For a short time, I sort of… enjoyed lockdown? I was at my parents in Yorkshire, and so regressed from a 30-year-old man into a 15-year-old teen; surly, lazy, largely stress-free, oversleeping and over-Call of Duty-ing, and intermittently drinking warm cans of Stella Artois in fields with other friends who’d escaped London. Dinners were sorted by my good mother. The Sopranos reruns and tanks of red wine were sorted by my good father. 2005 was back, baby! But, in a sleepy provincial corner where people still get Really Dressed Up for a big Friday night, lockdown also allowed me to embrace my inner stoner, my inner LA crystal healer mom, my inner Sunday League coach and my inner cantankerous Florida retiree all at once, because I could walk around in a sweatsuit all day, everyday, unperturbed by cagouled, farmy locals who eyed me as if I were openly peddling drugs in the village square. Or jade eggs. Read more at Esquire.