Chapter eighteen
So, there we were. The world and Jersey. Once more in a form of lockdown, with Covid-rates soaring and people clamouring for ‘something to be done’.
We might as well fast forward from the end of summer to the end of the year. It all went in a blur anyway. There were lunches. And dinner parties. And people back in offices. And people going to the gym. And to the UK, where days became a scramble of Red and Amber with nights, not exactly in white satin but in adjacent Green Zone hotels. And on holiday. And to the hairdressers. To the beauty salon because nails. To schools. To nurseries. To shops.
The only place people in Jersey didn’t go was Guernsey. Sometimes on a clear day when you stand on the beach at St Ouen you can make out the buildings of St Peter Port. So close yet so far away. Centuries of connections severed by a small spiky molecule.
They say you reap what you sow. And as we sowed the seeds of infection everywhere in the Island, we reaped the results with Covid back in care homes, sick people in hospitals, and everyone wondering, what next?
It’s nice to have someone else to blame – the tourists with their Covid cash, the young people, the sociable people, the people who went to pubs to drink cheap beer the night before hospitality shut down, the drunk who rampaged through A&E spitting at staff. We’re all guilty. And we’re all innocent. We’re all hypocrites in some way, denigrating others for their transgressions, patting ourselves on the back for ‘being good’ before we commit our own.
We have had it so easy in the Channel Islands. Healthcare professionals do not see a relentless line of ambulances. The roads are not a parade of hearses. And yet we all moan about what we can’t do.
As the months go by, I fluctuate between feelings of love and hate for those around me. I rage inwardly and outwardly at the conspiracy theorists who try to film the insides of UK hospitals because they don’t believe they are full; the Q-Anon mob and Trump supporters who can’t believe ‘their’ president lost the election; and the idiot I’m married to who leaves the loo seat up and drips balsamic dressing all over the Corian worktop.
Thankfully, I generally love the last one more than I hate the rest. Last night I walked into the kitchen and found T tucking the dogs into their bed with a blanket, ‘because it was so frosty out’. Aww, sweet.
Unfortunately, it’s now clear T will be made redundant as there’s no scope flying will pick up soon so it really will be a new year, new life for us … well when we’ve managed to process everything. Looking for a job in an industry that is on its knees, in a world where your main talent is no longer required is going to be a challenge.
But it’s not all bad news. I got a new client this week who wants me to turn Maison Average, into Maison Stunning. The basics are all fine, so we won’t get tangled up with building work although working out what they really want might be a challenge.
You know those psychometric tests HR departments do when someone applies for a job, where they try to work out whether a candidate will fit in? Well, I do something similar for clients. It’s a lot friendlier, and usually involves nicer coffee, but essentially when I’m showing you pictures of styles and asking whether you like or dislike them, I’m not just trying to find out what you like, but how consistent you are about liking or disliking something.
According to my test my new client likes everything in such a consistent way they don’t appear to have any preferences. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get something pinned down before we end up with Baroque Rococo English Country Minimalism. Or else just making everything white.
Before Covid, provided you created enough storage space Minimalism was an easy call. It worked well for new developments, as it made everything look bigger, and if someone felt it wasn’t ‘homely’ enough later, all they had to do was add stuff.
Now people need sofas they can sit on while eating a chocolate bar and watching TV, dining tables that don’t scratch when you drop a plug on them, and beds that don’t make you depressed thinking of hotels you can’t visit every time you sleep in them.
Binge watching Bridgerton may also have its consequences. As well as the obvious hankering for wisteria, I’m developing a notion for 18th century ‘salon’ style. It is manifesting into a craving for de Gournay’s chinoiserie wallpaper. In yellow. It’s so incredible, extravagant, and delectable I would paper myself in it if I were a wall. Maybe the new client could like that too. Interior design can’t do much for the weather, but it can give you Jersey’s sunniest loo.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
