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Pippa Bailey is the New Statesman’s chief sub-editor.
As I gaze at jar after jar of pickled vegetables, I become entranced by the romanticised life of American homesteaders.
Making something from nothing this lockdown has soothed everything, except my bank balance.
The last time I left the UK was for ten dusty days in Morocco in 2019; had I known what was to come, I would have relished even the stalls of sheep’s heads.
It’s silly, with moments of human goodness – and exactly what I need right now.
I always saw the appeal of living by myself. But during lockdown, it feels less like liberation and more like solitary confinement.
For the first time, the Oxford English Dictionary chose not to pick a Word of the Year – but Covid-19 has certainly left its mark on our language.
Transmissions takes in Factory Records, Unknown Pleasures, and Ian Curtis’s suicide, with interviews from Peter Hook, Stephen Morris, Bernard Sumner and others.
The sociologist Martin Doehlemann lays out four types of boredom, and I have experienced them all over lockdown.
The only industries that refer to their customers as “users”, viewers of the documentary are reminded, are tech and illegal drugs.
When I told my friends that I was visiting my in-laws for a month they winced, but it was four weeks of unexpected joy.