“Just climb over the wall,” a dog-walker urges with a conspiratorial wink. “No one will catch you.”
I’m standing outside the local community garden in heavy rain, having tracked down Buddy, my daughter’s favourite soft toy – a now very grubby monkey, who goes with her everywhere.
Before you ask, we didn’t have the foresight to buy a substitute for emergencies like this.
So, after discovering his absence at bedtime, there was only one thing for it. I’d dashed out impulsively to retrace the route Mr R had taken on their afternoon stroll.
A hopeless quest, you might think but, unbelievably, I’d found the tatty primate, lying on a bench – sodden – abandoned in an earlier moment of distraction. Despair had followed jubilation, though, as I’d realised the gate to the garden was locked.
I’ll be honest: I’d initially considered nipping in quickly as the wall isn’t high. But the Miss Goody-Two-Shoes in me hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.
Instead, I’d sent a polite message to the Facebook group listed on a faded, laminated sheet pinned to the entrance.
“I’ve contacted the people who manage the grounds,” I assure the helpful passerby. “I’m sure someone will come along to let me in.”
Half an hour later, gone 8pm on a Sunday night, it’s clear this is definitely wishful thinking.
Consequently – guiltily casting a glance in both directions, my heart racing – I haul myself up, swivel my legs round and sprint down the muddy path, scooping Buddy up triumphantly.
It’s not until I’m clambering back out that I spot the lens of a security camera glaring at me, triggering a performance worthy of a silent movie star, as I exuberantly brandish the toy skywards, a desperate “I promise I’m usually a law abiding citizen” smile stretched across my flushed face.
I thought I was who would stand up and be counted when it mattered
The humiliation is worth it to witness Maya’s joy the next morning at being reunited with her newly-washed pal. And, as you may have guessed, the police haven’t come knocking – not yet, anyway.
Upon arrival, ushers segregated the audience based on race, insisting the two of us sit separately. To my eternal shame, I trotted obediently into the ‘whites only’ section.”
But, if the truth be told, I’m disappointed in myself, notwithstanding my newfound “superhero” status at home. For this dilly-dallying reluctant rebel of a mummy nearly returned empty-handed, hampered by her entrenched tendency to follow the rules at all costs – regardless of what’s at stake.
It’s a quirk that has regularly got the better of me for as long as I can remember, born out of a childish fear of doing something wrong and ending up in trouble.
There’s no noble motivation here. It’s as simple and pathetic as being scared I’ll be told off, or wanting other people – often people I don’t know and probably won’t ever see again – to think well of me.
Meanwhile, those closest to me risk losing out, or worse, getting hurt.
Let me offer another, more serious, example. When Mr R – who is of Pakistani heritage – and I were first dating, we went to see Sizwe Banzi Is Dead, a play set in apartheid era South Africa, at the Young Vic in London.
Upon arrival, ushers segregated the audience based on race, insisting the two of us sit separately. To my eternal shame, I trotted obediently into the “whites only” section and we watched the show with a rope barrier between us.
Yes, I was caught off guard, but that’s what made it a true test.
I’d always imagined I’d be someone who would stand up and be counted when it mattered. My meekness on that occasion confirmed otherwise.
Time to reset – and readjust to a life without rules
Of course, throughout the Covid-19 pandemic, sticking to the rules has saved lives, and I’m proud of how my family has done the right thing – even if some of those in power may not have.
As we move towards a – hopefully – permanent lifting of restrictions, however, and begin living with coronavirus, I’m anxious I might struggle to readjust to life without the rules.
I can’t afford to sit back passively. To pinch a line from my go-to romcom, The Holiday, the person ‘supposed to be the leading lady’ of my own life is me.”
After being micromanaged for two years, the thought of having to think independently, make reasoned judgements and come to my own conclusions seems surprisingly daunting.
We don’t have a choice, though. Covid has already taken so much from us, and I must rise to this challenge – we must rise to this challenge – if our society is to heal.
As we start to look to a post-pandemic world, I’m determined to grab this reset moment, this opportunity for a fresh start with both hands.
I can’t afford to sit back passively. To pinch a line from my go-to romcom, The Holiday, the person “supposed to be the leading lady” of my own life is me.
It’s unlikely to be plain sailing. But, as another leading lady, actress Sophia Loren, put it: “Mistakes are part of the dues one pays for a full life.”
If I mess up along the way, if it means having to learn to bend the rules sometimes, then so be it.
Bring on that full life.
Lindsay Razaq is a journalist and former P&J Westminster political correspondent who now combines freelance writing with being a mum.
