The UK is still amid lockdown, most of the population are nudging their cursor hourly from home, and over 20% of the employed are furloughed – with not even a 3 Watt LED energy-efficient bulb at the end of a rather infectious tunnel.  There’s no doubt we all have our coping mechanisms in amongst this doom; you used to remember slipping the cork back in after two glasses of Mâcon-Villages, now the reality is waking up spooning numerous empty bottles; Mary Berry has nothing on you, you’re churning out oil slicks of Baklava, éclairs pumped full of more cream than a power-bottom at a chemsex gather-ette, and your strudel dough rise isn’t a patch on your jail gut – being able to spy one’s unmentionables is much like the distant memory of ordering a pint.  But, as long as you’re managing.

Those that have been furloughed, apart from avoiding cutting off one’s left ear, now have the added pressure to achieve goals; re-grouting the bathroom; you’ve always boasted a broader imagination than JK Rowling…; and, mastering the language not so popular in Salisbury – for post isolation jollies in St Petersburg.  As well as most benefiting from access to cyber-space learning forums and copious couldn’t-flog-pre-armageddon free courses.  

You’ve been furloughed, there’s no Richard O’Brien insight – and no one cares whether or not you emerge from incarceration with a bloomin’ crystal.

It’s ok that you’re sinking G&Ts further south of the daily 5pm Covid-19 press conference each day.  By the look and sound of it, so are the SAGE crew – they haven’t a Scooby-Doo.  Dominic Raab was clearly off his tits last Tuesday – and who can blame him. 

It’s perfectly acceptable that your new morning routine begins at 12pm, your granola and yaks milk latte has now been replaced with a generous shot of Gaviscon Double Action and two paracetamol.

And it’s abso-bloody-lutely fine that you’re whiling away days contemplating life, reassessing all within your orbit, and challenging the point of TikTok, US presidential elections, and Gemma Collins.  Carte blanche.  Stare into space; reflect on all that’s betide since your lungs first inhaled oxygen; indulge your daydreams, epiphanies, and abstract Google searchers (within reason, cough) – you’ll be furred up, and feeling low, when back in the corporate confines come winter.