Lockdown from Bridport - Part 3 - Day 13

There's nothing to bring about matrimonial discord than going to bed and realizing that after stripping the bedlinen you omitted to remake the bed. 

'The Undertakers' phone goes at 2am. What a hideous ring tone it has and so loud. He returns at 4.30am and harmony is resumed. At 8.30 am it goes again but I have been awake awhile. I insist he at least has a boiled egg and toast before setting off. 'What a lovely morning for a drive along the coast road' I say. 'I've done that route already' he replies. Whilst tapping my egg lightly I hear a woman on the radio lamenting on how students are missing out on the 'university experience'. 'I'm missing out on being a woman in her 60's, retired and no money worries to boot' I say crossly. The world is awash with people missing out on 'experiences', young people in their 20's with no social life, grandparents unable to see their children/grandchildren, elderly people too frightened to leave the safety and sanctuary of their homes. 'Give it a rest' I shout. 

Two pigeons have found the bird table but seem unable to reach the food. Too much unnecessary scoff and too fat by the look of things. We have a lot in common those birds and I.

Despite yesterdays foray into the world of purple clothing I resolve not to be overwhelmed and pop to the shop and change the window yet again. By the time I've finished even I have to admit that I could be persuaded to give lavender swirls a go. A parma violet faux fur hat sits in prime place.

Once back home we have light lunch of salad, with lots of seeds and nuts flung into the bowl we feel quite virtuous. Later on when we settle back onto the sofa for another Netflix binge the little pots of Haagen-Dazs ice cream can be savoured without guilt. 

A very old friend phones up for a chat. Her son-in-law works for the council and it has come to his attention that their bottle box is exceptionally heavy every weekly pick up. We both agree that nothing is private anymore. Despite living in a tiny hamlet it seems that their consumption of wine has reached the ears of the drink police. It seems our liberties are being eroded by the day. 

The afternoon light slowly starts to fade and its time to light a fire. I briefly struggle with a retro mannequin but lose patience with the wig. I'm just minding my own business pulling up a pair of oversized denim dungarees when I realize I have an audience outside who seem to find the spectacle overly amusing. The arm falls off and I lose the will to carry on. 

The clock ticks very slowly these days to reach the golden hour of 6pm, the socially acceptable time for a glass of wine. 

I suggest to 'The Undertaker' that we play a game. Instead of bemoaning about all the experiences, to which we feel we are missing out on/entitled to lets instead list all the positive things we have learnt about ourselves during this time.

'You first' he says. 'Is 5.55pm cheating?' I say.