What next eh?

I sat in the garden, with Dennis the cat, my face to the sky like a sunflower, I ate a salad with fennel and my new best ingredient chile oil. The cottage is filled with Irish music, because however lethargic I am I cannot resist a little jig to a band of drummers and penny whistlers.
I drove out to the spice shop, the greengrocers and the chemist and bought everything from coriander to Nurofen. Home to the old git who was at his computer, the dawter and her illustrator, who were at their computers, then I changed from my figure hugging yoga ensemble into my trusty pj’s.
Supper is being cooked by the artist, whilst the dawter is uploading little films for her recipe book.
I’ve been scouring the headlines to find something to write about, but I don’t want to give any more space to Covid, or vaccines, to protests or Priti politics. I don’t want to talk about ‘Line of Duty’ or why I couldn’t give a tuppeny fuck about ‘The Voice.’ I’m uninspired by The Sturgeon saga, board shitless with the space race and utterly, utterly disillusioned with the Brexit bombshell that is waiting behind the hedge to pounce on us.
I cannot believe the shower of shite that has been unleashed by the myopic Members of Parliament, and I do mean members. We all know somebody who knows somebody who has been effected by our divorce from Europe. Customs chaos, the vicissitudes of our vistas, carne carnage, touring travesties, not to mention the feeling of isolation like methane, which is now hanging over us.
What did Farage want? What did Johnson unleash? Do they care? What once was a spontaneous decision to visit donkeys in Mijas, what once was a delicious treat to jump into an open topped car and drive to Carcasson to visit the ancient sites of the Cathars, what once took a sandwich and a bottle of water on a train ride into Paris, has turned into a fucking nightmare.
What with masks and lockdowns, curfews and fear, our world has been turned upside down. It feels like the end of life as we know it, and since ends are also beginnings, it feels like the beginning of something that is so foreign that who can even call it?
Reading peoples eyes, listening keenly because mouths are hidden, anxiety over bank balances and the knowledge that those in charge have still not sorted out the homeless, the soon to be homeless, the victims of cladding and the reprehensible treatment of care workers. There is a growling lament that is playing out in the wings.
I am at a loss as to what to write about, I want to bury my head in a pillow sprayed with sandalwood and lavender. I want to hurt shameless Etonians, I want to shame hurtful politicians who paddle their own canoes, I want to sink them. Were I younger I would be incandescent with rage, filled with a hot fury that my world is being trampled on and it’s future ripped up.
I have a wonderful old friend who thinks I am angry. Well I was born into volcanic fury which was nurtured by injustice and a refusal to read the small print. Even though the devil is in the detail, the detail is on a par with the overtly obvious. I will leave the semantics to the pedants, the wordsmiths and energetic thinkers who will write the next chapter. Right now I am open mouthed at the effrontery of it all. I’m not looking at the detail now because it makes my heart bleed. All power to those who still have the fight in them, I trust that my ancient howl will re-emerge but right now I’m crouching behind the dustbins waiting.
‘I am committed to looking reality in the face and speaking about it without pretence. It is because I reject lies and running away that I am accused of pessimism; but this rejection implies hope, the hope that truth may be of use. And this is a more optimistic attitude than the choice of indifference, ignorance or sham.’ Simone de Beauvoir