HHow far into this solitary confinement are we ?  It would help if I knew what day of the week it was – not strictly true because it’s definitely Sunday and the clocks have gone forward, sparing us one whole hour of imprisonment, she said, making another chalk tick on the wall.

On the subject of confinement, there was a piece in the paper yesterday by Terry Waite, someone famously held captive  for years and years by some now forgotten group in the Middle East which led me to wondering how he had survived. (Didn’t bother to read article.  Far, far too busy).  He was apparently chained to a radiator in a dark cellar for about a decade, give or take, yet he came out firing on all cylinders and gave a speech Shakespeare could have written. Lack of exercise had not withered his muscles, unlike the effect on me of three months walking with a stick.  He had not died from lack of vitamin D, his teeth had not fallen out through want of flossing, he was able to stride about in new shoes – something I have yet to master – and, most importantly, his brain had not turned to jelly, even though all he had had for entertainment was a postcard from some cathedral.  Sure, it’s a miracle whereas  another week for me and I’ll be leaving in a straitjacket.

Yesterday I was reduced, whisper this, reduced to cleaning the insides of the windows.  There were two upsides to this.  Firstly I managed to find a lot of slightly more interesting things to do by way of procrastination and secondly, when I did eventually start, it made the most amazing difference.  Cancel that appointment at Spec Savers and let there be light.  And it didn’t actually take that long because given the exterior walls of my house are about 50% glass, I had invested some time ago in a Karcher window cleaner, obviously still in its box.  What a brilliant device people.  Actually does what it says on the tin.  Get onto Amazon now!  I may even use it again.

Lowest point of the week has been the abandoning of my beloved Radio 4.  May I remind you at the BBC of the Reithian edict that your purpose is to educate, inform and amuse?  Not to go on and on and on about the same miserable subject, often in totally unintelligible accents, until your gentle viewers have reached for the off button before they self harm.  And cancel an episode of ‘The Archers’ to boot, something that wouldn’t have happened even during the war had the programme not started sometime afterwards.  Mere details.  It would have been like rationing tea resulting in an utter crushing of the British spirit.  Unthinkable.

We live in dark times but all is not lost.  In its infinite wisdom the government still allows me to visit my allotment where digging for victory/sanity is well under way.  The chard is planted and seeds for carrots and beetroot are in.  Paths have been mown, leaves have been raked, peas and beans are sitting in the new greenhouse.  I pruned the fruit trees and in a waste not, want not moment, bought home some of the cuttings with blossom buds on them.  These are now flowering and as Dennis Potter (And as usual, look him up) once poignantly said, they are the blossomiest blossom ever.

By the time there are apples this may all be behind us.  Stay safe.

 

’This will be a mercifully short blog’ think my regular readers but not a bit of it.  Brace yourself; once I get going I may well end up rivalling Hilary Mantel which brings us to reason Number One.  Always jaw achingly fashionable, my copy of ‘The Mirror and the Light’ popped through the letterbox on publication day.  (Not literally.  Obvs.  The size of it meant it had to come through the bi-fold windows on a wheelbarrow).  I’ve started it and even as possibly the world’s fastest reader, that is going see me through to the autumn.  Of 2021.  Minimum.

Moving on I am at least in solitary confinement; being locked in with anyone would be a trial.  No need to say ‘Especially  for them’ thank you, that boy at the back.     Selfless as ever, I have already sharpened my axe and offered it to married friends, along with an alibi.  You don’t have an axe?  I bet you were down to your last roll of loo paper when all this happened.  Be prepared, people.  How many times?  People of my age were reared by parents who had been through the war and if they taught us one thing, it was never to let supplies run low because you never know.  Well now you do, you with your single old tin of lentils and enough spaghetti for one in the cupboard.

Also, thank God, I am not locked in with children although today’s cohort would be perfectly happy just to be allowed to sit in front of a screen for 18 hours a day so the horror of having to entertain them isn’t an issue.  Why, oh why, weren’t iPads available when I was crossing the Bay of Biscay in the good ship Motherhood?

And so to the best news I had yesterday.  Visits to the allotment are still permitted and so I should think.  What else in the world combines exercise, mental well-being and organic food in one package?  Plus the opportunity to socialise at a plot-wide distance.  My broad beans will be making their way there this morning and my potatoes are chitting as we speak. (Look it up, for goodness sake.  You’re not exactly pushed for time).

Time, once as rare as unicorns, is now hanging on our hands.  Tasks that have been avoided for years are now cherished as a way to fill the morning.  I actually find myself saving up jobs for the next day – don’t want to rush the ironing, perhaps I’ll just concentrate on the dusting today.  Will we ever get up to speed again, post-plague?

There is time for conversation, albeit on the telephone.  Begone, damn texts with your arcane spelling and emojis, lets talk to each other.  And what a rediscovered pleasure it is, just to natter away, with the added bonus that you can ring people on their landline – they are going to be at home after all – and you can hear each other clearly.  Remember that? Bliss.  When this is over get one installed.

One personal low point has been the death of my little cat.  She was a gentle soul and not having had anything approaching a hard life, had made it to 20.  The vet rang me yesterday to say that her ashes were ready for collection.  Would I like to go round there or should they keep them for the next couple of weeks? ‘Hang on to them please’ I said, ‘I will pick them up later’.  Something to look forward to.

 

Cabin fever is now rivalling the dreaded C virus as a possible cause of death.  Being self isolated in the house with waves lapping at the door from the never ending rain has led to that most dangerous of occupations – thinking.  One result of which is that I have sent a couple of savage emails having long since passed the point where I had the mental strength to turn a blind eye to complete incompetence.

Another consequence of the wetness has been that the shed door lock has seized up, again, preventing access not only to my heated seed germinators (High time to get those broad beans going) but also to the red wine stash.  Thank God that the local lock-related Saint was able to rush round and after two hours working waist deep in mud, in a monsoon, in pitch darkness, was able to open the door.

I considered £80 a small price to pay but it did lead me to muse on how much I spend on just maintaining Stuff.  This is the second time the shed has repelled invaders, the front door has devoured keys on more than one occasion, as have the sliding doors on the balcony; I could have had a Greek holiday for less money.  (What is it with keys?  Is it built in obsolescence? Did you know they only lasted six months?).

Also this week a bill of several hundred pounds for servicing the car.  Another couple of hundred pounds on carpet shampooing, window cleaning and the weekly cleaner.  It’s amazing how filthy the house starts to look when you spend a lot of time indoors.  Add to this the cost of two vacuum cleaners and industrial quantities of cleaning materials and a week in the West Indies becomes a distinct possibility.

Whilst I don’t count myself strictly as ‘stuff’ I still attract huge maintenance bills.  Hairdresser, manicurist, pedicurist, eye-brow technician to say nothing of the ten grand it cost me to get my spine sorted out when the NHS was a bit too busy to bother. And don’t start me of what I spend on the dentist each year.

Even if I want to get rid of things it comes at a price.  Part of my huge council tax bill goes on dustmen, there are waste water charges, £60 a year for green waste and separate charges for the collection of ‘large items’.

Its a miracle that there is enough disposable income left to eat.  Just having Stuff is burning through money, and what I don’t spend on maintaining it goes on contents and  car insurance.

I am beginning to think that the way forward is just to have a huge bonfire and get rid of all of it.  (Suggestions needed on how to do this without releasing tons of carbon into the air.  Obvs). With the money I save I would hardly ever be in the country, much less in the house and I would just take Uber’s everywhere.  Result!

I hope the above illustrates where thinking leads.  As I have said so many times before,  it’s not a good thing.  Roll on the better weather.