‘Not a drop to be had for love nor money. ‘ Michael James reflects COVID19 shielding

16.29pm Thursday 2 April 2020

A litany of everything that could go wrong.  Going wrong. So I’m going back to bed.

23.55pm

Everything that could have gone wrong went wrong.  Right to the very end.  I don’t quite know where to begin.  I woke up early.  A dull dreary looking day.  I could not get back to sleep so I made a mug of tea and brought it back to bed with me.   Sometime around 8.30am I decided that I should call Carol B, who gets up early.  I called but no answer.  Ten minutes later she called me back and we had a good heart to heart.  Understanding, true understanding that is, often takes a while to filter through the thought processes to become live reality.  So is with me over these past few weeks or months even.  I have taken on board like many people the seriousness of our current situation regarding the virus. But this seems to have been slightly watered down within my own mind.  I talked the talk as they say but did not fully walk the walk.  Sat up in bed on the phone to Carol it all began to loosen up within my brain.

I actually felt the full meaning of what I and everyone else were having to face in the next month or so.  It was and still is chillingly frightening.  Not so much the virus and the effect it might have on me personally, although that is a large part of it.  No it is the response of those in charge of the rest of us. They are beginning to loom large in my awareness as my potential executioners.  My life is in their hands.  What a great way to start my day.

I got up when we finished our call. The day was grey and gloomy. At that point I was intending to have a walk.  The walk receded as the morning drew on and the clouds got darker.==

“The wind grows colder and suddenly you’re older.”  Oh Judy you were so close to me.  Those lyrics swam around and around in my brain.  I even sang them as I was washing my hands. Then the phone rang.  It was a lady from the council telling me that my angled stool would be delivered next Wednesday.  This stool should make it easier for me whilst washing the dishes, preparing the veg on the worktop.  Even when I’m at the cooker stirring things.  It is supposed to ease the pressure on the lower back making it more comfortable standing doing some tasks.   That was nice.  Nice enough for me to get out of bed and perhaps restart my day.  Good thoughts resurfacing.  Not only good thoughts but intentions too  Before I got up something urged me to go onto the Waitrose site to see when I could book a delivery slot for my next order.  I was stunned, then angry to find every slot is fully booked until sometime in June.  Did that mean that wealthy people have pre booked everything?  Or had Waitrose closed things down until they rejigged the web page?  I was speechless and angry.  There was no possible way of me finding out what was happening.

I had my porridge and pottered around putting off the moment I showered and got dressed ready for my walk.  I’m still wandering around the flat in my dressing gown.  Feeling somewhat empowered I decided I was together enough to take on the fearsome task of signing on for online banking.  There was noise outside my front door.  The bell rang and I shouted “Just a minute”   I peeped through the spy hole to see a figure going through the fire doors opposite.  I opened the door to find a letter and a parcel outside. The letter from the council and my long lost undelivered parcel from China.  My gaudy items of clothing, a T-shirt with a lurid pattern. Fabulous but it was not cotton.  And an even more lurid hoodie  Wait til it is all over and this OAP will be stepping out in colours that would look wonderful on a 20 year old rapper.  I was in heaven.  I knew the good old PO would find my lost parcel.  I came in, sat down, got all my bank  details set out before me.  I even opened up their online site.  Then I phoned their help number. Just like the coop helpline previously I waited and waited and waited.  Over 45 minutes later a man called Malcom answered.  We were off.  Up and running. Oh dearie me.  Despite all of our best intentions I kept loosing the page at a critical moment.  This happened five times.  Each time I had to go back to the home page and start all over again until I lost the plot completely.  My brain had turned to mush.  I told Malcom time was up.  I would try again later.  Bless his Scottish heart  he said we had done everything, all I had to do was go on to the home page and click the ‘sign in’ button and follow the final instructions.

Too late for everything.

No walk.

No energy or enthusiasm.

Back to bed to rest and hopefully recuperate.  I slept through the 8pm clapathon outside my window.

I woke gasping for a cuppa and too hungry and dispirited to cook. I peered into the fridge.  I decided I only had enough energy to fry the four sausages to make two sandwiches.  That was the only food apart from my porridge this morning.  There was more to come.  I lit the gas under the small frying pan and put it on the lowest heat.  While that was warming up I turned on the TV and scrolled down the channels only to be frightened out of my skin by the sudden sound of four fire alarms going off full blast.  I laugh now.  I had no idea how to turn them off.  I pressed the buttons on each of them but nothing happened.  They were blasting out full belt.  I raced around the flat and opened all the windows.  Suddenly there was silence and a burnt frying pan.

When the day is going to be shit there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.  My best bet was to stay in bed.  That is what I will do next time.  Cover my head, wait till the next morning and start again.

Amid all this mayhem is the realisation that I have run out of Gin.  Not a drop to be had for love nor money.  Still I can do without gin.  I have a roof over my head and food in the freezer.  There is my poor Pixie sleeping on a bench near Hove Lagoons.  He will not come in because he is afraid he might infect me. He has applied for one of the councils new bedsitters or studio flats as they are dishonestly called.  Please, please I hope he is lucky.