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Tim Dowling: I keep sighing. Is it because of my odd socks?

I sit down heavily on a kitchen chair, shoes in one hand and two socks from the dryer in the other. Although the socks are roughly the same shade of grey, I can tell as I put the second one on that they have markedly different thicknesses. Not for the first time since waking, I am left wondering why life must be so hard.

“You need to stop making that noise,” my wife says.

“What noise?” I say.

“That sighing,” she says. “Can’t you hear yourself?”

“Um, I wasn’t…”

“Do you come and find me specially, so you can do it in front of me?” she says.

I think: how to explain? Possibly don’t start with the socks of differing thickness.

“You’re doing it again!” she says.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Where are you going, anyway?” she says.

“Nowhere,” I say. “It’s just 5.30pm – time for shoes.”

“If you’re at a loose end, I could send you to the supermarket,” she says.

I ask myself what she could possibly mean by a loose end. It’s taken me an entire day to accomplish half an hour’s worth of work. My shoulders ache and my eyes itch. It’s teatime, and yet I am still in the final phase of getting dressed. And it’s only Monday. Which reminds me: I need to set aside some time to dread the arrival of Tuesday.

“Fine,” I say. “Do I need to make a list?”

“Milk,” she says. “Olive oil, apples. Wine, unless you were thinking of having a night off.”

“Get real,” I say, testing a pen from a jar on the back of an envelope.

“And the chocolate I like. Get five, in case.”

“They probably won’t have five of the chocolate you like,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “As soon as I like something, it becomes popular.”

“Bit self-centred,” I say. There is a long pause.

“I’m sorry?” my wife says.

“You know, assuming that your brand choices are moving the needle, trend-wise.”

“Would you like to take that back?” she says.

“Do any of these pens work?” I say.

“Self-centred, coming from you,” she says. “You could give lessons.”

“I find myself unable to continue this conversation,” I say. “I need to get going.” I stand and walk to the front door, right foot riding perceptibly higher in the shoe thanks to the thicker sock. As always, I don’t realise that I’ve forgotten to take a face mask with me until I’m through the front gate. I turn, walk back, open the front door and lean into the house, hoping there will be one hanging conveniently from the coat hooks. There isn’t.

“Oh my God!” my wife shouts. “I can hear you sighing from here!”

Traffic is terrible, but my mood lightens once I’m stuck in it. I remind myself that these periodic bouts of despair are a by-product of the pandemic – the result of dwelling on a bleak and uncertain future instead of a really quite-tolerable present. Life is like a trip to the supermarket on a Monday: you must try to enjoy the journey, because the destination sucks.

When I return an hour later, the oldest one is home from work, office pass still hanging from a lanyard round his neck. I don’t envy him his tube journey, but I am quite jealous of the lanyard.

Related: Tim Dowling: we’re at the airport. Do I care if they won’t let me fly?

“Here he is,” my wife says. “Depressed Dad.”

“What are you talking about? I feel amazing,” I say, heaving two bags on to the table.

“He seems fine,” the oldest one says.

“Don’t be fooled,” my wife says.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “I’m going to miss everyone wearing masks. I just assume they’re all smiling at me. Even the guy I nearly ran over.”

“This is not the chocolate I like,” my wife says, peering into a bag.

“Yes, it is,” I say. “I got five.”

“The top one is the kind I like,” she says. “The other four are different.”

“They were all stacked in the same rack together,” I say. “I can’t help that.”

“No,” she says, letting out a deep, long sigh.