The shift from nought to hedonism overnight was too much for this lockdown zombie

I don’t remember much between the hours of 3pm and 7pm on Saturday afternoon, so I’ve had to rely on source materials. Specifically, the WhatsApps I sent to my boyfriend as I was (apparently) en route to meet him on the South Bank.

“On be there in. Sec!”, “reads” an early, optimistic text, though close analysis of the timeline suggests that “On” (I) in fact arrived 40 minutes later. “I just drink London!” proclaims another hyperbolic message from around the same time, though more ominous is the missive sent at circa 6pm, stating: “I have died”.

Rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated (by me), though the incoherency gives a clear indication of my mental and physical state during my first post-lockdown Saturday out. How had I managed this under Tier 2’s restrictions? Search me. By the time of my “death”, my excesses included — as far as I can establish — a few glasses of wine and a pizza with three friends on a rooftop in Peckham, later followed by another substantial meal and drinks, at which point my memory kicks back in, and bed by 11.30pm. Pretty tame, yet apparently enough hedonism to leave me immobilised on Sunday: face down on my bed; drooling; moving only to swipe at the “continue watching” button on Netflix or to claw at my own tongue to get the taste of “sock” out of my mouth. My own ghost of Christmas past would be horrified. In fact, this lamentable display is the antithesis of the stamina on which I have previously prided myself in December — managing night-after-night-out; still getting up for my 6am alarm; sneaking in the odd lunchtime spin class to preclude the creep of a mulled cider paunch. This year, with limited days to go before I bubble up with my family for Christmas, I am desperate to make the most of them: how cruel of my stamina to forsake me now!

To think, last week I claimed (in print) to “miss” hangovers. Obviously, this year has been exhausting, and I did turn 30 in the first lockdown, but I don’t think my increasing state of decrepitude is to blame. Nor can it be that I’ve become a lightweight: I’ve hardly treated this year as a “detox”. No, I think the problem is something uniquely 2020: this December is total sensory overload for London’s army of lockdown zombies. Months of texting in front of ambient TV requiring little to no brain engagement have been replaced by proper stimuli. Menus! People! Working out how to get from A to B! It is hard to adapt to structure after shapelessness: it’s a big gear shift to go from nought to hedonism overnight (who knew?!). My will is strong — I want a party desperately! — but the flesh is weak. And does anyone know how I got to the South Bank?

The online backlash was swift for Cardi B, who has been accused of insensitivity by fans after she asked Twitter to help her decide whether or not to drop the cash on a $88,000 purse. She countered the vitriol by pointing out that she’s given $1 million to coronavirus relief charities — fair, but that’s not really the point, is it? We all know celebrities have had better pandemics than us, because they have better lives than us. Saying that, these lives have affected their grasp on reality — making them prone to acts that can ring rather tone deaf. From Cardi B dropping £90k on a place to put her chewing gum; to Rita Ora’s lockdown lock-in; to Kim K’s massive 40th on a private island; even Kay Burley’s birthday — we’ve seen clangers committed by people whose jobs are, to some extent, about curating their image. Think before you tweet...