Cabin fever... or lockdown fever?

By John Lewis

May 7, 2020

The trouble with staying at home too much is that the world starts fraying at the edges.

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Little things like wearing the same shirt for a week suddenly become routine.

Or walking around in socks with holes.

Or talking to your dog more than your wife.

Or growing a scraggly beard and not caring any more.

Because I am an essential worker (believe me, investigative scribes who cheer people up do a demanding and thankless job) I do get to go out and talk to people occasionally.

And I have noticed some very troubling things that are playing out along gender lines.

For instance, this week I have met three blokes who used to be smart, snappy and clean-shaven.

They used to wear a shirt and tie, or at the very least a casual open neck Ralph Lauren or Fred Perry in duck-egg blue with beige ankle-freeze Chinos over soft brown Rockport boaters.

Now they're wearing trackie daks and baked-bean stained baseball shirts, don't-care-beards, and so-what-thongs.

I met a Greater Shepparton City councillor this week who looked like he'd slept under his horse. Three-week jailbreak growth, shapeless hoodie, Boris hair and lace-less Nikes.

Very relaxed indeed.

On the other hand, the ladies I have met still look sharp.

Perhaps not top-notch business attire, but there's definite attempts at colour matches.

There is a nod to the figure-hug, hair arrangement and colour, and even a thin splash of lippy.

Perhaps because I am an observant, literary sort of emotionally intelligent poetic chap I notice these things. Or maybe I've been in lockdown too long.

Anyway, c'mon fellas - lockdown is not an excuse to let your standards slip.

Think Harry Styles, Ryan Gosling, George Clooney, Daniel Craig - what would they be wearing in lockdown?

Forget the last one - bow tie and dress shirt is just ridiculous.

Unless the bow tie is left rakishly undone - then it's kind of lockdown.

But lockdown fever is not all about fashion.

I keep seeing a crack in the plaster of the loungeroom wall that never used to bother me. Now it looks like a doorway to Middle Earth.

There's a gap opening up between the floor and the skirting board where the piano sits.

That's where all the bad Beatles and Beethoven goes. Never noticed that before.

The whole house is shifting south and we could be living on the side of the Hume Hwy after the next storm.

Then there's the tired yellow ceiling paint. It used to look so fresh and sun-filled. Now it looks like custard.

Lockdown plays tricks with your eyes, with your memory, your priorities.

But who knows what happens on the other side?