In the first workshop we explored the things that we have missed during lockdown, and what this meant in terms of our five senses.
I’ve Missed …
Hugging him helpless
Smelling his softness
Tasting his tiny toes
Seeing his serious side
Losing my finger in his curls
Hearing him chuckle
Rocking out together
The Austrian Alps, all my senses miss you.
The sight of rolling alpine meadows with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains that smell as sweet as they look. The sound of cow bells, the owners providing the raw ingredient to the unmistakable taste of fresh grey cheese and buttermilk. The feel of warm sunlight on my pale face whilst dipping my fingers into a freezing cold melt-water stream.
What have I missed? Leaving aside the deep feelings of any Mother hen, her chicks, and their chicks, which has been pronounced, I decided to look outside of the family bubble.
Lunch on a tray watching ‘Bargain hunt’, is no match for the long long lunches with four of my favourite friends. ‘Playgroup ladies’ our collective name. I miss their smiles, their sense of style, the stories they tell, and the run around jip given to the poor waiter – usually younger than our grandchildren. I miss seeing joy in their eyes, glints of genuine warmth as we chink glasses. The laughter as we try to divide the bill – always added too with one more bottle of wine to ‘even up’ the figures.
Cars slumber in the cul-de-sac, no horns tooting. The crossroad devoid of Driving Schools on endless loops, noticeable by their absence. No screeching brakes, or metal upon metal as the street sign is once again breached.
Skies too, have become silently blue. Stillness drapes across the borders and lawns. Only the whirr of mowers breaks the spell.
I have no sense of smell, so the regular pong of burnt toast, bacon carrots and potatoes still fills the air with alarming regularity. I refer them as merely “scorched”. However, there is one proverbial smell that I miss greatly, and that is the ‘smell of greasepaint’ wafting around the auditorium of my beloved Theatre Royal. The anticipation, the performances that reach and grab you. I watch, listen, laugh, cry, tap feet, dry eye and dream.
My tastes buds have learnt to adapt to the disappearing levels of milk. The switch from white to black coffee has been sour, and slow. Still not a fan, close my eyes and drink it as quick as I can. I eek out the precious resource for my morning Cup of Tea. To the shops I cannot simply ‘pop.’
Parcels and letters are covid free – if you want to believe. Well I do. Bills aside. Delighted that my regular post lady rang the bell, parcel in hand. “Not seen you for ages – are you keeping well” I ask, “I’ve missed you – my post has been going to number three, and he’s none too pleased!”
“Been isolating” she replied, “still got to carry on, us workers are key.” Gave me a guilty thought. That new tee shirt brought on-line, a bargain for me, but at what cost to her, and others alike?
I wonder what the sixth sense has in store?