Dear LPG,  

I know it all started five years ago now, and for most people it was over two years after that, but so much has happened since that it has almost slipped into the “ancient history” files of many people’s minds. Yet for some of us, it feels like yesterday and “forever ago” at the same time—and I fall firmly into that category. 

I am talking about Covid‑9. 

We all went through it, and there was no one who wasn’t scarred in some way. I suspect there are very few people anywhere in the world who didn’t lose someone they knew to it. I am one of many who can remember what it was like to suffer from it myself, but I think the lockdown aspect of those two years is what I will always remember most. 

Like many others, I thought that not going out  
for a month or two—something that turned into a year or two for many—would give me the perfect opportunity to sort through all the junk I had collected over the years. And yes, I did some of that. But even with my trusty television, laptop, and mobile phone, living alone took on a whole new meaning. 
And then, in the middle of all the chaos that was already unfolding, I was reminded that coronavirus was not the only medical crisis a person could face. I suffered a stroke right in the midst of it all. 

When it happened, it was really bad and involved a long hospital stay, made even more difficult by all the pandemic‑related issues the hospital was dealing with at the time. When I finally got home, I could do very little for myself. That was three years ago now, and although things have improved, progress has been slow. With the help of so many professionals, I continue to get better, but my personal lockdown still goes on. 
I never really liked living on my own, but I suppose you get used to it. When everything first began, like everyone else in the country who lives alone, I remember how hard it was to be stuck in the house day in and day out. Yet despite all the trauma, there was always the sense that the isolation wouldn’t last forever. But four years on, I am still effectively locked down because of my lack of mobility, and I do find that hard. 

The caring professionals who visit me do a fantastic job, but they are always in a hurry. I also have a younger sister who does so much for me. Even though she has her own family and works full‑time, she bulk‑cooks all my meals so I don’t have to rely on the professionally delivered ones, and she handles all my shopping and finances. But the reality is that all of this leaves her very little time to simply sit and chat. She even bought one of those CCTV cameras so she can check on me if anything goes wrong, and we end up talking through that more often than we do when she visits. 

I have one other friend who visits me every Sunday evening. She turns up every week, no matter how late, and is often half‑asleep by the time she gets to me. When she arrives, we do one of three things: talk about our weeks, watch our favourite television programme, or share a snack or two—unless she nods off. But it is so refreshing to have someone who visits simply for a chat. 

I asked her to write this down for me because that is still one of the things I struggle with.  Even though she thinks she does very little to help, I really look forward to her visits.  They give my week a sense of routine, and although she believes she doesn’t do much for me, I would be lost without that chat—even if the sound of the key in my front door often wakes me up.  Talking to other friends on the phone keeps me grounded, but that visit from someone who never forgets, even when she’s half‑asleep, means so much to someone who sees very few people who aren’t busy doing all the things that need to be done for a person like me. 

I wanted to remind anyone who can spare just a few minutes for a regular visit, share a cuppa, and have a chat with someone who cannot leave their home, just how important those visits are. Even if you spend half the time dozing, please don’t let the journey put you off. I don’t think I’m alone when I say that these moments are a vital bit of normality for someone like me. 


VN, Forest Hill