A winter of cobbler and no guilt

Now is the winter of our discontent. It starts on Monday — June 1 — and there is nothing for us to do but sit out the next three months, turn up the heater and try to turn negatives into positives.

For a start, there is the lockdown belly. It grows ever larger. It is the curve that knows no flattening. I find myself making dessert every night, which I hand around with a muttered “good for morale”, affecting the tone of a World War II pilot throwing down a shot of brandy before a dangerous mission.

It’s not that I am desperate to eat this apple and blueberry cobbler — no, really. It’s a necessary tool in this household’s battle against COVID-19.

In normal times, the resulting belly would be an embarrassment, but luckily, we now have winter, running to the rescue. Once I’ve thrown on a floppy jumper and draped a large scarf around my neck, my silhouette is relatively normal. A passer-by would assume I’ve strapped a wombat to the front of my body as part of some sort of wildlife rescue scheme.

“What a good chap,” they no doubt think.

Another positive: exercise is virtually banned. During a normal winter, the local gymnasium leaves me constantly exhausted — puffed out by the need to think up excuses for not attending.

These range from “shorts are in the wash” to “I really need to memorise the medieval popes in their correct order”.

Now, thanks to the lockdown, all guilt is removed.

Sure, the equipment at the local park has been re-opened, so I could use that instead, but I don’t like to take the risk. I could also throw myself into a Joe Wicks exercise routine on YouTube but there’s the possibility I might strain something, and the hospital system is under enough pressure as it is.

And so — selflessly — I might just sit here in front of the radiator and read a book while picking on a little of last night’s left-over cobbler. No, don’t thank me. During a war, we must all do our bit.

The lockdown, in truth, removes guilt of all kinds — especially the guilt that comes on a cold winter’s night when you think you should go out, but really don’t want to.

“We should go out to the theatre tonight”. Sorry. Can’t. It’s under lockdown.

“We should go and see that band at the Enmore, thus supporting local musicians”. Sorry. Can’t. It’s under lockdown.

“We should invite all our friends around for an impromptu neighbourhood party”. Sorry. Friends? I think you mean “potential vectors”.

Instead, why don’t we stay at home, watch a movie and I’ll make another apple and blueberry cobbler, which, I think you’ll find, will be very good for morale.

There’s no Fear of Missing Out, because there’s nothing to miss out on. This, actually, may be the winter of our content: a season built for hunkering down, avoiding the weather and indulging a little daydreaming.

There’s no Fear of Missing Out, because there’s nothing to miss out on.

Pick the best holiday you ever had, then imagine yourself back there. There’s no luggage to carry, no flights to catch, no queues at border control, just the remembrance of things past.

Or the time at the football, when your team won. No turnstiles to navigate, no queue for a plastic beaker of beer, no battle for a park, just the memory of sweet victory.

Or that crowded night at Selina’s, with Midnight Oil on stage, and the fans jumping as one, steam rising off Rob Hirst as he expertly attacked his drums. No ticket needed; the experience is there to relive.

For all the current exhortations to “live in the moment”, it’s a curiosity of the human condition that most things are best experienced in either recollection or anticipation.

Life in the moment is usually a mixture of petty annoyances — sore feet, maxed-out credit cards and traffic jams that seem beyond all comprehension.

Even the best parties are marred by an anecdotalist of unusual persistence, or by a reveller who is some distance from being a teetotaller. And even the best holidays are marred by a missed connection or some rain when it was least required.

For those committed to living in the moment, all these things must be endured, moment to tiresome moment.

In contrast, we have this winter, made glorious summer by this lockdown of sorts. Locked down and day-dreaming, the mind can enjoy the essence of the experience — either fondly recalled or eagerly anticipated. All joy, no hassle.

It’s useful winter work — planning what we’ll do in three months, September 1, when we step off the bridge on the other side. We will greet both the end of winter, and hopefully, the end of lockdown.

We’ll be stepping into a once-in-a-lifetime spring in which everything will come alive. The flowers, as usual, will open. But so will the gymnasiums, the theatres, the music venues and maybe even the borders.

In the meantime, here’s to a winter of guilt-free hunkering. Another slice of cobbler, cobber?