The house arrest has started, self restraint, self isolation. All down to a microscopic virus that you can’ even see with a conventional microscope. You need a fancy scanning electron chunk of kit that can magnifying thousands of times before you can see the little blighters.
Despite it’s diminutive size it holds disproportionately immense power. Scientists have described it as a truly magnificent creation a thing of beauty able to evolve and mutate at an amazing rate. To the rest of us it is truly an absolute bastard of the highest order.
Being of an age considered to a tad vulnerable we are obliged to go hide for the foreseeable. This sounds idilic on a tropical island, with deserted white sand beaches and a gentle surf, maybe the odd coconut and a glass of cold beer. But the poor U.K. has taken a battering from Brexit, general elections, and winter storms that have been queuing up in the Atlantic to come play with us.
Cold, damp, grey weather is just not fair. Being cooped up indoors with the threat of daytime TV is not easily going to lift the spirits. And the scarcity of soap in supermarkets has spread into the world of TV soap operas. We all need to engage positive Dunkirk mindset slightly before going into full fret mode worrying about where the next loo roll is going to come from. Do you remember the days when the choice of paper also extended to pastel shades to match the decor? And a few of us can remember the era of Izal toilet tissue, with its Jeyes fluid cold tar aroma and “Now wash your hands” printed on every shiny sheet. Those were the days when wiping a bum meant something! Ironically I could hardly imagine anyone wanting to stockpile Izal.
The other alternative, in the day, was torn up newspaper tied up with string in one corner. Could this be behind the online subscription newspapers now offering to deliver printed copies free of charge?
Shortly before the ‘gate’ closed I decided to stock up on paint, with a touch of undercoat, sandpaper, dust masks and gloss white paint. For it has been said that the inside windows are looking a touch jaded and would welcome some tender loving care. This poses a dilemma. Firstly I hate painting. Secondly the finished effect is to say the least problematic. If you want paint runs, drips and smudges, maybe a few streaks across the glass then I’m you man! If you want I can also moan constantly about the process and clean brushes in most inappropriate places, and not very well. Having failed to clean the brushes properly means the day begins by bashing the daylights out of a brush to ease the bristles into behaving.
Just to add insult the windows are Georgian with around three million corners.