Blogging from Bridport -Day 27

Day 27

The cast:
Me
'The undertaker' (husband)

Today I feel the pressure more than ever thanks to my arch rival 'Capt'n Jinxy', the literary luvvy from New Delhi who makes the appearance of a cauliflower in his lock down life sound positively riveting and holds me enthralled.

Its pointless me pontificating daily about painting my toenails (Chanel Le Vernis) and then berating 'The undertaker' late at night, accusing him of pouring too much wine (for me, I hasten to add) and unwrapping too much chocolate. Which is the lesser of two evils one wonders?

'Right' I shout early this morning, 'we're going to have a healthy day boyo'. I winced as he fried three slices of bacon along with mushrooms and lashings of butter on toast. I ate my boiled egg and two ryvitas in po-faced silence.

Eventually kitted up in khaki baggy trousers with plenty of pockets for mints and survival essentials teamed with my Captaine Corsaire Breton top (of which I have many) topped with a red and white spotty bandana (covering the hair or whats left of it) we sally forth. 'The undertaker' is sporting his usual...

We cut across the churchyard and soon we are marching next to the River Brit. Large brown trout catch our attention. There are loads of them making their way upstream. This is such a rare sight that we ponder as to whether the river is actually becoming cleaner. This must surely be a good thing?

Twenty minutes later after cutting through the deserted caravan site, save for a chap surreptitiously pulling on a cigarette from the crack of a static caravan, doorway we reach the sea. We wave to various correctly distanced solitary people along the way. When we do stop the conversation is the same, everyone is missing seeing their families. Nobody talks of lack of holidays or other inconsequential trivia.

The sea looks magnificent today. In the distance lies Lyme Regis, so near and yet so far and in the other direction you can see the outline of Portland, a place 'The undertaker' seems to be called to frequently. The bright pink of thrift is buffeted by the wind. The smell of wild garlic fills the air. A woman is having a bonfire. 'Unsociable' I mutter loudly as I'm hurried away by himself. The sea sparkles with bands of clear turquoise and deep blue and I am mollified once again.

When we get home we relish some strong Cornish Cheddar cheese on biscuits dotted with olives (Morrisons). I allow myself one or two pieces of Fortnum and Mason shortbread to which I freely admit I am addicted to.

I make the mistake of sinking into my plush velvet sofa and promptly pass out. I have managed the undercoat on my nails, I daresay my sprawled figure with pink heart shaped toe dividers isn't too pretty a sight but nevertheless after an indecent snooze 'The undertaker' brings me a pot of tea. Bless.

Tonight we are having a free range corn fed chicken because we are fortunate enough that we can. With it a carefully divided bunch of the first of the English asparagus it will be a feast fit for a king.

We know we are lucky, we know we have it easy even though 'The undertaker' is classed as a front line worker. We watch people coping in the most dire of circumstances. On the TV last night, a woman living in a high rise flat who takes her three young children on their daily exercise around a car park lined with rubbish bins, particularly piqued our conscience.

It is these people too, along with the NHS, the supermarket staff, the postmen, the binmen and everyone who wishes they could stay home and be safe who are the heroes. These are the people that appear not to be whinging, these are the people of which we should be proud. Not the gobby morons on social media jumping on the bandwagon desperate for five minutes worth of fame.