Stop Working! I'm O.F.F

Waiting to sell your house is excruciating. Like watching paint dry. On television it seems to take no time at all to sell and buy a house. Phil and Kirstie waltz from room to room (her in a big frock, heels and matching lipstick, him with a perma-grin) complimenting the light and airy feel. Buyers are baffled with ideas of extensions, conversions and transformations, the phone rings and SOLD! In reality it takes forever. I have been living in real estate limbo land for quite some time now. Having sold my house pre-lockdown, it falling through mid-lockdown , I am now back to square one post-lockdown (I use the term post-lockdown loosely. Yes I know it's not over yet. And I need to watch out for the second spike that might just come back and poke me on the much larger since lockdown, bum) When the estate agent calls and announces someone actually wants to come and view your house, as wonderful as that is, it also means you have got to complete the mother of all clean ups.

The light at the end of the tunnel has been switched on. The last Coronavirus 5pm update has been shown, and I have been given a date to return to work. Initial feelings of elation; 'I am needed', 'they do remember me', 'I can see my colleagues and friends again', 'I no longer have to participate in home learning' started to give way to a realisation that I have to remember what it is I do. Whilst living through a 'month of Sundays', I have eaten and drank my way through a heady mix of crisps, nuts, biscuits, cakes and pies. Wine - red, white and rose, pina coladas, gin and caffeine in general. Anyone would think I was the 'Hungry flamin Caterpillar'. Which means my pre-covid working wardrobe, is no longer working. My youngest son looked at me this morning and said "Oh bugger mummy. Your hair looks like a man-lion." I am aware a four year old shouldn't be saying 'bugger', but it was rather amusing. And

I don't have to suffer the daily indignities that many visible people of colour do. But I still have a strong understanding of both the overt and subtle racist abuse that non-white people can suffer. The thing I find hardest about being mixed race, but passing as white, is having the Indian half of me completely dismissed. I was born in England, I grew up in England, most of my friends are here and a lot of my family. So I admit that in my every day life I identify more strongly with my English side. However that doesn't stop me being fiercely protective over my Indian heritage and I won't let anyone deny it. The so-called norm in British society is to be white, and yet, when you aren't white and one side of your heritage is seen as something inferior, it makes you want to celebrate it and stand up for it. Racism in Britain today is different to what it was say, sixty years ago, but the impact of the abuse suffered crosses generations. My Dad is British.

Time is precious. One of the most precious things in the world. But too little or too much of it, and it quickly turns in to one of the worst things in the world. As we all take our place on the 'corona-coaster', I fear it is dividing work colleagues in to two camps. A light green mist (in a pale shade called envy) is slowly developing between us. It's true - those on furlough will never understand what it's like to be working full time to keep a business going during lockdown. One of the skeleton staff doing theirs and several other people's jobs at the same time. Unable to ask questions. Negotiating new social distancing regimes in the office or fighting death by boredom whilst working alone from home. And all, more often than not, whilst taking an 'ever so slightly better than furlough' pay cut. My friend's line manager recently requested that "people on furlough don't enjoy it too much. The people still working are under a lot of pr

When you speak to children in lockdown, about being in lockdown, they reply with various responses. Some talk about being bored, some are desperate to go back to school and some are just thrilled that they get to go to bed later. Some have learnt to bake flapjacks, ride a bike without stabilisers, tell the time, juggle or make a cup of tea. But what is always clear, is that they miss their friends. I thought we'd have a change this week, so I've written a poem.....I suppose from the point of view of my eldest son. "Can my friends come round to play?" In to the classroom the two of us hurried, And found Mrs Smith looking terribly worried. "The school has to close by the end of the day. The illness is spreading, it won't go away!" Some started to smile thinking 'Wow! how exciting! School is now closed which means no maths or writing!' The classroom began to feel awfully warm, jumping with glee in our school uniform. Ex