The police tell me three different dates on which I might leave quarantine, though none are relayed with any confidence.

In the end, my departure happens earlier than any of the mooted days.

Hotel reception call:
Hello miss, what time are you checking out on Sunday?
Oh. I didn’t know I was leaving on Sunday.
Yes. Sunday.
But that’s earlier than… that’s not fourteen days, is it?
It’s thirteen nights. In hotels, that’s fourteen days.

I book a flight.

Before I get the train to the airport I walk down the quay to the opera house. I drag my suitcase. I breathe the air. I feel the sun on my face. I sit on a bench and stare at the sails in the burning blue.

At the airport at 11am the women next to me are drinking large white wines and I think seriously about joining them.

The flight is turbulent. Queasy-making.

Then I’m home.

The flat looks the same as I remember it. And different. A bottle of sparkling waits in the fridge. The plants welcome my return.

The memory foam mattress has forgotten me. But the sofa remembers.

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^{A version of this post was sent by email on the 26th July 2020 as part of Internet Care Package – a weekly memoir project in the form of a newsletter. It also includes links to the best things I’ve found on the internet each week and occasional updates on my theatremaking. This blog is a select archive of those emails. Subscribe to get them right in your inbox.}

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