Blogging from Bridport - Day 17

Day 17.

The cast:
'Me'
'The undertaker' (husband)
'On the ground in France' (son)
'Office darling' (daughter)
'Nearly 90' (mother)

Last night we had a very jolly party with a new group of friends who had sneaked into the house undercover.

We were gorging on Netflix, a bottle of wine placed precariously on the footstool and ripping into a bar of chocolate as though our lives depended on it. Suddenly out of nowhere the uninvited revellers appeared, running amok and dancing drunkenly on the carpet in front of us. 'I don't know where they get the energy from' I remarked to 'The undertaker'. Indeed the word 'lockdown' clearly wasn't in their vocabulary. 'We'll set up a game' I suggested. The series was beginning to wain slightly anyway as the clock inched slowly towards midnight. Bizarre times call for drastic measures to provide alternative entertainment. There must have been around six in number, hapless, helpless, tiny woodlice all converging out of the fresh batch of logs.We divided them into two groups of three to see who could cover the assault course set up over the carpet. I reckoned mine won but then the lateness of the hour blurred our judgement. Afterwards we scooped them all up and popped them in the garden to do whatever woodlice do in the dead of night.

We awoke early (bad habits die hard) and found the quietness unnerving and eerie. It takes a nanosecond to realise the world as you once knew it no longer exists. Was it really two weeks ago since the pubs and restaurants closed their doors? Three weeks ago there had been a whiff of things to come but many people were still choosing to disbelieve the inevitable and were still stoutly in denial and saying so rather too loudly...

Another busy day ahead with responsibilities aplenty. A mercy run to 'The undertakers' Mothers where the mere sight of us (at a distance) pushing forward essential supplies raises morale. I take some flowers from our garden to 'nearly 90'. I haven't entered her home now for at least a month. 'I don't want you in here' she says rather sadly so I resort to sitting on the doorstep whilst she sits well back in the hallway. I have no news for her, no entertaining snippets to impart. I recount the prior evenings entertainment. We laugh feebly. Outside the impossibly blue sky and bright sunshine mocks us. Seagulls screech overhead returning to their old nesting ground. Normally Saturdays would be a lively bustling affair in this little market town of ours but now nothing moves.

But wait, all is not lost, something has unleashed the fury of an unknown warrior in the form of a video. The local butchers (absolute darlings) have been working flat out delivering supplies and, according to a well placed source, were handed a parking ticket this morning by a warden. There are no cars on the streets, least of all anyone walking around the town but some humourless council employee saw fit to issue a fine to a family firm providing an invaluable service to the community.

Shame on you. It's as well that some of the more boisterous members of our close knit community were not present... Who knows what the outcome might have been?

By the time the evening had arrived in all its gentle spring glory, peace had once more settled on South Street.