Strange times in quarantines.

A strange time, that’s for sure. The only thing we are sure of is how normal is no more.

All those things we used to do. Those normal things. We used to fly once a month. We were supposed to be in Warsaw today. We were in Nahsville last month, last month, last month, laughing at the loons in Heathrow with masks. “But”, we told Mrs Gin “They’re white. They’re not Chinese or anything. White. And they’re still wearing masks” (Is that racist? Is it awful we don’t know?  Is it worse that we don’t care) We used to eat out, to drink in pubs, on park benches, in the toilets at the office even. All of those banal things, rubbed so dull by familiarity, so usual to be invisible then so unusual just weeks later.

All of those things. Not only gone, the echo of them somehow seems farcical. Overblown and distorted. Imagine flying all over the world. Imagine all those germs. Imagine sitting in a pub. All those germs. Laughing in an office with Carol about what she did last weekend. Those germs.

And yet, just as we look back and see things distorted and grotesque, in this modern Britain, this brave new world which stretches from our shed to our front door, some things, though changed, continue.

An example. Every night, every night for blooming years some c-bomb throws a can of empty pre mixed Jack Danies and Coke into our hedge. For years. Even just typing that fills us with a murderous, covid cough. We have fantasied revenge. Fantasied knives, rope and -recently – unplugging ventilators.

Every night the c-bomb throws the can in our hedge and every weekend Mrs Gin fishes them out. We are sorry for the c-bomb there, we warn you it gets worse in two paragraphs.

So every night he (and lets face facts it is a he) throws the empty can in our hedge. Every week we hear the chink chink chink chink chink chink chink as Mrs Gin, lips pursed, picks up the cans and disposes of them in our brown bin. Every chink of the can on Mrs Gin’s plethora of empty wine glasses a clang of mockery. How we would love to get hold of the bastard who does this to us and how – if he were older and smaller than us – we would kick his fucking head in.

Thrillingly, though, in the world of mass death, massive unemployment and huge social distraction, we have noticed that the empty cans are now super strong K cider. The joy. The germ of a man is collapsing, declining rapidly into tramp like alcoholism. The joy. The love of this cunt’s collapse. Love in the time of coronavirus.

There is an upside to global collapse. Joy indeed.


Less joyful was our panic buying. We were sent to Sainsburys with instructions for bread, milk, eggs and above all toilet rolls. We came back with one replacement Vileda mop head and one Zoflora. (And also one printer as our kids, it appears, are now homeschooled).

Jauntily, ignoring her looks, we decided to mop with our new mop. We’d only gone and brought the wrong blooming one. Why Vileda why? Why make two mop head fittings? We’re stuck here, quarantined, unable to mop and all because of a mob head fitting. You’re worse than the hedge throwing can criminal Vileda