Somebody important in Canada has decreed that everybody ought to wear a mask whilst doing sex. This is to stop us all from getting Bat Flu.
We do not have to do this here yet, so far we only have to wear masks when we go out. This is because of scientific evidence that if we all do as we are told it will all be over by Christmas.
The concept of wearing masks at such personal moments has been much discussed on the taxi rank.
I regret to say that most drivers seemed to feel that it might be a bonus, because it offered one a far wider choice of partners.
Taxi drivers are not very woke.
I regret to say that I laughed, which made me think that probably I am not very woke either. I will never make it into the middle classes.
Of course I am on the taxi rank. We have had two nights off now, and our cash reserves have dwindled considerably as a result, so there had better not be another one for a while.
Not that being at work is making us very much wealthier. Everything closes very early these days, and the local young people do not come out to pubs at all. They are not allowed to dance or sing or shout across the pub to each other any more, so they all slope off to parties in one another’s houses instead. We can hear them at nights when we empty the dogs. They seem to be dancing and singing and shouting in secret, and it cheers my inner rebel to know that at least they are having a good time despite the Government’s best efforts.
I do not mind being quiet, because actually it is nice to have a bit of a rest.
We have come home to a completely wrecked crater of a house.
Mark has been so busy working, and I have been so busy packing and organising and sewing, that for the last few weeks nothing of any importance has been done.
If you rewind to the last time we did anything useful in the house you will be almost back to the beginning of the tape marked Summer 2020.
The house is dark, and grim, and utterly trashed.
I got up this morning and could hardly bear to be in it.
Clutter has crept everywhere.
The new living room is so full of clutter you can barely squeeze past it. There are bags of pretend plaster, because you can’t get proper plaster any more, and bits of wood and plasterboard, and general junk all over the place. The walls are gritty with hole filler and festooned with loose wires, and the floor is a horrible dusty cement wilderness.
We had come back from a couple of days away, and so there were several days of unwashed clothes spilling out of the laundry basket. Oliver’s bedclothes and towels were piled on the floor. I have got to make them fresh and crisp before he comes back again. I know that this is ages away, but I did not think that I wanted them to fester in a smelly heap for all of that time.
I washed them today. Really I should have cleaned his bedroom as well, but I think that can wait until after the weekend. Today I milled about dazedly picking things up and putting them back down, and wishing with all of my soul that the house were tidy.
The wishing did not seem to have any effect, although I tried it again from the taxi this evening, when I could see the stars.
It seems that Walt Disney was not right about everything.
It is nice to see the stars again, though, one of the worst parts about not being able to go to work was having no reason to be out in the night time. I even lost track of what the moon was doing. It is very good indeed to be back.
I regret to say that I did not manage to make the house very tidy. I swept the fireplace and picked things up off the floor, and gave the dogs a bag of leftover chocolate raisins that had melted together and had become too unappetising for human consumption.
I might wish again before I go to bed. Perhaps when I get up tomorrow the Tidy Fairies will have been. I know they are real, there is lots of evidence. I remember the Tooth Fairy, who used to bring me sixpence. It was under my pillow in the morning.
You can’t argue with evidence, that’s what I say.
