100 Days of Solitude (in southern Spain)
WEEK ONE
Sunday 15 March — Day 1
Our ‘estado de Alarma’ has already begun, eased in on a Sunday when shops are always shut anyway.
Today I went out only to take the dog for a walk. The first rain in weeks had revived all the green growing things. Intense perfume of orange blossom with whiffs of wild garlic, raindrops still glittering on leaf and flower, the mild still evening. I could have walked for hours in near solitude. Stripped of possibilities for being anywhere to meet anyone, time feels expanded, I am less restless than usual on a Sunday. Should I feel this good?
I’m sad for our local bars, cafés and restaurants. They are the best part of our town, each with its own personality presiding over it, grumpy and grudging or warm and welcoming. Some, already trading on slim margins, will have closed their doors for good.
To bed, where all the baffled hopes and plans of all my family members, friends and complete strangers weave a veil of worry around my head.
Monday 16 March — Day 2
Cool and showery, this morning’s grey sky sets the new tone. Armoured in my beacon-red puffa jacket, I set off with shopping list and bag in hand. I need to reassure any passing Guardia Civil patrol that I am just an anxious housewife out to get basic supplies for my clamouring family.
On his usual corner, Andy, one of our street entrepreneurs, is scowling into a rubbish bin. He usually has a cheerful greeting to share, but this morning, he doesn’t even see me. The police won’t let Andy stay on the street all day now, and anyway who will pass by to give him change?
In my local mini-supermarket, staff are wearing masks and gloves. Usually, it’s a social hub, but no-one is even making eye contact today, as if glances could transmit. Shelves are still half-stocked, though choice is already more limited. I buy sliced bread, a big jar of Marmite, more baked beans and coffee.
I planned to use these weeks to get slimmer, fitter, by exercising every day. I would step out in Holy Week, toned if not exactly tanned, wearing my skinniest black jeans and a black vest, transformed. Instead, I go back to the supermarket this evening and buy a huge bag of salt and vinegar crisps for me, and the Thai flavour for Fred. And I seize the last-but-one packet of frozen crumpets with a secret, savage joy.
Rain stopped before lunchtime, but the bright air has turned sharply cold, with a sawtooth wind. I need comfort food to face our sad, diminished streets again.
Tuesday 17 March — Day 3
I’m starting to understand that the next two weeks are going to feel like one very long Sunday. Don’t think about it.
Poor Antonio — our greengrocer is wilting more quickly than his unsold lettuce, without the rain of social contact that he flourishes in. I usually hear his voice below my bathroom window every morning, booming out greetings to passing drivers and pedestrians, or hanging out loudly with ‘the Choir’ — five or six of his old friends, who gather around the bench opposite his shop.
Today Antonio is wearing a mask as well as gloves. He says almost no-one has been in, and is taking an unusually gloomy view of things. He could be right — there are fewer people than ever in the street, and no-one I know. When you do see someone, you feel abashed, furtive, as if they have caught you outside after curfew.
When I get back from walking Eddie, I see a message from a friend who lives in town. She’s getting cabin fever after a whole day indoors, so I offer up Eds to her for a bonus walk after dinner. He looks at me reproachfully, but I tell him we all have to do our bit right now.
Wednesday 18 March — Day 4
Reader, today we defrosted the freezer. Over the past year, a mini-Ross Ice Shelf had formed above the top drawer. After a long morning spent pouring away ice-melt, swabbing everything dry, and throwing out age-old packets of petrified proteins, we gazed on our depleted but orderly freezer with quiet satisfaction.
Later, I worked out how to use liquid detergent in the washing machine. I’ve had a big bottle of the stuff in the laundry for months but couldn’t work out the Spanish instructions. It took an hour, plus washing out the dispenser and polishing the top of the machine. And I caught up with all the laundry. By the weekend I will probably be scrubbing behind the toilets.
Thursday 19 March — Day 5
Sounds that don’t soothe: In the big villa opposite our dining room, someone is busy with power tools. I shut the windows tight against the fitful rattle and rasp of the drill. Later, our upstairs neighbour seems to be hacking at furniture. And every breakfast-time, a shower door (?) slams repeatedly, directly above us. Owing to the strange position of our corner flat, we are not even sure exactly who counts as our neighbour on one side. We are only sure that we wish they hadn’t started DIY projects this week.
Our US client sends a kind email, also asking us to hold all marketing activity on this year’s event until further notice. As for so many others, the next few months are shrouded in uncertainty about work and pay.
I delete my Guardian news app, which I have been checking around 20 times a day to get my next fix of shock and awe. It had to go and I feel better without it.
Saturday 20 March — Day 6
This time last week, I was sitting on a busy, sunny terrace having coffee with a friend, who was going to drive back to the coast afterwards. It seems like another life, and I suppose it was. Yesterday, Spain suffered its highest 24-hour coronavirus death toll, with 235 fatalities and almost 20,000 confirmed cases.
In our small local supermarket I assess the remaining shades of hair colour with which to rescue my greying roots. Black seems improbable, blonde, impossible. I decide to let it go. When this is over I will emerge like Mrs. Rochester from her attic, clawing long grizzled locks aside and frightening the young.
With work currently on hold, I’ve tried to create some kind of daily timetable, to stop me binge-reading Edith Wharton novels on my Kindle App. There is Domestic Chores Hour, K.I.T. with Family and Friends Hour; Writing Hour ( or ‘Not Writing Hour’). Followed by Fitness Hour and Spanish Language Hour, then Dinner. Followed by Collapse In Front of Netflix Hour (actually 2.5 hours on average), and so to bed.
In practice, all these Hours tend to seep into each other, and I find myself doing KIT with FF in response to a random WhatsApp message, when I should be doing Domestic Chores, and so on. Anyway I should have plenty of time to refine and perfect my self-immolation routine over the next few weeks.
I reinstall my Guardian news app.
