Good fortune

Something nice happened last night.

The human race is full of kindness, everywhere you look.

In the current universal flap for everybody to be armoured from head to toe in impermeable rubber, the world has sold out of rubber gloves.

Mark uses these for work all the time, not only for building walls and sawing firewood, but even, occasionally, for driving his taxi. This is because he gets psoriasis on his hands, which makes his palms crack and split in great bloody chasms. He covers his hands first in the psoriasis cream, then in my home-manufactured moisturiser, and then puts on rubber gloves. Few experiences are nastier than a cut palm filled with cement dust.

I mentioned my irritation at their current dearth last night on Facebook, and within an hour some generous, lovely people from just up the road had put some in a carrier bag and left them in our garden.

I was very touched indeed, to the point of being tearful, although that might have been related to the dinnertime wine. When the Bat Flu plague is finally over and gone, the Government perhaps ought to consider turning the redundant Nightingale hospitals into detoxification units. Of course we only ever drink on nights when we are not working. Usually this is once or twice a week. Currently it is all the time. Fortunately persons involved in alcohol manufacture are sensibly considered to be key workers. I am very glad indeed about this. Wine is a joy. We seem to be running out of it with astonishing speed.

I had a Social Interaction this morning. We were coming back from our Permitted Exercise when we saw a taxi coming towards us. Of course he stopped, and we beamed at one another with the unexpected pleasure of seeing a colleague.

You might already know that other taxi drivers are usually mistrusted rivals and rascals, not at all colleagues. We do not generally work together to the same goals, we are all individual pirate ships, all intent on our own plunder, and our interaction with one another could be described as ‘guarded respect’.

Today it was a happiness surpassing almost anything to see his face, and we yelled conversation at one another across the permitted two metres.

Their taxi company, which is called Ace Taxis, is still working, a bit. This is because some of the more distant hotels still have staff trapped in their staff blocks.

The hotels are closed, and the live out staff, usually the most important like the chefs and the managers, are not there, but there is an underclass of kitchen porters and junior receptionists and housekeepers who live in staff accommodation, and who have been allowed to stay. Many of these are foreign migrant workers.

They are trapped, miles from anywhere, with nothing to do other than squabble with one another. The hotels no longer have chefs to provide their meals, they have got to feed themselves in shared staff kitchens. They are managing to get the occasional taxi back into Bowness where they can supply themselves from the Tesco Extra out of what remains of their wages.

It is not very much taxi work, but it is a little, occasionally, what a good thing for those poor staff that they are still going.

Staff accommodation is often very dreadful indeed. One staff block is called Cockroach City by its inhabitants. Lots of hotel staff survive by going out to drink a very great deal when they have finished their  working week. They blow their week’s wages on visiting the nightclub, and then relapse into subservient hungover misery until the next Monday night comes along.

I came home realising, yet again, how very fortunate we are. We are far from being bored, and so far have felt no inclination to argue with each other. We have not run short of anything, we can walk on the fells every day, the world is a jolly good place for us.

You will not be surprised to hear that this is late to be posted because I had utterly forgotten about the clocks changing. I came to the computer and was astounded to discover what time it seemed to think it was.

We have been at the wrong time all day. It didn’t seem to matter. It still doesn’t.

Have a picture of a newly-shorn boy on a walk.