The beginning of 2020 was supposed to mark a new chapter for Commercial Operations Director Rosie Falconer, and, in many ways, it did – just not in the way she (or any of us) anticipated. Here she shares her story of negotiating a new flat, annoying the neighbours and the emotional complexities of life in lockdown – plus why, in all of that, the refuge of home is what’s getting her through.

Rosie Falconer: My mantra during 2019 was “this too shall pass”.

From a personal perspective, it was a year of cataclysmic upheaval, change and uncertainty. Five house moves, three failed house sales, an operation and an impending divorce later, I finally moved into a new flat in February this year and heaved a gigantic sigh of relief. 2020 was here and everything was going to be better, right?

There was no kitchen. I had no furniture. I had to step over the joists in the floor to make a cup of tea. Locating my socks felt akin to masterminding a full-scale military operation. My downstairs neighbours informed me that I am as dainty as an obese tap-dancing elephant and that they sorely missed my more light-footed predecessors (and their carpet). But the flat was mine and it represented hope and stability for the first time in 12 months. I felt safe and calm. I could sleep! I was ready to retire my mantra and embark on a new adage. Then a new word entered our lexicon, just like ‘Brexit’, which had never been uttered before and now rings permanently in our ears. ‘Coronavirus’ and its wake has decimated social norms and forced us all into new realities we couldn’t have fathomed a few months ago.

Whether you are living with your family, partner, flatmates or alone, adapting to this new reality is tough. As a solo dweller in a new home, I oscillate between feelings of elation, relief, frustration and solitude. It has been an amazing gift of time, which has forced me to reflect, nest and appreciate. The kindness of strangers; the sun shining through the blossom on the trees; a technology-assisted giggle with friends; listening to music or finally attacking the pile of must reads which has been accumulating for several years; occurrences I previously took for granted suddenly feel like daily epiphanic moments. Romance has also flourished. I am now in loving long-term relationships with my bicycle, Bobbin, and my new cooker, Derek (he’s HOT).

The flipside of this are the existential moments of crisis. Am I devoid of purpose in life? What really matters? What does happiness look like if you strip away the trimmings? Unlike those I hold dear, who wisely combat such thoughts with activity, I have failed to run 5k or develop any new culinary skills. Dinner has become what my Mum describes as a ‘fusion meal’. Yesterday this consisted of half a block of cheese, a tin of sweetcorn and some formerly effervescent champagne I found at the back of a cupboard. Today, I had peanuts for lunch, a meal which now occurs anytime between 10.30am and 4pm. Derek disapproves of ‘fusion’ meals and it could be a dealbreaker…

Eight weeks in, all I know is that during this emotional rollercoaster, my home has been my refuge. In its confines, I forget the mental noise outside and feel ‘normal’. Surrounded by my worldly possessions and sitting on the floor, I am relieved to find I still like my own company and I haven’t lost my identity because I can’t eat out or go on holiday. When I wake up in the morning, I am proud I didn’t give up on living here as it brings me so much pleasure and comfort. After five years at The Modern House, never has the concept of home as a force for good and personal well-being seemed so apposite.

I touch wood as I write this, but as it stands, I am one of the incredibly lucky people who is not experiencing the impact of the virus in full effect. I am not a frontline worker. My friends and family are healthy. I work with an exceptional group of people and still have a job. I have everything one could need, and I have spent the last two months feeling very grateful.