Since last summer’s illusory Covid reprieve, my expectations for the future have become smaller and smaller. Back then, in my blind optimism, I was tentatively but genuinely looking forward to getting back to visiting friends in America, throwing a big belated party for my 30th birthday, and sweaty gigs.
When the year instead sank into a disastrous and terrifying crisis, my mind contracted in response. Instead of grand parties and distant travel, I longed to leave the London flat where I live alone to spend Christmas with my parents in Ireland. When that possibility receded my hopes narrowed once again. I dreamed of sitting among a modest group of friends outside, without feeling anxious about risk or judgement. I thought of tepid corner-shop beers and laughing at slightly too cold wind blowing tobacco out of our hands.