He claimed his permission to violently determine the value of your life. The women wept for you and the men came to violently silence them, distinguish their quiet and peaceful rage. Your life, grown & birthed by a mother who could not keep you safe from men”

“I was strip searched aged 16 years old by Strathclyde police. Arrested for peacefully protesting against nuclear weapons at Faslane, stripped in front of 7 male police officers at Clydebank Police station, police violence & abuse targeting women protesters isn’t a new tactic.”

“Text me when you’re home”

“I’m home now xx”

“Me: Mum, what would you like to do today?”

“Mum: Go for a walk.”

“Me: How come?”

“Mum: For Sarah. I want to go & walk for her & your aunt Ruma & just all of them.”

“Me: Shall we go to the park?”

“Mum: No. Let's just walk the streets.”

“As a woman I’ve lived for 12 months under the fear of Covid. I’ve lived for 33 years under the fear of male violence & harassment. Out of the two it’s the male violence pandemic that is the bigger threat to my life- and there’s no vaccine for it.” #ReclaimTheseStreets

“I cannot remember a time before I had seen violence against women. I was born bruised. I spent months in refuges. As a 5 year old I was sexually assaulted by a teenage boy who had already learned that women were a commodity and he had power over our bodies. I witnessed hundreds of violent attacks on my mother in my home. I witnessed calls to the police go unanswered. I saw police come, do nothing and leave us terrified. I saw the police restrain my mother with force when these attacks drove her mad. Police officers looked the other way when a grown man groomed me and had a 5 year “relationship” with me. Robbing me of any teen years or hope for any sort of normal. When I reported the times I was raped to police officers I was dismissed... it went nowhere. I respect the police. I have friends who are police officers. I work closely alongside them. That doesn’t mean I can’t point out that there’s an issue. That there is CLEARLY a lack of convictions and too many women left dead. Pointing out the issue isn’t an attack on police officers. It’s just asking for change.”

“So many angry and motivated women. We need to organise the hell out of that. We talk about turning points in the movement - this needs to be one of them.”

I could have written for weeks on end with the amount of brave, passionate and unapologetic messages that portrayed the experiences of women and girls. That final statement has to be the strong message that our movement must grasp. A rallying call that this cannot and must not be withered away like a dying flower or plume of smoke.

We have more than half of the population that are outraged due to being oppressed, silenced, exploited, beaten, controlled, abused, harassed, undermined, overworked, and underpaid and we are angry and motivated. That needs to be seized and harnessed into an organising machine to not just reclaim our streets but to reclaim our rights, our voices and our liberty.

So this is a message for our sisters and brothers, specially those in positions of power and influence, whether it’s political, in the trade union movement or in our workplaces. Be brave, be bold, be outspoken, even at times when it is not the popular thing to do but the right thing to do. Use your privilege and power and influence and let this be a turning point to support the campaign against the many decades of systemic oppression and violence towards women and girls. If you believe in that, let’s hear your voice.

Every day I walk round the park and circle the loch several times, returning to where I started and going round again, and again.  Rather symbolic of lockdown, every day the same as the day before like for the guy in Groundhog Day.  

Nothing changes in the park, except perhaps for the ducks having to share their habitat with the hoards now pounding the earth in their daily exercise routine while feeding them the stale bread from their own abode, making them fat, when signs that nobody takes any notice of, say that wild fowl don’t need feeding.

The dogs on long leads that allow them to have a bit of leeway and others allowed to roam freely, growling faces and hangdog expressions, and that’s just the owners.  Many of the dogs are dressed like little people in warm colourful coats. The owners smile indulgently while the dogs entangle themselves around the feet of other walkers.  

Dogs; and children that roll up behind you on scooters never diverting from their course and forcing you to move before your heels are grated. Their owners look on indulgently too and smile at you and little cutesy.  There’s joggers flying by behind you and towards you every few yards, alternatively there is the old dodderers like myself, dragging themselves round at the speed of a tortoise.   Some people recoil when they pass being careful of the virus like you might contaminate them with a look, others brush against you as though playing a weird and dangerous game of chicken.  It can be difficult to navigate a path.

Real life eludes us for now, no retail therapy, going for lunches, cinema, holidays.  In those times walking was a relaxing pastime, getting out in the wide-open spaces and breathing fresh air.  Now it can seem rather tedious, a bit of a drag, also we need to stay local, no heading for the hills.  Alright if local is somewhere nice.

Anyway. there are little shoots of life to encourage optimism, little bits of colour beginning to emerge within the park, a reminder that spring is in the air and putting a spring in our step.  There is hope that life will soon return to some kind of normality and restore some choice about how to spend our time, which will make a walk in the park, once again an enjoyable thing to do.  

In the meantime, it’s a case of “keep calm and carry on”, I will be back in the park tomorrow and every day to do it all again, because there’s nothing else to do for now, the only variant these days being the weather and the bug.  You might see me there because every day I walk round the park and circle the loch several times.

Click-clack                         Click - clack

The wind blew the lonely letterbox plate

No-one there!

Just the rushing of the wind

In the dark, children's voices

Guisers!

Too scared to visit Covid houses

Click-clack                         Click - clack

But no rap at the door

Glass crunching under foot;

   police warning notices spread like paper

Ply board instead of windows;

   silence from inside, at first.

Darkness envelops us that bright winter morning

  in a home lost to preventable despair.

Hunched, broke but persevering. Just.

  sits a man with the name of a star.

Gashes to his face,

  echoing those in his mind.

Eyes; kind and too knowing

  not that people would meet them in the street.

The drink, a curse that can't be shifted,

  the upbringing harsh and too commonplace

A man victim to nothing in his control,

  reaching out to steady himself.

Thick hands, fingers stained brown;

  grasp at sleeves of a trusted leather jacket.

Slow moving, more sure with each step;

  the star hovers at the edge of that darkness.

Laid down under soft blue ambulance blankets,

  colour returns, a joke about Belfast is told.

Laughter; deep, characteristic of loud pubs,

  the man below the sickness shines, if only breifly. 

His last words to us at A&E,

  place on a chair with nurses tending at his side

"Thank you for the basic civility"

Despite there being no gyms open, I followed the edict to take some exercise during the period  of restricted freedom imposed by both current pandemic and parliament, by completing a country park walk one afternoon in early October. The day was warm and bright and the cloudless sky was planeless. 

Although I had lived in the locality for more years than I cared to remember, it was the first time I had visited this part of Lanarkshire. The walk was refreshing and relaxing, despite my trying to avoid people literally 'like the plague', although acknowledging considerate social distancing oncoming park users with a nod here and a thanks there. 

 I found myself admiring the verdant southern uplands of the Clyde Valley and in particular a tidy farmstead with flagpost and fluttering saltire, set in the centre of the nearest field. From the farm estate emerged a long and pleasantly winding driveway whose full length was accompanied on one side by a neatly constructed stone wall. At the farm entrance was a cattle grid and sign stating 'Private Road, No Access'. 

I headed away from the farm entrance down the hillside keeping to the tarmacked public road in the direction of town. After about ten minute's walk I had arrived at the town's outskirts and was about  to pass the first suburban garden: its high hedges failing to hide the substantially tall white flag post, peeping and stretching high above and behind it, boasting a drooping Union Jack. 

The end of the garden hedge abutted an ivy covered, two storied stone house, which noticeably jutted out onto the road manoeuvring a pincer movement with the opposite wall to narrow the thoroughfare. This narrowing was aided and abetted by a closed eight foot high, blue, ironwork gate: blocking the onward path downhill that led into town via leafy, upscale, residential ribbon development. The gate's structure included a thinner internal pedestrian gate on its right-hand side, accessed by an electronic button-entry system.

At first confused when confronted with this barrier, I then became aware of a middle aged man and woman, presumably the homeowners. They had been slightly hidden, standing behind the gate's left side, on a higher piece of garden ground: conspiring to make them appear at least a foot taller than the gate. 

I immediately asked the couple, "why is there a gate here?" 

"It's my gate, you can access it if you want": said the no nonsense man, as if he was the kindest person in the world.

"A private gate on a public road, really?",

"Yes, the gate's been here for 150 years and this is my road", he said self-righteously, as if tradition maintained the right for this gate to remain standing steadfastly.

"It's there to protect you from traffic...", he proffered. A half lame excuse, if ever there was one, I thought. "...but the gate allows for your right of way."

I calmly remonstrated: "I've been all over Scotland (trying to sound as convincing as possible) and never encountered a private gate across a public road before". 

"Look, sling your hook", the owner snarled, clearly fed up with the way the conversation was going.

I replied: "there's no need to be rude, I haven't been rude to you". 

And, with my conscience clearly refusing to bite my lip to let him get the better of me, I vainly threatened: "I'll let the council know about this!"  

Maintaining my dignity, I slowly and deliberately turned about and headed back the way I had come, not actually having intended  to progress any further this way downhill in my journey. Anyway, I wasn't  going to give them the satisfaction of watching me ignominiously prise myself through the smaller, integrated pedestrian gate.

As I began to make my way back uphill, two well-built, black Dobermans, suddenly announced their presence, growling menacingly, camouflaged behind the high hedges of the homeowner's garden. My heart raced: free range 'watch dogs' have that affect on me. Strange that their presence had not materialised earlier.

As I wound myself back homeward I contemplated the petty territorialism, the selfishness, the non-Covid, literal social distancing of some people: infected with an irrational fear of others; insecurity; and an unwillingness to consider or debate reasonably, the freedoms of others.

Disarm the threat and remain still

Safe guard with sterile thoughtfulness 

Frontline protectors devoted to care

Gratitude on high alert

Souls taken but not forgotten

Sadness at memories not formed

Missing family, friends, but not all

Selected relationships treasured

Give thanks to technology 

IT gurus keep us at work

And preserves us in life’s afar

Where humor and fears are shared

Time reframed into new activity

Commuting hours into healthy living

Declutter of space and mind 

Resurrected projects 

New talents explored

Liberation with learning 

Nature joys in less polluted times 

Stunning sunrises and sunsets

Starlight  is star bright 

Morning choruses of visiting birds

Thrilled with seasonal delights

New norms will prevail

Anxieties exist

But we will  adapt and survive

For wonderment and science exists

Life slowed down.  Once it was places to go, people to see.  Now it was stay home, stay safe and cross the road if you see someone coming towards you. The college where I worked closed its doors, and the students sent home to finish their courses online.  I packed up my laptop and brought my files home.  I said farewell to my colleagues, from a distance, in the car park.  A forced joviality masking the sober thought that I might not see some of them in the flesh again.

I was already set-up at home with an office to work from. No fighting for space at the kitchen table.  Warm, cosy, quiet, and complete with a sleeping cat on a chair beside me.  Day 1 and first Teams call of the day was a check-in with the girls from work and a virtual cuppa.  Talk soon turned to pandemic news stories in the media, anxiety was high amongst us, and it was impossible to avoid fuelling that fire.  In hindsight it was all part of the hysteria.  

The memes circulated round WhatsApp like a possessed merry-go-round that wouldn’t slow down. The need to feel connected and support each other was overwhelming and comforting in equal measure.   Daily check-ins began.

“Everyone ok?”

“Anyone seen flour or eggs anywhere?”

“What’s the queue like at Tesco?”

This was how we lived now, ‘the new normal’.  How quickly we had morphed into a crazy existence where masks and hand sanitisers were just as important as keys and wallets.  Denial and disbelief had quickly become acceptance. 

I had a ‘good’ lockdown, no one I know has died of Covid-19, although it has taken a few casualties.  Two friends passed away, one with a terminal illness and the other took his own life.    When we couldn’t attend the funeral, we lined the street, socially distanced from each other, and clapped to pay our respects to our friend.  Later in the pandemic, we watched a service being streamed from the crematorium.  Modern technology this time helping us grieve for our other friend.

Despite the losses, I was lucky.  I wasn’t on the frontline like many other Unison members.  I still had a job.  My husband still had a job.  My son got to finish 5th year with no exams.  He was ecstatic, until he got his results.  My employer shortened our working day to help with the stresses of working from home and home-schooling.  They gave us resources to help with our health and wellbeing.  Tuesdays a Circuits class, Wednesdays Dancersize and Thursdays Mindfulness and Yoga.

Being forced to stay at home made me realise how much I liked being at home.  My garden had never looked so tidy, the bikes resurrected from the back of the garage still worked, and I enjoyed working from home; the extra 30 minutes in bed, the stress-free commute from the sofa to the home office, the banana bread and the scones.  I even got to know my neighbours a bit more.  Every Thursday night at 8.00 pm we stood outside our front doors and clapped.  Clapped for the NHS and all the other frontline workers out there helping us keep food on our table and delivering care and services to those who needed it.  It was heart-warming and emotional.  

Cannae complain about working from home. My office chair, stolen in a mad

supermarket sweep raid before lockdown, is only one big wheely push away from the

fridge although as time expands along with my waistline, the chairs squeaks of

resistance are getting louder.

Cannae complain about homeschooling. Children are with us, safe. I can dip into their

world of school. Nosy around their study lives rather than clamber the homework

iceberg tip. We have laptops and internet, many don’t. We are lucky. I know they are

working hard. They know they are keeping up with work, which is so important. I tell

them how proud I am. They don’t know that I am working even harder to keep up, I

don’t tell them that.

Cannae complain about my daughter being on the shielding list. Our whole family

shielding. It gives me a rule, a reason, legit consent to lock up my most precious. To

positively dive headfirst into mummykins protect mode using my invisible cape of

love, wrapping them up and keeping them safe. We faced this pandemic head on,

confident of fine-tuned survival skills from living with life-limiting illness of a child, an

unrelenting resilience at our core. We hadn't got this far to get knocked down. We

were lucky to stay in.

Cannae complain about the dip in our mental health. It’s a big dip. It’s been an

almighty big dipper of a rollercoaster without the fun. We have plummeted big time,

many times. Eight months of five people in one house... and the dog. But we have

each other; some people are alone. It has made us verbalise our self-care needs.

Express our love. Articulate our feelings. Ask for help. It doesn’t always feel it, but we

are stronger, robust, and more connected from orienteering this pandemic path

thrust upon us.

Cannae complain about not going to a shop. I haven’t set foot in a shop since the 2nd

March 2020. It feels empowering, no more random wanders round a supermarket

looking for inspiration when you’re hungry, ending up with bags of things you don’t

need. Gluttony. We became aware of what we really needed. We overcome our

shame and disgust at the amount of money spent on food. We spent on food. We

now eat better. We eat what we have and save our money. Fortnightly Asda

deliveries are a mammoth feat of project management. PPE to the hilt, everything

needing wiped and cleaned before entering the house, fridge, cupboards. We are

lucky, we have food and we are staying safe. Many don’t.

Cannae complain about not having a holiday. We have tents so holidayed in our

garden, many many times. Campfires, marshmallows, songs and games. Three

children having fun with their oldies, not a piece of technology in sight and proper

toilets! Bonding, growing and enjoying each other’s company. Time to tell stories,

pass on family tales and make new memories.

Cannae complain and will not complain, but endeavour to see the positive that has

come from this indescribable tragedy which rocked the absolute foundations of my

family life, because we are still standing strong

Everyone is talking about how their life has changed during lockdown. The only thing that has really changed for me is that everything is now about COVID. My entire working day is dominated by COVID. The advice, procedures, guidelines, and pathways are constantly changing. Now of course the changes are not coming as fast as they did in the beginning when we would start the day doing one thing and finish it doing something completely different. I am forever being asked if we are “busy”, of course I know what they are really asking but I cannot tell them. I usually say, ‘yes we are busy, but not in the way you would expect’.  At times I felt like a cheerleader trying to find the positive in amongst the confusion and fear that was now part of everyday life. 

My daily routine is getting up, go to work, come home, go to bed, get up, go to work, come home, go to bed…repeat. The sad thing is, that this routine, is what my life was like before all this started. One thing we all agree with is that we are the lucky ones. We still get to go to work, we are still earning a full wage. A lot of the time we feel normal or at least what passes for normal these days. 

The one moment which sticks out for me the most is something which now feels almost insignificant. It was a normal Friday, normal for COVID at least. As usual just after 8am I joined the morning meeting by video conference. The only way any meetings are taking place these days. All the usual suspects are there and a few unusual ones as well. It was near the end of the meeting that we were told that from now on we were always required to wear surgical masks in the clinical area. In some areas this would be normal, and they would not think anything of it, but for us it was not normal. It was anything but normal. It would of course become normal for COVID. This was early in the pandemic, sometime before we were all to become used to wearing a face cover in shops and on buses. This made me feel quite nervous, not for myself but for the team of nurses, AHP’s and domestic staff to whom I was going to have to explain this new rule. They were all having their morning cup of tea and waiting for me to tell them what todays new rules and procedures are. What changes have been made. What is now expected of them. 

I told them, they now always had to wear masks, and why this was a good thing. It would help protect our patients. It would help protect us. It took away any uncertainty or ambiguity about when and where to wear a mask. This is just now another time that I had to explain something new and unusual to people who where becoming used to the new and unusual because they are nurses, and this is their job.

Covid covid

Where did you start

According to Trump

In China’s heart

The build up was slow

We didn’t hear your warning

And now we are gathered

Together in mourning

Covid covid

Our lives are on hold

We are all wishing

To return to the old

You ripped us apart

Families and all

With dire warnings

Of don’t drop the ball

Covid Covid

Why are you here 

To teach us some lessons

Strict rules to adhere

With facemark and gloves

And PPE galore

We try to prepare

For our personal war

Covid covid

You scuppered my plan

And I have to say

That I’m not a fan

Our loved ones are locked up

In isolation they stay

You threaten and scare them

And keep us at bay 

Covid covid

Our anger is mounting

With no end in sight

We are counting

Our freedom is challenged

But you do not care

We spy on our neighbours

In a reality scare

Covid covid 

You tear us apart

Despite all the warnings

The second wave start

The Pharmas are scurrying

Busy as bees

They are all trying

To get us from our knees

Covid Covid

our emotions are brown

But all you give us

Is another lockdown

The postman, the doctor

The binman and nurse

All became precious

With this modern day curse

Covid Covid

This is a long race

And yet you run 

At a terrifying pace

They talk about pay freeze

Our economy is shot

But the FAT CATS in power

Have hit the jackpot

Covid Covid

When will you end

You froze all our travels

But send us round the bend

Our leaders are divided

They try to stand tall

And yet they’re involved

In this massive brawl 

Covid covid

Please let it be

Retreat from our bodies

And set us all free

"Look, your Dad kept a diary in 2020."

"No way, let me see."

"Aye, look, there’s not much in it, he didn't keep it going long."

Sunday, 15th March 2020 - COVID apocalypse day 1

Keep a diary, some historian said on Twitter. They will make amazing primary sources at some point. Fair enough. Here's my COVID diary. No one but me will ever read it.

So, day 1. The end of the world, the dead rose, cities burned, except they didn't. Instead, people panic bought bread, milk and, bizarrely for a respiratory disease, bog roll.

No one’s entirely sure what's happening. Big Boris is AWOL, they keep wheeling random terrified looking stuffed shirts out to issue vague instructions, which are then contradicted almost immediately by the Scottish Government who are taking very definite action. Even if that action is just "wait and see what London says, then do the opposite." At least it's something.

Schools will be open tomorrow, so the wee man's going in. Still got his Highers to worry about. From tomorrow, I'll be working full time from home. Got the laptop home and a wee space in the corner of our living room sorted, reclaimed from the clean laundry pile that usually sits on our big table waiting to get folded. 

So, am I scared? Dunno...maybe a bit, it's hard to say. It's all a bit unreal. Not too worried about the virus, personally, more worried about the economic impact, jobs and the kids that are meant to be leaving school this year.

Oh aye, in the real world, happy 50th Laura! At least we managed to get out for your birthday before the world ended!

PS. After I wrote this, I got a call from Dad's care home. They are going into lockdown. No one can get in to see him. He's ok though, and there's no virus in the unit. I'm a bit worried, he's not long out the hospital after his pneumonia, I didn't get along to see him this week either. Hopefully we can sort something out.

Day 2: Monday, 16th March

Day 1 of working from home. Surprisingly busy and tiring. No doubt Laura will find that bitterly hilarious, as she started a 32 hour 1 to 1 care shift at 9...

Day 3: Tuesday, 17th March

Another day in the hoose. Remote working driving me up the wall. Lots of remote access problems, plus a systems outage caused by a freak fire in our comms room. Honestly...lucky white heather...

All still well in the house. No one ill. We're keeping Ben home from school, we're not sure how safe the schools are, and it's not so much we're worried that we'll get it, but Laura's still working, so she could end up passing it to one of the guys she cares for. Shops quiet, but roads really busy, for some reason.

Day 4: Wednesday, 18th March

Fucking lost my marbles with the working from home today. Feels like we're all paying lip service to an attempt to carry on as normal, while everything’s being pared away to reveal...nothing. Most of us are doing nothing of any importance, the real works done by other people. Fully expecting to get laid off at some point soon.

No sleep last night. Ben's in holiday mode and was making loads of noise, gaming with his pals on the internet.

Day 5: Thursday, 19th March

Finally remembered what day it is! Thursday!

Not much sleep again last night.

Not sure if I'm worried. I don't feel worried. Maybe I am though.

Not getting on well at work. Busy. Stressful.

That's the schools to close, exams are being cancelled too. Hope this doesn't fuck Ben over. At least he has a college place sorted already.

Day 6: Friday, 20th March

Another strange day. Out of the blue, this is Ben's last ever day at school. He's away in, despite protests from Laura, to see his pals. What a shame. School over, just like that. No exams, no dance, no proper last day. Shite. I ended up a mess. I got my traditional last day of school term photo and stuck it on facebook next to one from his first day, then I spent half an hour greetin like a fuckin idiot...

Work busy, stressful and chaotic again.

I feel like I'm getting a cold. I hope it's a cold...

"That's nearly it, it misses out a load of days. There's only a couple of more entries. You need to let me see the school photos your Dad took of you!"

“No chance.”

Wednesday, 1st April

A couple of years ago, Laura did a survey of the birds in our back garden, and it was pretty grim. A load of pigeons and that was about it. Since then, she's been dutifully putting food out for them, every day, and we've now got a beautifully balanced ecosystem out there. We've got crows, magpies, sparrows, finches and god knows what else, all exploiting the ready availability of food and nesting in the hedges and trees. They’re delicately balanced by mad old Jess the cat, who hangs out in the back garden and watches them all. She is far too old to hunt, but her inner rage still keeps her warm, she’s still insanely territorial and terrifies cats twice her size and half her age, so she keeps other predators away. So when Jess appears, the birds all disappear. Then a couple of crows reappear for a recce, perched on the washing line. Once they clock it's old Jess, they hop back down and start feeding, and that’s a sign for all the rest of them to swoop back in, pigeons first. Greedy buggers.

This is the single best thing about this year. I sit out the back on Zoom meetings in the sun and watch all the carry on. The squad of baby starlings all scrapping with each other, how smart the crows and magpies are, how stupid the pigeons are, old Jess sitting in the middle of it all trying to pretend she’s not bothered. I could sit there and watch it all day.

Saturday, 25th April 2020

At 3:19 this morning, Dad's care home called and told me he died in his sleep. The doctor phoned a bit later and said he thought it was Coronavirus.

I can’t stop thinking about this, that at some point in early March, without realising it, I saw Dad for the last time. Just before the lockdown. I think it might have been the weekend before. I’d taken him a paper, the Record or the Mail, depending on what day I went down. He’d stopped reading them years ago, after he took the huff over something they’d printed about Celtic. He’d started reading the Daily Mail, but there was no way I was buying that shite. He was too far gone to be able to read anyway, but he liked to turn the pages and fold the paper over, as if he was just about to nip to the toilet with it. He used to do that when I was wee. Used to give everybody the boke.
So we’d sat for a bit, he looked at the paper, while I chatted and did the crossword. When I went to leave, he asked, “will ye no stay wi me?” 

I didn’t stay. I must have had somewhere more important to be.

I don't know for sure if that was the last time though. I can’t really remember.

I should know. 

I should know when the last time I saw my Dad was.

Corona, no not the beer, replaced the usual fresh spring with fear,

Locked up, imprisoned, not in the big hoose but yer ain hoose,

Out for an hour make best use, cardio staving off biscuits and juice,

Nature, more alive than ever, morning walk casually interrupted by deer,

Collecting trollies to stave off boredom, well trolley photos anyway,

Someone might like them and hang them in a pandemic-related gallery,

Testimony to something a little different, a reminder of change...

How the Covid led us here? Somewhere.  Anywhere. It got Everywhere.

Eat out to help out raised the mood of the nation?

Qui surprise surprise, Covid returned...no discrimination,

Vaccine on the way, we all cheer, no false dawn but maybe third wave?

Not at yuletide?! Nope, Covid takes time off, so pile in and rave...

Like its 2019 then surprise, lockdown returns, something even more grave,

Channel the spirit of bygone eras and take solace in hope science gave us.

This is her poem.

One, one thousand,

Home is safe and safe is home

Two, one thousand

Routine was kept alive,

Three, one thousand

For him, but I

Four, one thousand

Was full of anger

Five, one thousand

and frustration

Six, one thousand

at talking to the cats

Seven, one thousand

and too scared to even

Eight, one thousand

put the rubbish out

Nine, one thousand

Sitting making shawls

Ten, one thousand

for nine hours a day

Eleven, one thousand

Binge watching Netflix

Twelve, one thousand

To keep the horrors away

Thirteen, one thousand

Missing my family

Fourteen, one thousand

locked in the Central Belt

Fifteen, one thousand

Feeling guilt about 

Sixteen, one thousand

seeing others

Seventeen, one thousand

Recoiling at an accidental touch

Eighteen, one thousand

We're all

Nineteen, one thousand

In this

Twenty, one thousand

Together.

When the craziness began back in March this year, I was pleased with myself that I felt because of my recent illness I now had all the tools I needed to help me deal with the present situation, and no matter what happens it will never be as bad as the living hell I had just come through. Many thanks to my husband and my family and friends I was now out the other side.  I have retired and I was now supposed to be living the dream.  I try to have a positive outlook on life and I also have my meds that will continue to help keep me healthy and sane.

I am a very huggee person, I miss hugs all the time, I worked for 20 years in a local primary school, I loved my job as a Pupil Support Assistant. I loved the little people I worked with and all the hugs we would give each other.  The little people always made my day, with their honesty and happiness and kindness and respect.  I loved playing music on the playground for the children to dance to.  I loved dancing with my Junior Leaders. I loved my voluntary coaching of our Netball Teams on Fridays after school.  I loved my voluntary Friday lunch time craft club. The reality of COVID is that sadly none of this can happen now.

My last day at school was the start of an Easter Holiday I walked out the gate and through no fault of my own I never walked back in.  It is a good job none of us know what is around the corner.  I never got to retire properly to say good-bye to the job I loved, the children, my fellow lovely PSAs, the Staff, and parents. I do know that I would have hated google classroom, or to not be able to receive or return a hug from a happy, sad, or hurt child. I am not sure how long it will be if ever schools will get back to the happy times I once experienced.

I miss my family they live in Manchester, Glasgow, and Northern Ireland, thank goodness for technology I speak to them regularly on the telephone or through face time.  To be so far away when you know someone close to you is sick and you cannot go to visit is just the pits.

My Granddaughter was in her P7 year when this was all happening, and she never got to go back to visit her school or say goodbye to her friends. She is now at Grammar School and I cannot imagine what it is like for her, a totally different experience to what it would have been if it had not been for COVID.

My sister in Manchester has underlying health problems and has been shielding twice her company are refusing to pay her this time even though she has a government letter saying she should not go to work. She cannot visit her son and partner and their wee 6-year-old boy as they all have the virus, only the wee 4-year-old girl has escaped it. Manchester is in lock down and we are not allowed to visit just now.

My brother in Denton is shielding too so he cannot see his two wee grandchildren, but his wife can.  The wee one’s wave to him through the window the 4-year-old not understanding why Grandad cannot give her hugs any more.

My eldest brother who is 70 and a diabetic and a high health risk cannot leave his flat.

My 80-year-old mother-in-law lives in a high rise flat on the 12th floor and cannot see her friends. She lives for the 3-hour telephone call from her son (my husband) on a Sunday night.  Were told we cannot visit Manchester now as it is in lock down and a high-risk area.  We are both desperate to see our families.

My daughter has had to give up her home in Edinburgh to come home (after living on her own and being independent for ten years) and live with us because of COVID and living on her own and not seeing anyone from one day to the next was not good for her.  Fortunately, she can continue to work for her employer, and she can work from our house and I know she is safe with us and we will all help each other get through these difficult times.

We all try to be positive, what is there to look forward to, you cannot plan a holiday, you cannot celebrate a special birthday or anniversary.  I absolutely love Christmas; I think of the Christmases Past - Christmas Parties at School the Social Dancing for the Seniors and the Parties in the Gym Hall for the Infants that are not going to happen this year, all a thing of the past. I would be getting excited for Christmas already planning and looking forward to seeing my Son and Daughter-in-law and my two lovely grandchildren but because of COVID Northern Ireland is in Lock Down so they cannot travel to visit us and we cannot leave Scotland to visit Northern Ireland either. 

Positivity We Will Get Through this, and it will make us stronger and appreciate the important things in life, health, happiness, and family. I am glad to be alive and I live life to the full, I tell my husband every day I love him.

We will celebrate and party to the max once this craziness is all over. I class myself as fortunate I have not lost a loved one to COVID 19 I am sure many people out there are not as fortunate as me.  We all hope that at some time in the future wearing a mask and Covid 19 will be a thing of the past.

I make plans for bosses to manage risks and disasters.

The usual disasters. Terrorist attacks. Bombs going off. Cuts and wounds where pressure can be applied. Blood flow stopped. A chance to save that casualty. Pandemics, old style, zombie attacks, easy targets to find. Easy enemies to hate.

They told us that if we got the Rus we would hardly notice. Bit like a mild cold. Then you’re better. A kind of phoney war, while we watched Italy fall to bits, but that’s Italy. Wouldn’t happen here.

Adverts on the box. FACTS. Don’t forget what that means. New rules, new behaviours that most of us go with it and cling to. We accept them. We clap for the NHS while we ask for more. Those that know and those that don’t feel betrayed by science and digital this and that. Surely, they knew and did nothing. A Chinese plot and plan. They don’t understand what a virus is or does. Getting together, it’s only a wedding, only my mates, only a funeral.

People die on spreadsheets. No Don McCullin or Paul Nash. No Roger Fenton, No Dulce et Decorum est.  No Rupert Brooke, If I should die/ think only this of me/ the staff nurse cried / and wore the right PPE/ Scars across her face/ where tapes pulled the mask tight/crying on the ward/out of patients’ sight.

People still try to get across the Channel. Some must have a holiday. Some must get into our pandemic country. Life is still better here than what they have, had. Pictures of five people dead, from Iran, in a toy boat. Mum and dad same age as my son. The children, same age as my grandson. Smiles and cuddles, eyes and tossed hair shinning out from the cracked picture the police found to show us the family.  People still trying to come, people still need to come. To new rules, foodbanks, shops closed. Lockdown.   

Children, age 65, complain and fight to defend their right to breach the walls of the care homes. Visit to relleys too poorly or too damaged to know who these people are. They need to be there with their loved ones, breathing and close, sharing the Rus because their need is greater than the risk to staff and old dears. Pandemic means nothing, they have rights. Meanwhile, the care staff, do not have the scars and do their best.     

Dr Who didn’t come. No one beamed in with a catchy tune and a sonic screwdriver to cleanse the blood and the air. He/She left it to us. 

Vaccines produced in record times. Those that know and those that don’t take it for granted and do not marvel at the heroics that produced this wonder. They do not gasp at jags that need to be kept at minus 70 degrees, just get on with it. “What, I need to come twice for my jag, that canna be right. One’ll be fine.”

Is anything else happening. Baby Yoda went into space. A labour party leader was thrown out the party and is still denied the Whip. A great democracy elects a new president, but tantrums and the courts threaten to steal it from the people.

People die on spreadsheets, those that know and those that don’t are baffled by graphs and R.

We grew tired of clapping and painting stones. Too impatient to fight a not so phoney war.

8 am

alarm.

Alarm.

ALARM.

Snooze...

Rest.

9 am

What day is it? Brain’s foggy. Sleeping pills are such a cop-out. Like asking to have the sides put up at the bowling alley - they’re just a temporary solution to stop you falling in the gutter. They keep you just within the realms of a legitimate routine. But what does that mean, for you, for confronting the real reason you squirrel away into the wee hours, typing feverishly, or more likely, watching the same series you’ve seen a hundred times, pouring another glass, doom-scrolling into endless oblivion? 

So why do you do it? Who knows. That’s too much for today. Too much for this lockdown. Too much for any time really. 

The wine was a bad idea too. Just a little treat you said. But one goes down so quickly. The second was a decision beyond your control. Coffee will help. Coffee solves all problems. Or, at the very least, helps you shrug off the heavy cloak of sludgy sleep-haze. As the bitter, earthy scent fills the kitchen, you try to conjure a panorama of the origins of the beans - picked on some hillside in Turkey, Ethiopia or Bolivia. You ignore that, as they’re the product of a well-known coffee brand, they were more than likely picked by tiny hands, too small to grasp at a future.

You physically resist the urge to work from the bed. It’s too much to blur the already faded line between work and leisure. You compromise with the couch.

10 am

The last drops of diphenhydramine drip from the back brain down your spine and - like layers of clouds unfurling and pulling back from the sun - your mind brightens, albeit to a lighter grey. It’s a Wednesday. You’re on with the marketing team in ten. 

You adjust the screen and look into the tiny camera lens. First video-call of the day. At least your self-esteem is kept in check by the regular confrontation of your own puffy moon face, projected back at you like a lunar mirror from the video-call screen. It’s the angles - nobody looks good from this angle.

It’s on. Smile. Say “Hello, how is everybody?” Feign enthusiasm. “What’s everyone been up to?” Put more pep in your voice. It doesn’t matter that you already know the answer. This is life now. A series of rhetorical questions posed to the same 2D faces; pleasantries to prop up the illusion of functioning. Run down the clock. But the clock never stops. It just resets every day. Sisyphus at his desk job.

11 am 

Check the phone again. Which one is it this time? The rabbit hole of Twitter, where you can get lost in a cesspit of sardonic squabbles? Or the kaleidoscopic vacuity of Instagram, like watching a circus procession through a keyhole? Two minutes of paddling in the pool of the Blue Bird and you’re bewildered, despondent. You wade through petty spats between strangers; poorly constructed political insights; boujee brunches; meaningless memes built entirely of in-jokes; it’s all too much. 

You switch to the news apps. They’re not much better. It never stops; the onslaught of new news. Simultaneously infinite and fleeting, ancient and immediate. The terminal onset of Brexit. The bloated, putrid corpse in the Oval Office. The giant, ever-present threat of environmental collapse. Don’t forget the man of the hour - the silent shadow that invades people like a parasite. Too alien to be real, too primitive to exist in this time of science. No wonder the Amateur Covid Detectives on Facebook think it’s fake.

There’s something in that. Tweet it out. Tell the world. They’ll hear you, appreciate your candour. You can already see the RT’s rolling in. People will quote your insights in arguments. They’ll elevate you; up through the digital ceiling, to a new plane. You’ll probably get a column in The Guardian off the back of this.

12 pm 

OK focus, focus. Part of working from home involves, regretfully, the need to actually do some work. Type something, anything. There, how long was that? Check Twitter. Bask in the adulation of metrics.

Idiot. The counter hasn’t moved - you thought that was so funny too. But it was try-hard. Angry but impotent. Just another penny, dropped in the ocean, the ripples subsiding so fast the waves flowing over it become a casual shrug. It didn’t even register as a tremor. No tidal wave of validation today. Nothing will come to sweep you from this room.

You delete the Tweet.

1 pm

Lunch. What combination can you conjure today? Take your time, get involved in the process. Be mindful of what you’re consuming. In truth, you’re just grateful for the distraction. You drink it in greedily while staring into the cool light of the fridge.

You said you were going to cut back on carbs. But the hangover - just a distant storm front this morning - has gathered as a mass of black clouds over your head, and your stomach is flapping in the breeze. 

No, you think, better to throw whatever combination of close-to-going-off the fridge holds into a wrap and wolf it down. Finish earlier. Sort your life out by dinner. Live happily ever after.

2 pm 

What was that she said? You weren’t listening again. This meeting can’t go on any longer - it’s two emails at most. At least you’re in here, keeping your white-collar dry. Not on the frontlines like the others.

Staring at the white page you can see sterilised walls. Humans wrapped in plastic bags, weary faces behind repurposed visors, hands chapped from the endless friction of alcohol rubbed between palms. In the background, you hear the sound of ventilators.

3 pm 

How did it come to this? 

Do you work from home? 

No, I live in my office. 

Ha ha ha, how sharp. Write that down. Remember that for the next unprompted, entirely original conversation you have with a stranger.

4 pm 

Paper over the cracks. That’s 90% of working from home - maintaining the illusion of action. The Potemkin portfolio. You send some emails, check the work group chat for updates. You try to offer some big announcement - something that might make today feel like a day of progress. You muster something about, “Making real progress on the new ad campaign.” It’s enough. Nobody cares anyway.

5 pm 

Press-ups, sit-ups, squats, leg-raises, tricep dips. You were supposed to do them every hour on the hour, but you only just remembered. Now it’s a welcome distraction. Check the clock again as the final grains of the hourglass cluster and clot in the central canal. Time slows to a halt. 

Take your mind off the deadlines, the stultifying inertia. The workout feels like a flash of fire in your bones - a frenetic burst of energy akin to a sleeping cat triggered to flight by some perceived threat. What must your muscles think you do? 

6 pm

3, 2, 1. That’s it. Close the laptop. Take a moment to reflect. Did you do everything you wanted today? Ha ha ha. Might as well ask an addict if their can of Coke is satisfying their cravings. Still, just as they say at the meetings, another day done is an achievement all of its own.

Now the second battle begins. Enjoy your government-sanctioned daily walk? Or commute to the sofa and shift your eyes to the bigger window? You pull out your phone to look at the weather app. Half an hour later and you’re still scrolling Instagram.

7 pm 

The streets are dead. People pass in silent contemplation. Outside, the sunbeams that tantalised you all day through the window have absconded, replaced by a mute murk under a concrete sky.

Still, you love this time. You follow the river through the town, walking on auto-pilot, lost in your own empty head. This is your time. Free from everything. You could walk for hours. You consider what would happen if you just kept walking. What if you stayed straight on the path? What if you could break free of this orbit, pull away from this plane, and scatter into the universe? Be done with this place, this routine, this life. Yeah, right, and where would you go?

It’s good to dream. But dreams are just that - visions of paths you’ll never tread. And those visions appeal precisely because you’ve never walked them. Without thinking, you cross the river and walk back the way you came. 

8 pm

Dinner. You consider ordering takeaway again. Once every two weeks is the rule and you can’t remember the last time you did. You spy the takeaway boxes in the recycling. Oh yeah, three days ago. Damn. 

But cooking really is a passion. Five years working kitchens around Edinburgh convinced you of three things:

1. Being able to cook at your own pace is a luxury

2. Eating well is one of the few things you’re ever going to commit to

3. You are incredibly lucky you don’t depend on cheffing as a sole source of income

You check the fridge. Bollocks.  You pull at the few threads of mental energy and stitch together a dinner plan. This is probably the best thing you’ve done today. And within three minutes, it will be gone.

9 pm 

Why are you so exhausted? Your back aches and your eyes are coated with a sheen of light from the laptop screen. You think of the kids picking coffee beans in 40°c and feel a sharp pang of shame. Then again, they say the more you do, the more your body produces energy. Ergo, the less you do, the less energy you have. You make a mental note to start your exercises earlier tomorrow.

10 pm

 Netflix, phone, repeat ad infinitum.

11 pm 

Sleeping pills. You’re going to wean yourself off them soon. Just not tonight. Because while the monotonous routine of 2020 is both exasperating and exhausting, you don’t dare disrupt the cyclic rhythm. The moment you stop numbing your mind into sweet unconsciousness, you fear, is the moment this tenuous balance gives way and it all comes crashing down.

You get into bed early - ostensibly in the hopes your horizontal status will woo your body into embracing the semi-coma. 

You pick up a book you’ve been half-reading for three months and stare at the words. Not reading, per se, but working through the motions that come with reading. You return to sentences several times, aware that you’re not actually absorbing the meaning behind the words. It’s a fitting mirror, you realise, for how you pass through the world these days.

12 am

Lights off. You fight the urge to check your phone and start scrolling. Today was hard. And you hate that it was, because of all the jobs in this dried up little island, yours is probably one of the easiest. Because you know a hundred people would kill to have your job. Because you know within twenty years you’ll look back on this time as a time of unparalleled abundance. 

You wouldn’t last a minute in the real world. You’re the General’s receptionist, ten miles behind the frontline, worried about getting the print right on the latest edict for mass suicide. 

Men and women are lying on gurneys, chest’s rattling, haggard lungs pulling in artificial breath; reduced to the status of vessel, victim, statistic. And you whine like a starved dog; about back problems, about workloads, about purgatorial routines. More than anything, you complain because it feels like vocalising the powerlessness - powerlessness we all feel - will somehow make it recede. Like shining a light into some dark corner of the room in the belief it will drive the shadows back. But it only illuminates them - makes them bigger, brighter and more solid. You can only turn off the light and hope the spirits will occupy their own corner. 

You can quiet their voices; with Netflix binges, with various substances, with the silver-glow window. You fall asleep listening to a podcast, made by someone who has it all figured out. At least this way you can’t hear the voices of the spirits. Nothing good will come to hear their words now. Besides, there’s always tomorrow.

Easter Monday morning and I should be waking at my leisure in our newly acquired campervan on a remote beach in the Outer Hebrides. Instead I’m rudely awoken by the alarm at 6:30 and for the first time in three weeks I’m immediately back into work mode.

I work in a primary school as a pupil support worker, which means that I enjoy all the best bits of a teacher's job- seeing children progress on a weekly basis, hearing their funny one-liners and feeling that you’re actually making a difference to someone’s day, if not their life, without the pressures of needing to strive for impossibly ambitious attainment targets and crippling workloads. Of course, it’s not all roses. The lack of pressure is reflected in the paltry rates of pay (surely we’d be better off working on the checkout at Aldi) and at the first sign of blood, vomit or other bodily secretions it’s a pupil support worker who is sent for. But, overall, I can’t complain. I enjoy my job, the children make me smile and I’ve missed them during the last few weeks of lockdown.

School came to an abrupt end for the children on Friday 20th March. It was especially poignant for the Primary 7 children who left without all the usual transition events and leaving rituals which help to smooth their passage from primary to secondary school. I felt a wrench too, as this was the first Primary 7 year group that I had seen straight through from their first days as shy, hesitant Primary 1’s. I’d followed their progress through the school- assisted with Jolly Phonics and number lines, encouraged them at cross country and bike-ability after school courses, and, just a couple of weeks ago had helped them to make soup and to produce a soup recipe book to raise money, ironically for an end of year treat. I’d seen them blossom into articulate, helpful, confident pre-teens, only to see them hustled out of school without ceremony, at a respectful social distance and without any idea of if or when they would return.

Fast forward a few days and local councils, not renowned for reacting quickly, had worked at remarkable speed to produce a workable plan of action for all our children . Teachers were soon into the swing of on-line teaching and hub schools were established to cater for children of key workers who could not possibly work from home. Volunteers were sought from education staff and despite concerns for their own safety, many more volunteered than were ever needed.

Hence the early morning alarm. Approaching my first day at the hub I’m a seething cauldron of emotions. My daughter, who is a probationary teacher, has worked in another hub and reported back so I have some idea of what to expect. I’m apprehensive, in case I’m left in charge of a group alone and I run out of ideas- I’m not a teacher after all; I’m concerned for my own safety- gloves and aprons are provided and hand washing is rigorous, but masks are not worn, I guess to make things appear as normal as possible. Why am I doing this, especially on a public holiday? No one made me do it! I could have stayed safe in my own household and I’d have been paid regardless.

My fragile emotional state is only exacerbated by the fact that the school I am heading to is that which both my children attended many moons ago. It’s a decade since I last crossed the threshold, since my son’s leaving ceremony, but I still feel a special connection. I still feel that I’m a parent not a member of staff. Every classroom holds memories for me, whether it is of significant milestones or of being there as a parent helper. The dining hall still smells of cabbage and I can visualise each child’s faltering appearance in school productions on the makeshift stage. The large field attached to the school reminds me of sports days where we enjoyed or endured every kind of Scottish summer weather and where, being sporty types, their performances were usually a little more confident.

I reflect on how far my own children have come from those early days and I realise why I’m doing this. Every child deserves the best we can give, especially in these strange times. I take a deep breath, choke back the tears, sanitize, open the door, sanitize and sign in.

COVID-19 has consumed our lives. 9 months ago I couldn't bear to listen to any more talk of Brexit yet now? I oddly miss the constant talk of Boris' constant blundering attempts at trade deals. It seems like a simpler time.

But strangely, simpler times is almost how it felt going into work. Yes, transport sector is a dangerous one to be working in; cross contamination, crowds of people, working through the Lockdown. However, in my workplace during lockdown, the place was an escape. We spoke of COVID a lot, we of course understood all the risk. But - quite naive of us - we were very poor at social distancing. In fact coming to work was almost like how going to the pubs used to be. We would socialise, have fun but at the same time doing the work that was required to ensure other key workers could get to work and home again.

It's hard to describe without making us all come across as very foolish but within my depot, we felt secure. It felt like our own hideaway from the carnage that was raging outside of the shed, in the big outside world. Within our work shed, we felt safe. A small piece of the world we had before.

With the increase of cases though, I've had to ensure my Union members are adhering to social distancing and stronger measures to keep ourselves safe. It's a necessity not only for ourselves but for our loved ones and our communities as a whole. But by doing this we have lost that sense of escape that we all held so dear during the darkest days of lockdown.

The transport industry continues to move, albeit at a crawl. Like many industries, COVID has decimated us. The railway, the lifeline of Scotland, is on it's knees. We are lucky our industry is so indispensable that the government is propping us up to the tune of millions of pounds after passenger numbers have dropped so dramatically. This will not continue forever.

The next big worry for us, like so many others, is whether or not job losses will soon come. We stand with every other worker in Scotland. We may all be scared of what tomorrow may bring but if we stand together (socially distanced), then things may not be as bad as we fear.

This video represents our family journey through the months of lockdown where I learned a different way to juggle work, family life and schooling. It’s clear Covid has been a devastating disease, wreaking havoc around the world but my job as a mother was to shield my children from its horrors, therefore, we spent the early months ensuring each day was not only a distraction but an adventure. Our daily 1-hour exercise saw us exploring our local area, listening to the birds and the wildlife without the usual traffic and busyness of life. As a family we done things we don't often make time for like sitting under the stars at night, experimenting with new recipes, planting vegetables and herbs, we even painted a mural as a family. Time seemed to stand still in the first months of lockdown, a strange world where we only connected with friends and family via zoom. Friday night quizzes became a family event. 

This could not and did not last forever, soon home schooling and working from home took over what was a peaceful hideaway. I found out I'm not the most patient teacher, that I can't remember simplifying fractions and that there is not enough space in our house for 2 adults to work from home. My job became full on with little respite, 12-hour days sitting on the sofa with my laptop burning my legs. The kids got bored hanging out with Mum and Dad and spent hours playing Minecraft. But still, we made it work. 

The kids were excited to go back to school and have showed no sign of being adversely affected. If anything, we are more appreciative of our home, garden, and our time together.