I'm
lying in bed this morning when I get a message. I check my phone and
its the French downstairs sending me a picture of the ugliest dog
I've ever seen. He's called Gary and he needs a forever home. Hades
would be too good for that dog but the French is determined that we
need a friend with four legs in these 'interesting times'.
Yesterday,
suspecting like everyone that we would be in lockdown by today, we
packed a picnic blanket and some icy beers and marched up St
Catherine's hill. It was wonderfully deserted and we lay in the sun
laughing hysterically and getting a little buzzed. This is the sort
of stuff I always want to do with him but he a. loathes exercise and
b. works 14 hours a day. We wander back via the river, having the
best time, and talk about how this is an opportunity to get fit, lose
some weight, learn the piano. Obviously at best we will be emerging
from this as pretty high functioning alcoholics but we're all in the
halcyon days of self delusion where we think this is going to be all
about the quality time.
That's
not entirely true. I've always hated going to work and found it got
in the way of all my hobbies (much to his constant and utter despair)
so for me this really is a time to write, knit, paint and sculpt. And
cook, obviously. But for him, well I reckon one more week and I'll be
living in The Shining. He's already talking about cooking at homeless
shelters or just getting a stacking job at Tesco for 'something to
do'.
We
decided to do this thing where each of us can choose a film and the
other has to watch it without bitching or moaning. I took my turn
last night and picked the Ang Lee version of Sense And Sensibility. I
was watching him as much as the film, waiting for him to crack. But
about forty five minutes in he suddenly shouted 'That Willoughby is a
fucking cunt!' And then a little while later 'Oh lo lo, Marianne,
calm the fuck down ah.' He enjoyed the film, thought Emma Thompson
and Alan Rickman were brilliant. I'm smugly thinking of it as a
cultural exchange but I am of course hoping he'll forget its his turn
tonight. I honestly don't think I can sit through Ralph Breaks The
Internet. Again.
Day
Drinking has already morphed in to Morning Drinking and we like to
take a Bloody Mary at 10am before any of the serious leisure begins.
I
face timed with mum yesterday. She's been inside for three weeks now
and is doing remarkably well.
'You
okay, mum?'
'Yes
dahlink. You need to dye that hair.'
'Do
you think that's a priority at the moment?'
'Have
you seen it?'
'French
did mention it the other day.'
'Well
there you go then.'
I
feel guilty that I can't visit or kiss her so I'm pretty much doing
as I'm told to compensate. I've dyed my hair and I reckon by week
three I'll be sat here in a pink twin set weeping in to my gin.
The
French and I have agreed to take our daily exercise outings
separately. That way we'll have something new to tell each other
every day.
'Saw
a dog.'
'Me
too.'
I've
already cracked open a new jigsaw. It's sadly not something we can do
together though. He says I'm too bossy but what does he expect if he
doesn't separate out the edges and the corners first like any sane
person would!
I'm
knitting my niece a onesie. Which seemed ambitious for a first post
scarf ability only skill, until the lockdown.
We're
lucky because we have a lovely garden that runs down to the Itchen
Abbas river. I'm sat in the garden writing this and every time
someone wanders past, which is gratifyingly rare, they wave and
smile. Which is a nice little interlude before the looting starts.
I've
cracked open some old Rick Stein recipe books today and plan to make
a Tuna Empanada and an olive oil and pine nut cake. I make extra of
everything, freeze it and leave it on mum's doorstep. She's going to
have gout by the time this is over.
The
French has just returned from his exercise/pharmacy/shop visit. He's
brought back what he considers to be the essentials. Five kinds of
cheese, chocolate, beer and puff pastry.
We're
going to be fine.
