Just the thought of sitting on a plane makes my hypochondriac heart beat triple time. But I don’t want to hear about anyone’s fabulous time in Patmos
Unlike Gore Vidal, I do not need my friends to fail so that I can enjoy my successes. But it is the law that if I am doing nothing, then my friends must be equally bored, too. For those of us who suffer from acute Fomo, AKA fear of missing out (to paraphrase Will Ferrell on sex addiction, it’s a real disease, with doctors and medicine and everything!), lockdown was, well, I don’t want to say it was good, because obviously it was terrible. But it was also, on the most base and selfish level possible, a bit of a relief.
No longer was I plagued with the constant tinnitus-like buzzing in my brain telling me that something better was happening elsewhere, that everyone was having fun without me. It’s a terrible affliction, one that once propelled me from a wedding in Sussex at midnight to a 40th birthday in Suffolk, and to a 50th birthday party in Ipswich the day before I gave birth. Insane? Possibly. But I didn’t miss out.
