Lockdown from Bridport - Part 3 - Day 51

I winced as I pressed the pay button for the industrial carpet for the shop. It's not so much the cost, the cheapest on the market actually, but the fact that its 'not quite me'. It's an acceptable moss green and surely compared to the 1960's worn out linoleum tiles its a step forward. I daresay with an antique rug on top I shall learn to live with it but were money no object...

Opened up the paper tonight hoping for some relaxing reading. Confronting me was a full page article on how a model from London had swopped her exotic lifestyle for a large rectory in North Cornwall, one that I knew quite well from a visit to the area. I read on with mounting disbelief and a rising feeling of nausea. She admitted she wasn't 'quite feral' but couldn't remember the last time she had had a manicure and was spending her days scrubbing the Aga and floors. I admit it, jealously is not an attractive attribute. The house in question was built for an eccentric Reverend. We had stayed in one of his previous houses and it was the most haunted house I have ever been in, so much so we actually had to swop bedrooms. Therefore, on reflection I'll stick with hoovering my 100% manmade carpet when it arrives. Practical...

My friend phones and observes that last nights blog was a tad opinionated, which is a fair comment. As I write 'The Undertaker' is on the phone to his Mother complaining about people who feel 'entitled' to a holiday and are busy complaining that Boris has ruined/cancelled theirs. Of course he has, on purpose I daresay, nothing whatsoever to do with China and their sloppy handling of a new virus that appeared on their doorsteps a year ago. For the record we haven't booked anything, firstly there is a shop to open and secondly where would we go? I was chatting to a stall holder today who is an artisan baker, he casually dropped into the conversation that I could go and use their house in Barbados. I was taken aback I admit, but when I got home and announced it to 'The Undertaker' we decided we couldn't think of anything worse than queuing at an airport amongst people who may or may not have had the jab (Contentious) and worse still being stuck in a metal tube with them for hours on end. 'Looks like it may be Cornwall then' I say, 'fighting for space with the Londoners' although by then they may be so sick of the unpredictable weather they may well all be clucking frantically and heading towards an airborne metal tube full of recirculated stale breath.

It's going to be interesting to see who shows up this season, last year was certainly very different. But I shall be ready with a smile on my face as they step over the threshold and onto the industrial carpet. 'Are dogs allowed'? I am frequently asked. 'Of course' I shall beam, what's a few stray hairs on a surface that has been designed to survive the tracks of a main battle tank?