We’ve clocked over a month of isolation and it feels like several more. When I recall those few days of having our floorboards ripped up and we were spending our evenings huddled around the telly in the small upstairs lounge room, listening to ScoMo and Brendan Murphy delivering us our several-times-daily Coronavirus updates, it feels like a Waltons episode. A faded replay from so long ago. Australia has escaped, relatively unscathed; state and federal governments are talking about what the other side might look like—a gradual return to school, and reopening of shops and services—but for pubs, gyms and restaurants, it could be some time yet. And I think we can forget about overseas travel until there’s a vaccine.
Speaking of travel, Matt and I would have been in Portugal right now for a wedding that has been postponed to a future date. Instead of enjoying the european coastline for my birthday, we spent Sunday at home, taking zoom calls with friends and family. Instead of wandering a Portuguese market, Matt and I wandered through the desolate Queen Vic markets to buy some oysters and truffled cheese. We celebrated with home-delivered cupcakes, sparkling rosé, and a dance around the living room. It wasn’t Portugal, but it will be memorable.