When my Spice Girls-related coping mechanism stopped working, a friend suggested cognitive behavioural therapy
Colour me kooky, but I have not enjoyed living through a pandemic. For me, it’s basically been a social experiment in what happens when you take an already neurotic person and strip them of all semblance of routine. The results have been roughly as chaotic as Big Brother’s fight night, had the housemates been given hallucinogens.
Initially, I did what I always do in times of crisis and simply became an even bigger Spice Girls fan. Without restaurants, or bars, or clubs, my evenings were spent pillaging eBay of every available piece of officially licensed tat. Several times, I unpacked things I’d apparently ordered in a fugue state, only to realise I already owned duplicates. Nothing screams “cry for help” quite so loudly as four identical Baby Spice mugs.
