Well, the troops are taking it in their stride presently. Pizza for tea: pimped pepperoni for the boys, stoic margarita for the ladies. Tension around the garlic bread, but the extra cheese may have just swung it.
Just. It’s bally tense alright. How long can we hold out?
Bunce’s have “taken a few days off” – stress and exhaustion I expect, can’t blame the poor dabs – but you never know with social media and the Russians. So coffee from the cafetiere is all we can manage. I can make a brew and no mistake, but dammit man: I’m no barrisata. Wasn’t able to handle hot froth after the ’09 incident.
Never could from that day to this. Never will.
The weather held, enough to dry some washing, which has done a packet for morale. Odd socks, but I think I reached the airing cupboard before the gruppenfuhrer noticed. A close one for sure. Finished the Richard Osman novel which reminded me of the old days. Cups of tea, taking trips to the shop, nipping over to… Stop it. Stop. We can’t torture ourselves. Those days are gone.
More angst this evening over the tellybox viewing. Too much choice you see. When I was young we had proper shows with no oprtion but to have both racism and sexism or that plus xenophobia on a (printed) schedule. Now we have to settle for same in US politics in real time whereas TV is on catch-up/on-demand/streaming. We compromise with the BBC iPlayer: Ghosts. An excellent offering from the (original) Horrible Histories cast. But the subject matter of – among others – plague victims and dodgy MPs gave a dangerous subtext. But of course, no-one said what they were really thinking. There were laughs, sure, but were they… real? Hollow, ghoulish cackles of an embattled unit on a knife edge, jumpy, brittle, taught from a day of sheer nerves. No one mentioned the 5PM press conference. No one ever does these days. (No one says it, but we can’t bear the collective strain of random start times shattering the BBC1 schedules. How do the news anchors do it? Heck: they’re so, so brave. Little Mix may never recover from their tattered Saturday night prime-time debacle. Don’t start about Strictly’ not doing Halloween. Next slide please.)
Of course the fruit are still too green to justify making a banana bread. When I see my first loaf, that’s when we’ll know shit is real.
Used the sunlight to do minor outdoor jobs and gather some covert intel on the populace. Who are these people cheerfully walking past our outpost? Why don’t I recognise them? Fourteen years on site and that elderly man is a stranger to me. Who is he working for? Although I also noticed a lockdown dog or three. They seemed particularly fragile. Stay safe my canine friends. Curl up on the sofas, bide your time, await your calling.
Managed to raise a comm’ link to the outside via the haunted fishtank and engaged friendlies in faraway lands. We spoke in tongues, feverish with “you’re on mute” and “maybe draw the blinds so I can see you?” But we all know what we really meant. Unspoken terror. More prosaically, Andover logistics appear in similar fettle it seems but with access to locally roasted coffee beans. Lucky bastards having artisans and all.
From the international scene no word from across the Severn Bridge. I worry.
Am waiting for the inevitable discussion. We have industrial quantities in stock, but when to start? When are booze rations to be broken out on a school night? Should we binge only on weekends? What’s a school night? What’s a weekend?
My god it’s bleak.
But there is light from down under. The MAGA morons taking to Twitter are meeting resistance. Typically entitled American declarations like “well if the Dems win, y’all can count me out! I is movin’ t’Aust-ray-lee-ah!” have been met with [adopts Aussie accent] “Yah not welcome heee-rr ya COVID riddled, gun toting bigots.”
Vive la resistance: fair dinkum Australia.