Plague Journal 10: Scaredy Cats

We have a colleague (‘co-worker‘? yuck!). We have a colleague. Yes, they say we are an absolute delight to work with. So positive. Anyway, yesterday on the Zoom they announced, casually mark you, that they had not left the house for a while. When we asked how long – showing compassion, as per HR requirements – they said they had not left the house for – get ready for this – seven fucking weeks!!!

Seven weeks. Can you imagine that? Maybe it is because of our wife, the venerable Mrs Gin, but we can barely stand to be in our house for more than an hour before we start getting restless. There’s a golf course around us, and we have taken to walking round and around that. A golf course – in Stockport – in a housing estate is as grim as you’d imagine.

Our Apple Watch thinks we have dementia, thinks we are lost, circling our 2 bed semi in a daze. In reality, we just never want to go home again

All the happy people go round and around

Yesterday we got back home, saw the living room through the window by the front door, turned around and, dodging the drizzle went back out again.

Each step was boring and yet it’s still far better than being stuck inside trying to make sense of Tiger King whilst Mrs Gin goes ‘Wait, does that guy have a pet lion???’ Around and around we go, Mr Bleach.

Exercise once a day? Fuck the police!

And that happens twice a day, at least. We just have to get outside. The thought of spending 168 of the buggers locked up with her is…is.. Well. Wait, 168 hours is only one bloody week. 168 x 7. That’s, well, that’s a lot.

People are pussies.

We have noticed a fair amount of people like our colleague. People who want to live in bubbles from now on, be cut off from the organic world by plastics and gels. We’ve read about teachers wanting visors, seen the shitty plastic barriers in the supermarkets and laughed smug at them all.

Here’s the thing: We’re all fucked anyway. There’s no point to it. No point to disinfecting your shopping, to leaving post 24 hours before opening it. No point to any of this. If Covid came from the swampy jungle, the answer is not more disposable plastic goods ordered for next day delivery. We have fucked the planet, hard. It’s only a matter of time before it fucks us back, harder. It’s pathetic to think we can avoid our dues. That we can swerve what we have done by wearing plastic gloves forever.

In this scenario, unbelievably we think we stand with Trump. Open the schools, the shops and the pubs, but most of all the pubs. Let’s face our reckoning. Because then, at least, the boredom will be over.

Image credits:

Scaredy cats: Biel Morro on unsplash

Vial:  Vincent Ghilione on unsplash

Gel: Noah on on unsplash