31 October, Los Angeles, California, USA

By Ruth McKee

In mid-September, the county supervisors announced that trick-or-treating would be banned this year. Within 24 hours, they had reversed course and said it was only “discouraged.” A city populated by so many migrants trained in the arts, I’ve often thought of Halloween as Los Angeles’s most significant holiday. The weeks leading up to the big day are typically filled with carnivals and festivals, parties and parades, giving children and adults the opportunity to dress up and express themselves. On the night itself, our neighbors pull out their projectors and fog machines, theming their houses to Halloween movies.

Within a few days of the county’s announcement and reversal, I started seeing ads for drive-thru Halloween events. I signed up for all of them: the one where you drove past displays of immaculately-carved jack-o-lanterns, the haunted barnyard, and the mall parking lot where they made candy rain down through the sunroof of your car. My neighbors and I also organized a drive-thru event for our kids on Friday night, with ten stops on the map, where neighbors wearing masks passed bags of candy into the windows of each other’s cars.

Halloween in LA has always given structure to a long, hot, season where the weather doesn’t turn to fall. This year it has felt more essential to me than ever, giving me something to focus on other than the election. Time has slowed to a crawl as the nation drags itself towards November 3rd. Virus cases are spiking all over the country, to levels we have never seen before. Since the current regime has given up on any sort of control measures as well as any economic relief, our only hope right now is for regime change.

Halloween itself is quiet. It’s a Saturday, so the kids wake up and play their online games while my husband and I do our morning yoga. The air is clear and we can see the mountains from our bedroom window. I joke with my husband that I will miss this view when we move to Canada next week. It is only sort of a joke. Unlike most of my friends here, I have the extra privilege of a second passport, a way to get my family across a border closed since March. My husband and I float the idea of leaving, back and forth, with each turn of the news cycle. We don’t want to go. We like our lives here, or liked them, anyway. Three more days. We hold on to the hope that we will like them again.

In the afternoon I take my daughter to an art class (in person, with masks), and to a drive-by birthday parade for one of her friends. The new Whole Foods is open, after four years of construction, and we talk about stopping and going inside. As we drive down Ventura Blvd, a caravan of shiny white pick-up trucks, waving flags and honking, encourages us to join the Trump Train. A chilling display, even for Halloween.

We take a walk in the early evening. None of us says it, but we’re all curious whether trick-or-treaters will be out, after all. There are a few families out with small children, a few houses that have set up candy chutes or treat pass-out tables, but it’s nothing like a normal year. We put our leftovers from the drive-thru out for any passers-by, turn off our lights and huddle inside.

Around nine, a party starts up in the rental house next door. Loud-music pumps through the neighborhood, and dozens of young people are dropped off in rideshares, or park their cars along the street. I call the non-emergency police number, to see if anything can be done, but no one is there to take my call. The party rages until two in the morning, when a police helicopter finally comes by, circling overhead and putting a spotlight on the revelers. They cut the music, the helicopter leaves, and for a few minutes it is quiet. Then the music starts again, a little softer, but still consistently beating into the night. I go to sleep and wait for the next stay at home order to come.

28 October, Berkeley, California, USA

The perfect late apple, with some old ash on it, which I’ll wash and eat. The old, long seasons of growth for plants are the best things right now. Our ballots were received by the county and are ready to be counted, but the anger at the Supreme Court appointment yesterday is so strong that it’s a hard day to feel hope.

Outside, even more people wear masks, maybe out of gratitude that it’s not smoky and it’s possible to be on the sidewalks and in the parks. So many small fires were impressively and quickly suppressed over the last two days. — Rachel Shipps

26 September, London, UK

Socially distanced theatre-going
By Ian Burns

It is not quite the best of times and the worst of times, but that phrase is uppermost in my mind this morning. London is bright, blue-skied, and crispy cold. Yet, the newspapers are full of foreboding and warning. There is plenty to read about a second COVID wave. This suggestion bothers me. In my mind, we are still in the initial wave and it is clear that as a nation, we have dealt with it badly.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer, whose stock is rising as the Prime Minister’s plummets, has told the House of Commons that “we must learn to live with it, and live without fear”. According to the Financial Times, Conservative MPs “particularly welcomed” that message. Well, it seems to me that everyone is ‘living with it’ and that most of the fears come from the government’s own messaging.

Fear is generated by the unknown and by uncertainty about what is to come. It is why it is a little scary entering an empty house, or moving into a dark tunnel. This government has waxed and waned with its approach to restrictions which gives people an uncomfortable sense that now things are being tightened again.  That clearly does not suit a Brexit-focused leadership that needs the economy to be braced for that particular challenge ahead.  It seems that perhaps the government knows something we do not. And it is not good!

Nonetheless, today feels properly autumnal, and welcome, although the shirt-sleeved weather that persisted through last weekend and into this week has been much appreciated. Strange distortions of the calendar mean that the county cricket season is about to start its final day at Lord’s and will be greeted by near-perfect conditions.

The BBC tells us that this weekend more than a quarter of the UK’s population is to be placed under stricter rules than the general advice. Households are being banned from meeting in one another’s homes and gardens. Northern cities and towns are particularly affected, but London has been moved up the list of places under review. What seems to be a poorly thought out ‘curfew’ plan to get people to leave pubs and restaurants by 10pm is simply generating crowds at bus stops and tube entrances, and a population inclined to raid the ‘off-trade’ supermarket provisions to party on, now that the ‘on-trade’ licensed premises are shutting early. Parks, car parks, school playgrounds and homes are seeing impromptu parties. Surely not what is intended. We understand our R rate – reproduction ratio COVID infection – is between 1.2 and 1.5. Ministers seem to want to blame the public, forgetting that contempt for complying with regulations started with the Prime Minister’s own ‘Special Advisor’ and his Durham foray in the spring.

Universities seem to be a new and material concern. Virus break outs in universities like Glasgow are leading to strict curbs on students, many of whom have just arrived. This is their first university experience and they are being told not to attend pubs, not to socialise, and to stay in their university accommodation with people they have yet to get to know and to study online. Fees are unchanged. This looks unsustainable.

Last academic year, the second of my children completed his university journey. I have just the one left in university now and she is graduating this year. That means that she has just passed the age of 21. It should have been a celebration. Our family were intending to meet near her home in Manchester and to celebrate hard with her and her friends. The ‘rule of six’ ended that, but it would probably have been difficult anyway to enjoy celebrating in the uninhibited way 21sts should be acknowledged. If the virus keeps society tied and constrained, she may not get to celebrate her graduation either. We did at least manage a dinner together and a lovely morning walk, brunch and reminisce before she jumped back on a train from Euston this week.

I wonder what her student cohort makes of our leadership. She is a Politics student and allows me access to Gen Z opinion forming. Her generation will have it tough. There is plenty of evidence that we are borrowing from them to fund our current responses, even when we were already loading millennials and Zers with large student debts and an inaccessible property market. How do they feel when they look at my generation, which seemed to have more access to opportunity and more freedoms in the late ‘70’s and through the ‘80’s?

However ominous things may seem, we are ‘living with it’ and trying to normalise. I have seen some theatre (thank you, The Bridge) and visited a cinema, where my son and I had the place to ourselves to see ‘Tenet’. And I was able to eat out to celebrate with my daughter. I am living without fear, and I think that is more typical of the people I know than living fearfully. However, we are living in frustration – at inconsistent advice, poorly conveyed interpretations of ‘the science’, and imagining what a no-vaccine, COVID UK and world will mean to our ambitions for all of our tomorrows.

18 September, Jodhpur, Rajasthan, India

By Preeta Kuhad Balia

It is becoming harder to grapple with my days. Like a skein of thread, my days reel free, unspooling but in a continuum of unrelenting sameness. I woke up just before seven in the morning to the realisation that this was a school day for my children. School lessons begin at 8 am on their tablets and laptops. My sons sit alongside each other on a long rectangular desk, the study room being an extension of the dining room, with foldable glass and wood partitioning the two spaces. As I arrange the table for breakfast, they mime their needs to me –

‘Your phone- internet is bad’(pleadingly)

or

‘Fetch my text book lying upstairs’ (assertively),

or

‘A glass of water’ (expectantly)

Now that I don’t pack lunch boxes any more, they are mostly served their breakfast on their work desk and I run back and forth to remind them of their unfinished fruit, skinned almonds.

The monsoon may not have bid a final goodbye to Jodhpur.  The air is tensed, laden with suspended moisture alien to our city and foreign in its rapture.   It appears as beads of sweat on the upper lip and brow without any physical exertion expended. The white sun scorches everything to health– from mattresses to jars of pickles, platters of condiments, pulses and grains, laundry. All of us are sunned to rejuvenate and recalibrate.  But the sun has lately been sitting morosely unbright, trumped by hulking grey monsoon clouds. One has to be certain of what ones leaves on the terrace to dry out. My sister in law left freshly harvested cumin soaked in lemon juice in her backyard when the sun seemed alert. Before she could retrieve the bowl, it had swallowed rain water, leading the concoction to spoil. This is the time of the year when domestic staff from nearby villages, bring gifts of fenugreek, cumin and a host of desert vegetables.

The virus has now knocked closer home – family friends and relatives have succumbed to it. No more do I receive complaints from relatives for not visiting, no friends gather up for coffee. Since the state government began the process of Unlock on August 29th – heralding Unlock 4.0 – we saw a rush of social interactions and then a sudden drop as the number of corona positives grew ferocious.

 I am to go to the office to dispose of some old files but I defer it as far into the future as I can. Everyone is cautious and, as gregarious as Jodhpur folks are, for now their instincts have been subdued. The daily count of the newly infected is now one and a half times that of August, though people are healing as well. It’s the ninth month of the year but it feels like something has stunted the flow of things and nothing appears to grow and bear fruit.

My younger son fell off his bicycle last evening, bruising himself quite seriously in several places. The doctor instructs us over the phone to get him a booster tetanus shot within 24 hours. My mother in law spends more than an hour trying to hunt down a nurse who is not attached to any hospital and willing to come home to administer the shot. Small misadventures now cost us a lot more time and money than in the past. I call up my parents in Delhi and my father can’t fathom how irresponsible we could be to allow the children to cycle on city roads. He fumes that we are displaying misplaced bravado in permitting our sons this access. I try reason with Papa: the boys have been cooped up at home, they haven’t seen any friends in weeks and their daily tennis lessons were stopped so long ago. How can young adolescents be deprived freedoms for such extended periods? While my father stings me with unflinching remonstrance on one side of the phone, my husband collates his ammunition of defences on the other –

‘Do you know more people die of suicides everyday than motor accidents?’

‘Can you ever calculate the cost of trapping children in prolonged fear?’

‘People die sitting on their own couches, how can you stop living?’

While the significant men of my life thrust and parry in verbal outrage, I nod to both, deferring to their contrary views, empathising with both at once. There’s little else to do when I know it’s not just my son who lost his balance on his bicycle, it’s all of us who seem to have lost our footing in the face of this pandemic.

29 August, Los Angeles, California, USA

By Ruth McKee

After weeks of oppressive summer heat and fires, the morning is overcast and cool. The main drag through my neighborhood is strangely quiet this morning, as I walk my dog. The homeless men who had been increasing in numbers over the last few weeks have all, somehow, gone missing. I worry that they’ve been rounded up.

After some at-home yoga with my husband I throw my bike in the back of the car and head out to explore another one of LA’s bike paths. This has become my Saturday routine, and I’m grateful to live in such an outdoor-facing city. For all the complaints people have about LA’s sprawl, the expanse of the city includes great swaths of nature. There is much about this set-up to appreciate during Covid-times.

Today I drive to Culver City and take the Ballona Creek path to Marina del Rey. The creek itself is a paved canal, much like those you see all over the city, engineered to keep rainwater flowing to the ocean and ensure the city never floods. The path is relatively empty, and the waterfowl still recognize the creek, somehow, as natural, so it is a beautiful ride, in its own way. There is a strong headwind as I head towards the ocean.

It’s been a week: historic wildfires, a hurricane, and another Black man gunned down by the police – all set to the backdrop of a dictator’s pageant on TV. In my own life, things have gotten harder too, albeit incrementally. After a summer of no rules, my kids are grumpily back to online school, adjusting to new teachers and schedules. At work, we’re struggling in remote formation, and everyone is on edge. Four of my recent new hires gave notice this week. And then, of course, there is the election, coming closer every day, and my life tilting in the balance along with the fate of an entire nation.

As I approach the coast, the creek path merges with the beach path and is suddenly more crowded, filled with life. Angelenos are out on jet-skis and sailboats, skateboards and bikes, obediently wearing their masks even though virus numbers have gotten much better over the last few weeks. As a whole, it seems we learned our lesson in July, and know that the only way we’ll ever get back inside schools, gyms, offices or theatres is to cover our faces. For today, we comply, and are grateful that the heat has broken and it is once again beautiful outside.

I stop at the end of the marina and drink some water before turning around. The wind behind me, it’s smooth sailing back to my car.

19 August, Berkeley, California, USA

Smoke and ash drift in, cloudy, from fires in the north and south, that stem from lightning strikes in the dry countryside. This morning the light is yellow, I close the windows, and look for signs in the Convention roll call. I’m glad to hear Bernie Sanders’ vote counts and to hear the many languages spoken by the delegates — Rachel Shipps.

17 August, Veralugama, Sri Lanka

By Sunila Galappatti

We’ve run away to the forest again.  Months before the first case of the new coronavirus surfaced in Wu Han, we took over the management of a friend’s house, just outside a strip of reserve forest.  When we could, we did weeks of small repairs around the house, preparing it to rent to travellers – it sits just an hour away from the airport, a perfect first or last stop on a holiday, we thought.  It was here, in March, that we were finishing the last repairs when we heard of the first case of local Covid-19 transmission in Sri Lanka.  We shopped for vegetables and essentials on the way home, deciding it was time to lock down (a laughably meagre shop for the two full months of strict lockdown enforced a week later).

 Needless to say, we cannot now rent out the house as planned, given the airport is closed and we are concerned not to introduce any risk to the village.  So, for now, we have connected the house to the internet so we can work in it, and we’re using it ourselves.  It takes us away from the tension of how one does and doesn’t unlock in a city, allows our son to play outdoors all day long and we hope will be a place where we spend less money.  We both work freelance: as assignments finish, new ones don’t now arrive and three streams of our income – dependent on how much is cricket is played and there being visitors to Sri Lanka – have dried up altogether.

 The night before we packed to come here – for three to six weeks, the longest period yet – I made two moves towards a new state of life.  I took the leather handbag I haven’t used since March and refilled it.  A strange time to do it, en route to a forest, but I had finally to admit to myself that the temporary cloth bag I was using, the one I usually take to protests, now with only my keys, wallet, mask and sanitiser in it, was no longer adequate to my reality.  It looked limp and needed a wash. 

The other thing I did was to use one of the small containers of parboiled beans and carrots, I’d frozen back in March along with others of curried okra, when we thought we were running out of vegetables, and before produce trucks had begun to supply our neighbourhoods under police curfew.  We decided then that we’d freeze small containers of what we had left so that each would be just enough to prolong the presence of vegetables in the diet of the toddler, if we ran out altogether.  We never needed them but we never used them either – so to defrost one now felt like I was saying that time had passed.  The truth is we never lacked for what we expected most immediately to lack – in our own lives the costs of this pandemic have so far been more to our collective than personal reality, and also to our states of mind.

Almost two weeks ago already, we went to the polls. When Parliament was dissolved at the time of Sri Lanka’s first Covid encounter and elections scheduled for June, we were angry – how could it be safe to hold elections?  Then as we proceeded under executive and military rule, with no legislature to hold them accountable, we began to feel that elections were essential.  Besides one couldn’t really declare it unsafe – a combination of surveillance, iron control and a working public health system had apparently kept us extraordinarily safe from the spread of Covid-19, as compared to almost anyone in the world.  Our fears began to deepen in different ways; they were not primarily fears of illness.

We planned to be early to the polling station – our rationale was to decrease our chances of having to go into quarantine if an elector in the same ward was later discovered to have voted while Covid-positive.  We are also keen voters and, in this case, perhaps the more so for knowing our vote would not really touch the overall result. Instead we drew comfort from conviction and the solidarity of voting as an extended family bloc.  It is usually a habit to take our son Kavan to the ‘voting place’ with us, we’ve done so at every previous election in his life. This time, for Covid reasons, we did not.  We checked with my brother – he wasn’t taking Kavan’s cousins either.  Instead, we joined my parents who were in the queue just ahead of us, all of us masked and clutching our own pens.  Indeed Covid-protocols at the polling station seemed exemplary, huge bottles of sanitiser and taps at entrance and exit, officials behind screens, clear directions of how to dispose of ones polling card oneself etc.  Where previously an election officer clutched the little finger of ones left hand, to paint the nail in purple indelible ink – a long held practice in South Asia against voter fraud – now she did it with a brush and bottle, never touching.

We waved to neighbours as we exited and to the policeman who had paid my parents a daily visit during and long after their quarantine in March, after they’d returned to Sri Lanka on the last flight from Bangladesh before our airport closed.  Then, still rueful we hadn’t taken the children with us this time, we went home and asked if they’d like us to drive them back by the ‘voting place’ so they could see it that way, at least.  Our son and our youngest niece said they would.  So we returned there in time to see my brother emerge from the polling station, in turn. 

Kusal and I had made a plan to work after voting – this time results would not be counted overnight but the next day (again to simplify the Covid-protocols) so we decided we should not sit around and anxiously waste the day (as we felt we had done the two previous).  But in fact the day went rather differently.   All the voters in our larger family are registered to the house my grandparents built, so there we gathered for breakfast and drifted into a long lunch.  It had all the suspension of a Christmas day, but a simpler joy; a far greater need to enjoy the suspension while it lasted.

15 August, Dehiwela, Sri Lanka

By Adilah Ismail

It’s been five months now but I still don’t know how to navigate life. Today, I step out for a walk with friends after being cloistered at home for a few days, restless and a little unwell. There’s an unusually large crowd gathered at the park at 6.30 am for a running event.

We pick up groceries on our way back. I’ve always enjoyed grocery shopping and now there’s a renewed pleasure in it. Today, we are the first customers at a freshly stocked supermarket. The first item in my basket is a fistful of fresh coriander leaves; garnishing for curries, a chutney for the week, salad staple. 

We’ve been taking precautions even as we go out for work, for errands, to meet people, to vote. Our family hasn’t mustered up the resolve to go out of Colombo yet. Certain members of the family would be considered high-risk for the virus and this knowledge hovers over everything we do. How do you maintain the right balance between being cautious and continuing to live your life in a pandemic? 

In many ways, it feels as though COVID-19 has tuned up the muffled ambient uncertainty, which has always hummed in the background of our lives, into a high pitched frequency we can’t brush aside. The last time I fully felt the weight of this was during my father’s illness a few years ago, when his life hung in the balance. There is that feeling of disorientation when your constants are yanked away and you are forced to reroute priorities, pause and then learn how to yield to the realization that perhaps, perhaps we were never really in control in the first place. 

When I get home, I shower and head to the kitchen to do some food prep for the next week. The coriander leaves are so fresh, it seems a pity to have them wilt even for a day in the fridge. I check Facebook and Facebook memories informs me that I had shared a quote on this day last year: ‘there are years that ask questions and years that answer’.

I hew the coriander stalks and leaves into uneven clumps and add them to the grinder. I know what kind of year this is.

13 August, London, UK

By Ian Burns

It feels odd writing to the Lockdown Journal when we feel so much less locked down, but a few treats over the past couple of weeks made me think about what London feels like now. We are coming to the end, we are told, of the heat-wave. Temperatures have been in the thirties for a few days and the atmosphere is humid. There is nothing ‘new normal’ about these weather conditions, but what I have been thinking about is how London has adopted a ‘post lockdown’ modus operandi.

A fellow university student, with me at Birkbeck, got her results and was lamenting that she will not have a graduation ceremony. Given she achieved a First, I felt for her. But completing her degree seemed to be very much a ‘post-virus thing’, not the ‘pre-virus thing’ she started. Neither she, nor I, are naïve enough to think we are definitely ‘post-virus’, but we note how the city is changing.

The country has ‘local lockdowns’, and has today been reminded that things are anything but normal nationally, by the attempt to grade A-level students for the exams that they were not able to sit. Young people’s futures are being disrupted by an algorithm, and a Big Brother approach, presuming favouritism and bias in the judgment of the teachers that actually taught these students. Almost 40% of results were downgraded from teacher predictions. The hapless Education Secretary has suggested that the government wants to avoid youngsters getting recruited for jobs for which they may not be qualified and for which they will not be able to develop the necessary ability. Yes, this country is the home of irony.

We have just revealed a shocking second quarter economic contraction, which tells us about the depth of this recession. What we cannot know is what its duration is going to be, but it will be complicated by Brexit at the end of this year. The prevalence and progress of the coronavirus will be fundamental to its duration, so it is unhelpful that the government is attempting to reclassify our death statistics, to paint itself in a better light. This dishonesty, allied to a diversionary media campaign focused on the plight of some luckless migrants putting their lives at risk in the English Channel, gives little confidence in our leadership. How many of today’s A-level school leavers will be voting Conservative in the next election?

The revival of the economy depends on activity and on both people and cash moving around the economy. And that is what I have noted feels like ‘post-lockdown London’. The highlight of my day and of the past few weeks was the opportunity this morning to book some theatre tickets. I shall be going next month to The Bridge Theatre where the seating capacity has been adapted for the audience to safely enjoy a performance and not to put anyone’s health at risk. Just seeing some theatre would be great but the thought that I shall see one of my all–time favourites, Kristen Scott Thomas, has made my joy all the greater.

This is not the first of my new experiences in recent days. Tonight, I am joining my daughter and her boyfriend at a wine bar near Elephant & Castle. We have a pre-booked time slot, and have a few criteria we need to meet, but this ‘normality’ will be very welcome. The proprietor of the bar business personally delivered a case of wines to me in early lockdown, as he strove to keep his business alive. I am delighted to be spending some money with him now — I suspect his business is under acute pressure.

Last night, I walked from my Wapping home to Primrose Hill to meet a friend. We walked to the hilltop to view London. In its heat haze appearance, and with many people in the park, things felt ‘normal’. If one could not hear London’s beating heart, it was obvious that it was beating. We walked back towards Camden and decided to chance an open door at a small bistro-restaurant. Could we have a table for two? To my surprise, we could, if we could return the table after 75 minutes.

Not only did we have a lovely meal and a bottle of an amazing English rose wine, but the wine was subsidised by the Chancellor’s scheme to revive the hospitality industry. Temped as I am to applaud his scheme and imagination, I am still troubled by relatively wealthy consumers, like me, having our meals subsidised, when food bank demand is hitting new peaks and the economy has shrunk by a fifth. I cannot deny, though, that I enjoyed how ‘normal’ the evening felt.

One conversation was about holidays and international travel. My friend’s ex-husband had been working overseas until recently, and her business takes her to the Far East and to North America. We both noted the number of our friends who had managed to get away for an overseas holiday this month. I have friends returning from Spain, Poland, Lithuania and from France. The rhythm of life has clearly been affected, but less so general lifestyles.

In the past fortnight, businesses like gyms have been able to reopen. I was able to meet my yoga teacher for the first 1:1 session since the early spring. Her normal studio is deemed too small to meet HSE (Health and Safely Executive) criteria so we now have a better space to work in, with a few interruptions for cleaning mats and surfaces. The gym itself, which is large and spread over three floors, is clearly under tremendous cash pressure. Although memberships, which were suspended, are now operating again, helping cash flow, I suspect that is more than absorbed by cleaning costs. There were more cleaning staff than clients present at each of my two visits.

The other ‘new normal’ is the routine of supermarket shopping. I had become used to having to queue to enter. This was during the period before mandatory mask-wearing. Now, everyone is politely masked up, but the queues are a distant memory. I have become quickly used to the change in circumstance – I think I would probably be irritated now if I could not just stroll in at my convenience. In a few months’ time, perhaps I will feel the same about a Primrose Hill restaurant, rather than being joyfully surprised that we could eat there without having booked. Here’s to the new normality in the autumn. 

3 August, Worcestershire, UK

By Rachel Smyth

Months down the line, the pandemic continues to bite. In the UK, it feels like it nibbled at us for weeks in the early stages then swallowed greedy mouthfuls as it took hold. Not fully content, it is now coming back for seconds.

Today, we found out that my husband is highly likely to lose his job. After four months of being furloughed, and a very real sense of uncertainty hanging over us, his company has decided they have no option but to reduce their workforce.

My husband’s post is one of those affected. He has been the sole earner for our family since our daughter was born just over three years ago. If he is unsuccessful in securing one of the remaining posts with his current company and is subsequently unable to find another job, then I may have to return to work earlier than we planned.

The fact this may become a reality makes my heart and mind race. I will lose another two years of looking after our daughter full-time. While being a stay-at-home Mum has without a doubt been my toughest “job” to date (the hours are shocking, the pay and breaks are non-existent and my boss is very demanding), it has also been the most rewarding thing I have ever done. If it comes to an end sooner than expected, I will be heartbroken.

I try to reassure my husband that we will be okay, that we have options if the worst happens and neither of us can get jobs. He feels the pressure of providing financially for our family. In turn, I feel the pressure of possibly no longer being able to provide our daughter with the same time, care and attention that she is so used to. Meanwhile, she has no idea of the uncertainty swirling around her. Her only concern is whether she can “…please have one more bounce on the trampoline…” before she has to go inside and get ready for bed.