I am sitting here at home, comfortably working from my living room, having woken up a bit late, and about to make myself a nice and healthy lunch. I will probably have a bath later, cook myself a tasty dinner, watch a movie on my projector and go to bed at a reasonable time. “Was 2020 really all bad?”, I wonder. Have I not grown as a person? Do I really want to go back to my stressed, cramped, overly expensive life when all this is over?
I stop and think.
Then I realise: I absolutely want to go back to my stressed, cramped, overly expensive life. I want underwhelming sandwiches that somehow cost £5.95 and I want flat pints that cost the same. I want to be on the tube at rush hour, crushed between sweaty men, on my way to a pub full of the worst people on earth. I want to say things like “yes I’d love a drink! I can do Wednesday week after next or the Tuesday after that?”. I want to feel so tired I’m on the verge of collapse by Wednesday night, fully aware I’m barely halfway through the week. This year has not changed me one bit; I have not grown, or evolved. I want to get back to exactly what I was doing before it started. This is what I’ve learnt from 2020.