Jubilations to all! I hope you’ve had a super weekend of it all, even if you don’t like ‘them’ – but you got some time off. Controversial territory I know – but more, out of context goings on on the Joobs later, let me tell you!
I’m upbeat this evening. Well, chickettes, now I’ve calmed down I am.
Get this.
I was out today at a shop which I’ll call ‘Extremely good deals for one’s domicile.’
I still wear a mask in shops. I’m doing this because:
a) I want to;
b) I ought to, and
c) My Onc told me to.
There I was, browsing the shelves for some cut price quinoa (it’s gone up to two quid a pack in Fresco’s!) – and then, two astonishing things happened.
First, I realised I was in completely the wrong shop for such an item.
(I’d been easily fooled earlier this year by the availability of dried yellow split peas at just 49p a bag.)
Second, I encountered two separate occurrences of mask abuse.
‘Ooh, look at ‘er with ‘er mask, ooo does she think she is?’
(NB: I wasn’t on the set of a recording of The Archers, with its indistinguishable cocktail of Midlands, Somerset, cockney, Norfolk and fake Glasgow accents. Oh no – this is ‘South Ampshire’ – this is real )
Next, in the ‘seasonal’ aisle, which obvs I’d strayed into en route to the kwinners:
‘Get over it love, you ain’t gonna get covid now you dozy mare!’
I’ve long rehearsed such a scenario.
Ooh – what I would say, how smartly and confidently I’d retort, how the mere issue of the words from my (mask-concealed) lips would send them reeling, home, to consider the insensitivity of their ill-informed remarks.
Yes, it would go something like this, I can see it now:
‘I’m amazed that you think it is OK to say that’ …then I’d toss my (be careful) masked face up, and flounce off in a huffy stomp. Not bad, eh?
If that didn’t work, time for the next one (channeling the Rees-Mogg)
‘It’s you, isn’t it dear lady, with an insufficient complement of those organs which enable us to breathe freely every day, coupled with an as yet incurable genetic mutation, and a worryingly diminutive count of the blood cells which are white…Not so? Ah – my most humble apologies- one has made a mistake. It is I!’.
Then of course, I’d repeat the huffy stomp.
TBH, in this particular shop, in the part of the town I was, I wouldn’t expect widespread comprehension of either response. Even pre-COVID, a balaclava was advisable. I’d have been far better off consulting and then quoting my phonetic friend, Mr Foxtrot Oscar – but obvs, followed by the now mandatory flourish of a huffy stomp. Why not!
Of course, none of my imagined responses took place – I just ignored them, left minus quinoa but, with a lovely bottle of harpic super bleach on special at 99p, and box of cat food (they don’t look too well this evening, my cats?) and trundled on home. Confrontation is not my thing.
I don’t see what’s wrong with a mask, nowadays? Pure vanity at the very least dictates that it acts as a handy chin-bag, gathering up all the offspring of the one I was born with into one neat, albeit a bit bulgy, package. Fair play,
Anyway, home I came, flushed with the indignity of what I didn’t say (but very pleased with the bleach, I must say! Ultra white, cleaning granules – just what’s needed after a month of instability in my southern regions).
One of the advantages of my current situation is that at the moment, I can live with this stuff very well – as long as certain sensible parameters are observed. I am very lucky, in that, the tsunami of change has not yet been forecast to reach my shore.
Oh yes, I can flounce about in my garden every day, like Margot Leadbetter minus the marigolds, masked up obvs (you never know how many monkeys may be lurking, laden with pox for the spreading!)
But due caution is a good idea, I think.
For example, I can’t be doing with spontaneous hugging, outside of the main and mini carers. I’d love to – but it’s not the best idea I’ve ever had.
Consequently, I find myself constantly lurching backwards, like a cow stumbling into an electric fence, at the approach of dear friends.
It’s as uncomfortable as when the person at the till shoves the machine your way and asks you to put your PIN in. The shop assistant throws their head so far up and sideways, while closing their eyes, that you fear for the structural integrity of their neck.
Meanwhile, old sneaky beak behind you has already memorised the numerical input and the sound of the four musical notes you’ve just created and then sniggers with lascivious smuggery. You’ve then got to hope they don’t actually smugger you outside the shop, thereby gaining access to your diminishing funds.
Diminishing they are. This cost of living crisis is no joke – I mean, have you seen how much smoked salmon has gone up??
I hope you know I was joking. About the smoked salmon. Obvs. I don’t really like it.
Anyway back to the plot. I hope I can find it. Recently I lost my actual glasses and after turning the house upside down, I found them in the fridge. Obvious, right? another time recently, him and me were on a coastal walk, in a different county. It was beautiful, I was totally absorbed. Until the point I turned to him, because I genuinely had no idea, and asked: ‘where are we lovey?’
Uh oh!!!! Time for a hug – OR NOT!!
Because of the old immunity shite, spontaneous hugging is very much off the agenda, as explained before. This was particularly problematic over the Jubilee weekend. There were lots of things on offer in our road, but I went to one ‘do’, outside, and even then, only for 45 minutes.
We’re a very close and friendly neighbourhood bunch – we’re super lucky. It was so fab to reconnect with everyone after so long. However – I needed to be on high alert electric fence duty. Especially as, to our mutual consent and celebration, we get even more close and friendly – some might say touchy-feely, positively loved up – as the sherbert dispenser chugs on.
I arrived one hour into the lunchtime proceedings. No sherberts for me, as it fell many hours short of my self-imposed, best-not-before curfew of 17:01pm. Others in the road – well, why not – if I could do it, I would!
Anyway – by then, hugs were ricocheting around the bunting and the cucumber sandwiches like a pinball machine on acid.
I surveyed the scene with a mix of anxiety and basic defence skills. I was on high alert, code red, white and blue.
Incoming:
Well-oiled, senior gentleman, three Pimms down, slithering in.
DUCK!
Next.
Ooh – hang on:
Fully lubricated senior lady, approaching (somewhat unsteadily), widespread arms, puckering up, telling me she loves me…
SWERVE! IMMEDIATELY!
Next:
Two amazing medics, in bound. I know these ladies to be probably very clean.
No hugging attempts. Sensible ladies.
REMAIN STATIC- I needed the rest, to be honest.
Next; uh oh. It’s the carer, also nil by alcomouth, but looking at me in an uncharacteristically fond way. Hmm.
RUN FOR THE HILLS!
I don’t think he’s quite accepted my mask wearing for husbandly-wifely snogs (unless it’s his birthday, obvs!) but after, all, I know where he’s been. Safety first!
I’ve had a long old rant and I am sorry, just so much fun.
Yes, there are issues, of course- they don’t know why I’ve got low this, high that – so what?? I’m as happy as a lark – why wouldn’t I be? I’m alive, I live and breathe each beautiful day- lucky old me is what I say.
Mind you, you mask haters – join me in a dance or two.
You can Foxtrot (Oscar) while I do the Huffy Huffy Stomp.
Deal?
See you soon lovelies 🐔
Who's going to get the chicken? 