Bridport lockdown diary - Day 53
The cast;
Me
'The undertaker' (husband)
Friends & family...
The call outs are coming in thick and fast. No sooner had we finished our daily dose of carefully controlled numbers of squares of chocolate when the phone went, 9pm (21.00hrs in undertaker speak), to be precise. It would be after the division of chocolate wouldn't it? Sods law. Halfway through some episode of 'Netflix overload', too. He jumps up and before I know it he's transformed himself from the archetypal 80's yuppy, (scuffed leather deck shoes, Levi's, polo shirt...) to a sleek Italian waiter, bending down for a farewell kiss. Some women would pay for this, I think happily, as I give up the ghost and thankfully scuttle off to bed.
I don't hear him return, (gosh did I NEED sleep) but as if on cue Mr Blackbird begins chirping happily away at 4.30am. Someone says irritably, 'he's got a pair of bloody lungs on him hasn't he'? Must have been 'The undertaker' (obviously!) 4.45am or thereabouts and the phone goes and he's off. Blackbird stops singing and I return to the serious business of power snoozing. My guardian angel is obviously lurking overhead, I make it out of bed before his return to cook a 'proper' breakfast, and then the phone goes again... I resist the temptation to sneak back upstairs.
While the cat is away the mice will play, so I loll around in my silk chemise (extravagance beyond belief) and hang off the phone laughing loudly at everyone else's misdemeanours. There's some talk of people becoming healthier and fitter since lock down but I don't actually know anybody like this. I worry that I know the wrong sort of people. It seems that, for my whole life, it isn't me that's been leading people astray at all but rather vice versa. Food for thought. My mischievous cousin 'oop north' confesses that at 9pm on VE Day she did the jitterbug down her street bare footed. This sort of behaviour is, evidently, genetic. Its so good to get an answer at last.
But I'm being trite whereas actually I want to be serious for a moment. 'The undertaker' picks up the deceased from private houses where they have been observing high risk lock down. He wears a disposable apron over his uniform, gloves and an FFP3 mask, and this is for pickups without Covid-19. And yet, locally, rumours abound of people (of an age who should know better) sneaking off to parties in other peoples houses. This sort of naive stupidity is no way to end this crisis. We, along with the rest of the country, await to hear what Boris is going to announce to the Nation tonight. Nevertheless, if anybody is dim enough to believe we're suddenly going to go back to normal...then dream on. There are many people out there who believe they are not at risk, or believe they have the right to exercise their freedom. I really don't care if you infect yourselves but I do care enormously if your behaviour has the slightest effect on anyone else. Furthermore, if this statement offends you, feel free to stop reading my blog with immediate effect. I shan't miss you...
And breathe.
Today is windy and bright. The washing on the line is about to go into orbit whilst the birds get through the seed in the feeders alarmingly quickly. I'm going to curl up on the sofa and spread out the Sunday papers. I shall skip past any articles by self satisfied twerps extolling the virtues of their perfect lifestyles and take a long hard look at myself. Do I like what I see?
Yes I do. 53 days in lock down and I know I have done my best to do what is right.
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