Wednesday 19th of January.
The lateral flow test said NO.
So I carried on sneezing and fell into bed by 2.00a.m.
This morning I shouted back at the voices shouting at me from the radio, pushed myself to get out of bed, dressed and left for the dawn chorus.
7.53 was sunrise, one minute earlier than yesterday.
How ashamed I am that I can’t identify the birds that wake me. I’ve got a big bird song book, or should that be ‘a big song bird book’ with all the bird calls. So, after listening at the kitchen table I identified the main choristers. Robins, blackbirds and song thrushes. Weirdly I haven to silence the chattering in my mind before I can hear them, so, after affirmations, meditations and walking visualisations I can shut the fuck up and listen to the twittering songbirds.
Home by 8.06 and called the garage to find out when they opened. Jumped into the car and drove three miles.
‘What is it this time?’
Jack raises his eyes to heaven.
‘Here she comes with her battered BMW.’
They all know my name, I can feel the pity oozing out of their grubby blue overalls. I am the old lady who knows nothing about cars, who has more dents on her wings than a drunken swallow. The old lady who plays dumb. Little do they know that I’ve clocked up more miles driving from one location to another, over my long illustrious career, than they’ve had cold ‘Bavos’ (for the uninitiated it’s a Pilsner lager); that I’ve driven through America filming; that I have navigated my way out of a Cornwallian nightmare and that prangs on a car doth not a bad driver make. In fact when I started having advanced driving lessons the instructor was beside herself when she reluctantly said what an extraordinarily confident driver I was. Little did she know I’ve clocked up more miles driving from one location to another, over my long illustrious career, than she’s had cold Pressure Drops (for the uninitiated thats a Pale Ale) when you get old you can pretend to be whatever you want and for the sake of my grease monkeys I am an incompetent old aged pensioner who doesn’t know her clutch fork ball studs from her full skirt piston rings.
I love the kids in my garage, for even though they treat me like the little old lady who shouldn’t be let out with a shopping trolley let alone a sports car, I’m happy to leave my silver two seater with them. Now the advantage of being a one car family is that we only pay one lot of tax and insurance. The disadvantage is that we have to timetable when we can use the car and one of us has to walk everyfuckingwhere. And since we live a minimum of two miles from anywhere my calf muscles are beginning to look like the legs of a heavyweight weight lifter. I set off past two schools, at least 30 houses, a run-down flower nursery who are now selling logs, a garage and a pub. It took me one hour to get home just in time for the 10.00 o’clock news.
‘Pork Pie’ dissenters, Cummings and Johnson claiming the ‘Biggest liar’ award, Tonga’s tsunami and the devastating coverage of Afghanistan. The people in that beleaguered country walk barefoot in the snow, whilst I throw away unfinished breakfast.
I cannot eat in front of the television news anymore, I’m either crying or raging. And there’s no point in writing about any of it as all I do is complain. I’m still sitting on my maturing arse wondering where I can help. If I had loads of disposable income I know where I’d send it but just this morning the old git informs me our gas and electricity bill has doubled in price.
So my next door neighbour drove me to the garage. Jack welded the exhaust and put in a new hydraulic strut for the boot, which means it won’t shut on my head anymore.
Into the bath with my new bath pillow, then a spot of telly – sans news – and bed.
Tomorrow we resume our ‘away days’. Hastings here we come.