HOW TO BE . . . ALONE IN AMERICA

Even before the lockdown, I never found New York to be “the city that never sleeps”. In fact, it’s always seemed a bit dozy to me. 

Having lived in Paris and Puerto Banus (just outside Marbella in Spain), I grew accustomed to staying out all night if I so chose. It was the same in London in the Nineties, but then, my generation seemed to grow old suddenly: they needed their beauty sleep and, where once they would be emerging from Gerry’s Club in Dean St at daylight, they were packing up at 2am (how old am I? Four?). In recent years, everyone had to be out at 3am anyway (even Mike, the owner, was getting older), but I have many happy memories of those late nights/early mornings.

   

In Los Angeles, where I lived when I first came to the States in 2009, the rules were (and still are) very strict. Closing time is 2am, and staff wait for your glass (still half full) like dogs ready to pounce on an available bone. In New York, the witching GTHOH (Get the Hell Outta Here) hour is 4am, though even in my lively area of Hell’s Kitchen, restaurants shut up shop at around midnight and very few bars stay open till 4am. You don’t want to stay anyway, because the smell of lemon-scented cleaning fluid overpowers any lingering aroma you might have left wafting up from your wine.

   

Now, with everything shut, an hour in any hostelry would seem like a glorious holiday; sharing a drink with a real live human would feel like all your Christmases had come at once. As for the idea of going to a restaurant and eating among other diners, your body might now not be able to withstand the excitement; if the Coronavirus didn’t get you, the shock of becoming reaccustomed to socialising could well do.

   

Even in these circumstances, though, it’s hard to feel lonely in New York City. I’ve experienced loneliness in many cities throughout the world – usually on Sundays, when I imagine everyone except me is sitting round a huge wooden table with hams piled high and laughing children running around in gingham outfits, chanting The Wheels on the Bus – but it’s rare here.

   

I am lucky in that I have a spectacular view over the Hudson, where every night the sunsets bring a new art gallery to my window. Despite the quiet of the streets when I go out for my self-isolating walk, the feeling is one of a city in suspended animation, silently reassuring me that it will breathe again, without assistance.

   

In the confines of my apartment, I read, cook, watch TV, listen to music, meditate and give thanks for the respite from car horns impatiently waiting to enter the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour. The non-stop thud of nearby construction no longer wakes me up and has me weeping with stress, come 5pm. I find activities and interests online I would never have discovered before. I’m refreshing my French and having yet another attempt at learning Spanish. I’ve even delved back into Italian, which comes much more naturally to me than Spanish, and I already feel fluent just by putting an 'a' on the end of every word I know and reading about the Mafia.

   

If I put an 'o' on the end of every word, I feel pretty fluent in Spanish, too, but I don’t feel as immersed in Spanish culture (not unless you count the gallons of Rioja in my cupboard) and I’ve always found a relative lack of interest in a country makes language learning more difficult. French, while being a more complex language, came quite easily to me when I moved to Paris in 2001; keeping up with it is a challenge, although I am hugely helped by Quora (which I have in French, English, Spanish and Italian), a site on which people pose questions that others answer or debate.

   

Because my work is essentially solitary, I’ve always been at ease in my own company and while being alone is not the same as feeling lonely, my situation makes these strange and frightening times easier to bear. When loneliness hits – panic moments when I wonder when I will ever communicate with a real live human again – I remind myself that everyone is in the same boat. It may feel like a sinking ship, but we’re all in it together.

   

There is a quote attributed to Scott Fitzgerald (some say wrongly so, but it’s still apt): “The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”

   

I suspect that is what many are feeling right now and there is a collective loneliness that has its roots in this very helplessness. Whether Fitzgerald said it or not, loneliness lies at the heart of The Great Gatsby – mainly, the loneliness that the pursuit of social status and money ultimately brings. Written in the 1920s, it’s a salutary lesson for our times and certainly worth reading or re-reading, not least for the ending: “So we beat on, boats against the current” but, to me, not “borne back ceaselessly into the past”, but towards a better future in which people have re-evaluated themselves, life, priorities; a world in which we will have learned, in being alone, that we truly never are. 

To quote the poet John Donne: “No man is an island,/Entire of itself,/Every man is a piece of the continent,/A part of the main”.

   

Donne was talking about Europe (and that’s a whole other debate), but knowing that we are not alone in this appalling crisis is what gets us through. Yes, there is, and will be more loneliness; some will cope better than others. There is fear, anxiety, dread, and all sorts emotions we cannot explain in a life that just wasn’t supposed to be like this.

   

While we are denied physical contact, other than with those we live with, it’s important to touch base on the phone and through social networking; reaching out to nature brings so many rewards (it’s very chatty when you give it time). These are precious moments to absorb the world around us – it really is our friend, even though it doesn’t seem that way at present.

   

Today, when I was out walking (briefly), I looked at a brownstone building and admired its colour. I am fascinated by architecture and how it reflects us at any given time. The words of Pink Floyd were singing in my head: “All in all you’re just another brick in the wall.” I found them strangely comforting.

   

Having said that, now I need a drink. Where’s that Gatsby drinking buddy when you need him?  

  

       

HOW TO BE . . . THE NEXT MRS CUOMO IN AMERICA

Are there any circumstances in which an engagement ring could be classed as an “essential” service?

It’s one of the many things that’s been worrying me during the pandemic lockdown as I plan my marriage to the New York State Governor, Andrew Cuomo. Yes, I know that I am very far down the line in a long queue, but a girl can dream.

   

Come on, be honest: how many of you, in the past month, have Googled ‘Is Andrew Cuomo single’? Or ‘Is Andrew Cuomo straight’? Or even ‘Does Andrew Cuomo like short Welsh women who have their own Green Card’? (Just me on that one, then). Every day, the ever-increasing fan club sits in front of TV screens to be soothed and comforted by the one person who appears to have a grip on what’s really going on.

   

The New York Governor (and I am so proud to be living in this state with my fiancé – no, he doesn’t know it yet; minor detail) has captured not only the state’s, but many of the country’s hearts. He is smart, knowledgeable, unfazed when we are all on the precipice of hysteria, empathetic, sympathetic, genuinely caring – he is, in short, everything a President should be. It’s just a shame that he’s not. But at least he’s there. For us.

   

These are frightening times. I am one of the lucky ones. I was very ill at the beginning of the year (there is now research suggesting the virus is older than it looks – unlike my fiancé; yes, I Googled ‘How old is Andrew Cuomo?’ too); I was ill again in March, despite not having had so much of a cold since May 1999 (brought on by stress from the guy I was dating – he is SUCH old news, now I have Andrew). 

But after three months of extreme fatigue, bordering on narcolepsy, I am fine. At present, I still have a job, and I work from home, which I have never found difficult. I am fine in my own company; I talk to friends on the phone and on various social networking sites; I have fun on my YouTube channel, Jaci’s Box (please subscribe); I read, I catch up on TV . . . I’m probably busier than I’ve ever been. How will I ever find time to plan the wedding? That’s the thing that’s really stressing me out.

   

My heart goes out to the sick and the bereaved. Two of my friends have just lost their mothers and were denied the chance to see them during their last days and hold their funerals; another friend who lost her father was allowed just six people at his funeral. As the anniversary of my mother’s death approaches on April 17^th, I cannot imagine how much more painful it would have been had my brother and I been denied those last days and the comfort of family and friends around us.

   

I feel for those who have lost their jobs in so many ways. I have actor friends who have lost not only their main job but their secondary ones serving in bars and restaurants. For those in the travel and hospitality industries, life has come to a standstill. So many jobless people have families to feed, disabled relatives to take care of . . . Conrad’s final sentence – “The horror! The horror!” – in Heart of Darkness (albeit for different reasons in the novel) never seemed more appropriate.

   

It’s the lack of an ending that is most disturbing. We are creatures of narrative; we enjoy a beginning, middle and an end, hence the popularity of fiction, whether it be in books or on the screen. We spend time second guessing the motivation of character and the outcome of plot; even though soap operas are ongoing, storylines are designed to build suspense and high drama before reaching their inevitable conclusions.

   

Every day brings news of more Coronavirus cases, more deaths, optimism followed by despair, currency boosts followed by downward turns; we have no ending in sight; the plot thickens – and thickens. Despite talk of lights at the end of the tunnel, there are days when those lights seem nothing more than those of another freight train coming towards us. We are blinded by the lack of light.

   

What do we do? 

We carry on. Because we are human. Because there is no alternative. The clichés roll off our tongues – “It is what it is”, “What will be will be”, “You never know what’s around the corner”.

   

And so, we must look to the light in the tunnel, not at the end of it; at present, that is all we know. We take refuge and joy in the arts – and if ever there was a time to count our blessings in the creativity of writers, musicians, painters, every artist in every field, this is it.

   

We must also give thanks for the light that shines more brightly than any other – that of our health care workers, putting their lives on the front line every day to save others. I could never do it; I do not know how anyone does. Many have lost their lives so that the sick can be healed; I know of no greater sacrifice.

   

We must be grateful in our dark tunnel for the light of Governor Cuomo, whose daily press conferences have become, to so many, like a meditative space that keeps panic at bay. His brother, Chris, who is an anchor at CNN, contracted the virus (he is on the mend) and the pair have also been entertaining us in their online exchanges. Chris also appeared in a moving interview on the entertainment channel TMZ, which has also been a beacon of sense: presenter Harvey Levin, who warned of the dangers very early on, is exceptional.

   

We really are all in this together, including the queue that has gathered around my fiancé – Hey! Six feet apart, people! Six miles if I had my way! – who has emerged a real hero for our times. Let’s just hope he’s stocked up on Clorox for our first dance at our wedding reception, as I still won’t be taking any risks.  

   

Yes, of course I’m thinking ahead. 

What about when the pandemic is over, and I’ll have the worry if Andrew decides to run for President (as his brother and many have suggested) and I end up as First Lady? I’ll have to put make-up on every day. I’m also not sure I want to be gathering up my husband’s brains from the back seat of a car when he’s assassinated. Will there be Clorox in the glove compartment?

   

Sometimes, I think I worry too much.

     

  

  

CORONAVIRA DREAMIN'

Warm oat milk with a shot of brandy really is my saviour in these difficult times. 

I’ve never been a great sleeper – in fact, I truly hate going to bed owing to major FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). I was the same as a baby, a young child, and even at 61 I have a terror that something might be happening from which I have been excluded (actually, that might just be FOBH – Fear Of Being Hated).

   

I thought that in the current crisis, my sleep patterns might become disrupted, but given that there is nothing happening from which anyone can exclude me, bedtime isn’t such an ordeal. But the milk and brandy give me something to look forward to; they’re very soothing, doubtless bringing back childhood memories of warm milk before being tucked up for the night. In those days, though, I hated the skin that formed on the top of the dairy milk; thankfully, there is no foreskin on oat milk and I really do love it (I no longer buy almond milk, by the way, because I learned that the pesticides they use to spray the almond trees kill all the bees. I don’t like bees at all, but hey, they need an office job, too).

   

More than one in five people (22%) say that their sleep quality has suffered since the rise of Coronavirus, and many are reporting an increase in strange or vivid dreams. Mark Blagrove, a leading expert in sleep and dreaming at Swansea University in the UK, also says that a lot of people will be having very emotional dreams.

   

Last night, I dreamt about my mother and her dog, Maddie. My mum’s house in Bristol is currently under offer, but in the dream, I was in the house in Bridgend, where I spent my teenage years. Last week, the neighbour directly opposite that house died. We were all very close and one of her two daughters, Nerys, at that time was my best friend. I bumped into her in Bath last year and it was as if we’d seen each other the day before, despite decades having passed.

   

The dream took me back to that Coity house, where I was disturbed to find that the buyers (for the Bristol house) had already started to move their stuff in, despite exchange and completion not having taken place. They had even glued a rack for utensils to a kitchen cupboard. I was crying and upon leaving the house saw Mum, her back to me, walking up the drive. “MUM! MUM!” I called, but she didn’t answer. I caught up with her but when I reached out to touch her, my hand went through her and she walked on before disappearing altogether. I returned to the house and tried to remove the utensil rack.

   

In the next part of the dream, Mum had died and I was holding her Bichon Frise, Maddie. Mum was always fearful of Maddie outliving her because she didn’t know where the dog would go. In the dream, I decided to take her with me to New York; in reality, she had been euthanised (I still cannot bear to say the words “put down”) 15 months before Mum was admitted to hospital for the last time.

   

It was at least 10 years before I dreamt about my dad, following his death in 1990, but I dream about Mum all the time. As the one-year anniversary approaches next month, I won’t pretend it’s been a good 12 months. My own health, which had been suffering as a result of stress for a while, hadn’t been great with all the long haul travelling, and being hospitalised with a suspected heart attack last year did not help matters (it turned out not to be, but the loneliness of lying alone in a hospital bed, on the opposite side of the Atlantic from friends and family, gave me a lot of thinking time).

   

It is ironic that self-isolation has given me a calm and contentedness that I haven’t felt in decades. I’m sure it won’t last, because human contact is, basically, what humans thrive on. But I am finding the space - physically, mentally and emotionally - rather soothing. It’s a long time since I’ve had such a defined routine in my life (although I could recite the Virgin Atlantic flight schedule by rote) and structure is, for me, the easiest way to survive these bizarre times.

   

Also ironic is that I’m talking to family and friends far more than I ever managed to do in “real life” as we must now remember it. I have been Face Timing, talking on the phone and, yesterday, participated in an online quiz on Zoom with a group of people and made new friends into the bargain. After a slight initial self-consciousness, it genuinely felt as if we were in the same room. We laughed, joked, showed off our different awards (even in the throes of a killer virus, media folk are so competitive) and, after the quiz, stayed online to talk about other matters.

   

Zoom, by the way, is terrific. It’s a conference app on which you can host 10 people for free and, for $149pa, up to 100 (you can have as many hosts and people as you like, by the way; the price goes up accordingly).

   

So, it was quite an event filled weekend. I cleaned my apartment and changed my bed linen (always a Saturday morning job), did my washing, coloured my hair and squeezed the blackheads in my nose (a daily job, but I get a strange kick out of it, especially the squishy ones that lurk in the corners and ooze out gratefully, like inmates jumping a prison wall).

   

It’s now lunchtime here and I’m having homemade chicken curry, a glass of Whispering Angel rosé and looking forward to a quiet afternoon of reading and watching TV. Who knows: I might even decide to speak to another human.

   

Before long, it’ll be bedtime again, and I’ll be hitting the Courvoisier. Incidentally, did you know that brandy/Cognac has no carbohydrates and is very good for “bad” cholesterol.

   

Now if that thought doesn’t give you sweet dreams, I don’t know what will.  

  

     

HOW TO BE . . . SANE IN A CRISIS IN AMERICA

The epicenter. 

Every day brings a new headline informing me that, in New York City, I am where it’s all happening in relation to the Coronavirus pandemic. More cases, more deaths, more fear as the cries for ventilators and help are drowned out by too much misinformation and the hunger for political gain.

   

We are lucky in New York state having an extraordinary governor in Andrew Cuomo; our Mayor Bill de Blasio is also doing a terrific job of keeping us up to date with regular TV appearances, stressing the seriousness of the situation and yet strangely calming in his delivery of facts rather than speculation. 

And we all have to be grateful to the physician, immunologist and the country’s leading infectious diseases expert, Dr Anthony Fauci, whose analysis of the situation is the one I am taking on board, rather than that of deluded optimists who think we will all be licking each other’s Lindt chocolate bunnies, come April 12^th.

   

I have lived in NYC for six years and feel safer here than anywhere I have ever lived; there is security in crowds, particularly late at night. True, you run the risk of the odd manhole cover blowing off and decapitating you, not to mention debris falling from one of many construction sites and slicing you in two, but for the most part, for me, it feels safer than the UK cities of Bath or Cardiff ever did – places in which I had friends raped, mugged, burgled (I was burgled in both cities) and attacked by drunks in bars. 

I am not saying there are not incidents in NYC, but by the end of the 90s violent crime had dropped by 56%, most of the credit being given to Mayor Rudy Giulani for the clean-up.

   

September 11^th 2001was the day New Yorkers felt vulnerable once more, falling victims to an act of terrorism that continues to cast a shadow, both emotionally and physically, over the lives of so many today. The city came together, and, in the current crisis, comparisons are constantly made about the spirit of the place as it faces unprecedented difficulties. 

We are not alone, but we are, at this moment (and it could all change by the time I finish writing this), the most vulnerable. The city that never sleeps isn’t so much having a nap; it feels in an advanced state of rigor mortis.

   

We, like the rest of the world, have no control over the situation and when humans lose control, they enter panic mode. But while we have lost control of the bigger picture, there are still aspects of our lives over which we still have influence and that can at least dispel fear, even though not eradicate it entirely.

   

My friends have always laughed at my having enough food and supplies as if I am preparing for war. They’re not laughing now. I have always had a pathological fear of running out of toilet paper and so, at present, I could keep the backsides of a barracks in pristine health for at least two months. I have enough dried pasta to open a couple of Italian restaurants (I wouldn’t be allowed any customers, but hey ho, you can’t have everything); likewise, enough rice to set up a “Write your name on a grain of rice” sideshow (don’t laugh – it’s big business on Santa Monica pier) that would give me an income for life.

   

My fridge is full of fresh food; my freezer packed to the gills with home-made dishes – Quorn Bolognese, ratatouille, lentil curry, bœuf Bourguignon (see what I did there?), chicken gravy, banana bread, plus the usual frozen staples: blackberries, blueberries, peas, edamame and fava beans. My wardrobe is an orchestra of Evian water and wine bottles, competing for attention.

   

Every morning, I do my meditation (I’ve been an on-off Transcendental fan practitioner for decades), then go for my morning run around the pier. I live in Hell’s Kitchen, and Pier 84, which is never very crowded now that there are no boats sailing from there is a godsend when I need to exercise. Funnily enough, I used to have to drag myself to the gym right next to it, but I have found I am much more disciplined now that option is denied.

   

Outside, I have discovered all sorts of stones and steps on which I can do my stretches. I also live 31 floors up in my apartment block and take advantage of what has become an in-built gym of sorts, running up and down the stairwell (okay, running down, dragging myself back up). I have my own sets of arm and leg weights anyway (I told you I was prepared), so use those every day, in addition to doing a few yoga exercises I learned many years ago. 

Oh, the joy of doing Downward Facing Dog and not having the person in front farting in your face – the reason I gave up yoga classes in the first place.

   

I am reading more than I have in years. I subscribed to the Paris Review and this week re-read Goodbye, Columbus, the Philip Roth novella that began his career when the periodical published it. I’m a big Roth fan and am hugely enjoying The Plot Against America on TV, too.

   

I’m reading Woody Allen’s autobiography Apropos of Nothing (Don’t judge; I’ve always had my doubts about The Plot Against Woody Allen, for reasons I won’t go into here). It’s a fabulous, easy read and beautifully captures New York at a time and place long gone.  

   

I’m watching classical music concerts online (though I gave the Met’s Wagner operas a miss this week – every port in a storm and all that, but not where Wagner’s concerned). The divine violinist Andre Rieu had a NYC concert in Radio City and it’s been intercut with black and white footage of the first hopefuls arriving in the city, full of hope and excitement; it feels especially poignant at this time.

   

So far, my health is good and, while I was sick over two weeks ago, I self-isolated, just in case. I’m less stressed than I’ve been in years and I’m sleeping better, too. 

My bedtime treat is a glass of hot oat milk with a shot of brandy. If, one day, I don’t wake up, you’ll know I went contentedly.

   

Stay safe, everyone. Stay sane. 

This is New York, New York. 

We’ll make it here.

     

     

MOTHER'S DAY - WITHOUT MUM

Every Mother’s Day with Mum became an argument. 

Although a bit like the annual Christmas argument over the Royals when Mum wanted to watch the Queen’s Speech and I didn’t, the Mother’s Day one was relatively new.

   

About five years ago, Mum started to call it Mothering Sunday and made a big deal of my continuing to call it what it had always been throughout my childhood. We didn’t know then that this was the American version and that Mum’s new affectation was the correct one for the UK, nor will I ever know what precipitated the change; it was just another thing to add to the list of her increasing contrariness that, basically, was the opposite of whatever I thought or said.

   

It was always a special day growing up. The day before, we would go as a family on our usual trip into Newport town and have ice cream in the Kardomah café, where Mum chose two different types of coffee beans and had them ground and securely packed in brown paper bags. I hated the smell almost as much as I hated the smell of hops from the brewery when we ventured into Cardiff; to this day, I cannot bear to be around the smell of coffee.

   

Usually, this was followed by Mum parking Dad, Nigel and me in Howells’ make-up department while she went off exploring for three hours. The day before Mother’s Day, however, was always different because we got to disappear with Dad to buy the “secret” presents for the next morning. I specifically remember a grey smoked glass vase, not least because Mum dropped it and broke it a week after. She couldn’t stop crying. Nor could I. It had cost me five shillings, which must have been a year’s saved pocket money back then.

   

After that, we always played it safe and she had a purple potted hydrangea every year. During the past few years, if I have been out of the country, I sent her a hamper of smoked salmon goods. How she loved her fresh smoked salmon. When she was in hospital for what would turn out to be one of the last times, she nagged and nagged me about what I’d done with the salmon that was in the fridge.

Was it still there? Had the carers thrown it out? Why hadn’t I put it in the freezer? I told her I’d send her another hamper of flamin’ salmon, enough for her to have it every day; but no: she wanted that particular piece of salmon. She went on about it so much, I swear she’d probably even given the dead creature a name.

   

I used to take a long time choosing her card. She read the verses over and over, invariably crying at seeing how much she was loved actually written down. Little did I know that on March 31^st last year, she had just 17 days to live. I had sent her the proverbial salmon hamper that she never even got to open because she was admitted to hospital for what would be the last time.

   

Inevitably, thoughts of Mum are uppermost in my mind as the first one without her arrives. A few weeks ago, I was in Poundland in Cardiff, excited that I’d found a pack of two Dove soaps for just £1. Pondering my cache, I turned a corner and there was a whacking great Mother’s Day display. I burst into tears, just as I had done in a store in December as I faced my first Christmas without her, Have Yourselves a Merry Little Christmas blaring out and making me sick with the sense of loss. 

   

Mum enjoyed being a mother. She told me many times that when I was born, she just wanted to be alone with me and she was distraught when the nurses took me away when they needed to show the other mothers how to bath a baby; apparently, it was because I was so well behaved. I suspect herein lies the root of my obsessive-compulsive disorder about cleanliness.

   

We had a happy childhood. Trips to the seaside, ballroom dancing lessons and competitions (as a family, we all danced), cooking on a Saturday morning (all of us except Dad were pretty good cooks), late night “treats” when Mum suddenly decided to make toffee or Cornish pasties. My parents could not bear to leave us out of anything, and on the rare occasions they treated themselves to a Chinese takeaway, they would put a small amount on two saucers and deliver it to Nigel and me in bed. No food ever tasted so good as that late-night feast.

   

When one parent dies, the relationship with the other inevitably changes and although Mum was fiercely independent to the end (much to the physios’ consternation as she refused treatment when Emmerdale was on – which was often, and in the end, they sacked her), when Dad died in 1990 I felt the roles reverse.

   

I moved to Bath to be closer to Mum just six miles away and saw her several times a week. In recent years, as she became increasingly frail, she became more dependent not just on me but on other friends, and she hated growing old and being what she perceived as being a “burden”.

   

But she was still Mum. She didn’t know much about the minutiae of my life, but she knew me better than anyone. With a mother’s instinct, she knew when I was sad or hiding my emotions, and with that same instinct she knew not to pry; that I would tell all when the time was right.

   

She had a big heart, an enormous capacity for love and always said that her greatest fear was something happening to her children. 

   

On her last day, I sat at the hospital bed, smoothing her always fine hair and talked to her as Mum. I told her I loved her and thanked her for being my mother and for everything she had done and been. 

   

And, so comes to pass another “first” among the many others that accompany the first year of grief.

   

Happy Mothering Sunday, Mum.  

   

    

   

HOW TO BE . . . SELF-DISTANCING IN AMERICA

Manhattan is taking a nap. That is how I am trying to think of my voluntary self-isolation as the city, along with the rest of the world, comes to grips with the not-so-brave new world living under the cloud of the Coronavirus pandemic. To think of this break as anything other than a brief hibernation is just too horrible to contemplate, so I am attempting to enjoy the eerie silence and fill my time with activities I normally claim I am too busy to attempt.

Like becoming fluent in French (I am probably about 50% at the moment) and Spanish (0.000000000000001%. I can order a taco and a glass of wine). I am going to read Michelle Obama’s book, Becoming, which has been languishing on my bookshelf since Christmas and also the 30+ books I’ve downloaded from the Internet (message to self: downloading a book doesn’t mean it’s Mission Accomplished).

I’m also going to finish watching series 5 of Madam Secretary before moving on to series 6 when, I hear, the good lady becomes President. Gosh, it’s a tough show, though. Does anyone, apart from Russell Jackson (exquisitely portrayed by Željko Ivanek) have a clue what they are talking about, least of all the Madam herself, Elizabeth McCord?

“The Russians blah blah blah Nigerian minister blahdeblah Philippines gobbledygook.” On and on and on, everyone spouting incomprehensible lines from a script while staring into the middle distance and just praying for the next break from filming. Thank goodness they put it out of its misery in December.

I’m going to do more cooking. I cook every day but now I’ve subscribed to New York Times Food I’m going to try some of the many thousands of recipes they have online (second message to self: paying $40pa to a food app doesn’t mean you’ve cooked anything).

Having suspended my gym membership (to every cloud, eh?), I’m going to do more walking. The city is in bigtime spring mode now and the sun is shining. There are hardly any cars on the roads, even fewer people, and I can happily walk to Central Park without fear of being killed or trodden on.

Yes, I know that going for a walk means that I am not a totally committed self-isolationist; it’s like saying you’re a vegetarian when you eat chicken, or a vegan who eats cheese (I confess to having been both; now I just call myself a lying hog). But given that I can now walk miles and count the people I see on one hand, I feel I’m a relatively low risk, both to myself and others.

It’s ironic that in an age of social networking, social distancing is the new black, but then social networking was always about breaking real human contact and establishing virtual friendships and relationships; in fact, social distancing has always been at its heart, so this enforced lack of communication feels rather apt – the prophecy fulfilled.

I’m enjoying not hearing the constant honking of car horns entering the Lincoln Tunnel at Rush Hour; the dogs not barking on my apartment floor when delivery people arrive because, quite simply, our building isn’t letting anyone in; the quiet of sitting at a bar, finally being able to capture every word of other people’s conversations – yes, even the couple last night, trying to enjoy a first date and making a real hash of it . . .

Shoulda left it. But they were making so many mistakes and it was all going to end in tears. He was being critical of her; she went on the attack. I intervened, he confessed he was insecure, she became more interested in who I had on my Instagram page than in him, and the evening ended well for all. Especially for me, anyway.

“OMG!” she cried, opening my Instagram page. “You’re in Influencer!” Who knew it? I still have no idea what she was talking about, but they left happily. Joe Allen are quite keen that during these quiet times, I sit in my favorite corner, dishing out relationship advice. They suggested calling it Jaci Unhinged. Nothing new there.

My social distancing did not extend to my hair stylist, Caesar, and I had to visit him yesterday as by my standards I was a veritable Rapunzel. I was doused in sanitizer before anyone could commence work and then had a very interesting time learning about birds and, in particular, parrots - a species, it transpired, Caesar knows a great deal about.

Did you know that most birds have just one mate for life, and parrots don’t want another one when their one and only love dies? They even pluck out their feathers with grief. They live for 50 to 100 years but become sexually mature at the age of two. Apparently, that’s when their personalities change and they become very aggressive (both males and females); they also become very possessive of their owners. They are also, says Caesar, even more intelligent than dogs and pipe up about things they’ve witnessed months later (spooky; I can barely remember this morning these days).

I hope I get a couple of parrots for Jaci Unhinged; I could really teach them a thing or two about possessive behavior (which reminds me: I really need to find myself a therapist).

Today is Saturday and I plan to clean my apartment (this blog is merely work avoidance), start on my taxes, write a reference for a friend, eat the ratatouille I made yesterday, open that bottle of Whispering Angel (I lie; I’m already halfway into it), go for a walk, pop into Joe Allen (touting for business), catch up on some TV shows that have come highly recommended, take Michelle Obama’s book off the shelf (or will I?) and spend another three hours reading about what my chances are of dying from Coronavirus.

That’s the trouble with social distancing; it makes you focus too much on mortality; we are sociable creatures and need human touch, both physically and metaphorically.

Oh, sod it; I don’t think I can manage it, after all. I’m just going to go out, throw caution to the wind and bag myself a parrot.