Unfinished business. How many weeks is it now? I’ve lost track. Those first few weeks of lockdown messed with my emotions. I watched a lot of news – a mistake, I now know, but with so much unfolding, I was trying to make sense of it all. It got me down. I kept thinking, who do I believe? Who was telling the truth? I began to think about my own mortality. I’m officially medium to high risk, as I am in my early sixties and BAME, but I don’t have an underlying health issue. If I was going to catch Covid 19, and get taken to hospital, never to return, then this was the time to confront some unfinished business from my past.

My childhood always felt negative. I had a sense of shame which hung over my head like a dark cloud. I needed to get away from the place I once called home. But was this real or imagined? I thought that re-connecting with my home town now, might unravel something.

I went on the internet, to search for old pictures of the town I grew up in, and this drew me to a Facebook group. I had left the town forty years ago, though the images I saw of past and present landmarks did seem vaguely familiar. But I was particularly struck by the group’s comments. They seemed quaint, sentimental and mundane. It was all, “I was there!” and “Happy days!” But my thoughts had been, “This place is a dump!” and “I can’t live here any longer, I f**king hate you all!”

For a moment, I was transported back in time. Memories revealed themselves – and yet I felt better about myself. Maybe this was a step in the right direction. I could start to relax, knowing my demons might just be laid to rest, before I am.