Behind the mask

I shopped wearing a scarf over my face for the first time today. I was almost deafened by the sound of my principles hitting the floor as I entered the shop... it did not sit well with me. Having my face covered felt completely alien and unnatural – I raced round the store like Usain Bolt, I couldn’t wait to get outside and feel fresh air again. Of course, some people might say not having to see my face is a positive improvement. I’d probably agree.

Well, it is what it is. As stated, I’ve drawn my line – shopping for anything other than food (plus essential visits to GP, dentist or hospital, obviously) is not going to happen. If it goes on for months and months and the High St dies in the meantime… so be it. I’ll manage.

Incidentally, I’m convinced we’ll have another complete lockdown this winter – it won’t be needed, but then neither was this one...

In the news, Boris is now saying overweight people all need to lose weight in order to avoid revealing quite how useless the NHS is. Well, he didn’t use those exact words but that was the general thrust of the message – once again it’s all about taking pressure off the bloody NHS. To help you with this weight loss you may be prescribed cycling (ye gods!) and he’s going to ban “junk food” advertising and BOGOF deals on “unhealthy” food.

So, what exactly is junk or unhealthy food? Good question. It’s one I pondered nearly eight years ago when I wrote this. Nothing changes, does it?  There’s no such thing as unhealthy food in my opinion, just unhealthy amounts of food. Eat whatever you like, but don’t eat as much as you like. Simple. One suggestion – maybe a fat bloke isn’t the best person to lecture others about losing weight?

Any other rules and regulations he dreams up, he can shove… sideways. None of it’s consistent or necessary, anyway – I’m not going along with any more of this crap.

Boris is clearly intelligent and I always used to think he was a decent chap, but his handling of Covid has proved otherwise. He’s treated it like a financial admin exercise but it’s so much more than that. The ill-thought-out rules have never taken people’s everyday lives or mental health into account – some poor souls will never recover and still it continues. Difficult to know where it’ll end, to be honest.

The only rule still in place which particularly affects me is the draconian and inhuman edict not to hug your family. If it was only about me, I’d never have stopped, but it isn’t… other people have to be considered; I’m ready to hug the Troops whenever they’re ready – but they have to feel comfortable with it too. As soon as my son says “Sod this, enough’s enough” I’ll be all over them like a rash!

The porridge (OK... oats) crop growing in the field has been harvested! They snuck in over the weekend while I wasn’t watching and all that’s left is a field of stubble. I never even got to go round with my bowl and spoon… Maybe next year.

Masks and marmalade

I’ve calmed down a little after the mask announcement – I’m still spitting blood but, having thought it through with a slightly cooler head, I’ve drawn a line to which I am prepared to go… but I will go NO further. 

The line: I will shop for fresh food essentials in between supermarket deliveries (grateful as I am to Sainsbury’s, we get through so much fruit, veg and salad that a delivery once a week just isn’t enough), I will not wear a mask – I will wear a scarf and I will not, under any circumstances, shop in person for anything other than food. I don't feel good about compromising my principles, I feel I'm letting myself down, but for food shopping it’s the only sensible thing to do. God... it rankles, though.

I shopped this morning for milk, bread, eggs and fresh stuff – buns may also have accidentally fallen into my trolley! I didn’t see any customers without a mask… except me, I'm proud to say! I took a few sideways looks from the masked sheeple but no-one had the balls to say anything to me. Next week I’ll wear a scarf… this week I wasn’t required to, so I didn’t. Simple.

Sickens me to see sheeple online wittering about how best to make a mask, how ‘attractive’ they can be in different colours, posting pictures of ‘me in my mask’ and being told “Oooh, nice mask”… worst  of all, being thrilled about how a mask allows them to get back to ‘normal’. Normal? Normal..?! Are you completely mad? Before Covid, did you wear a bloody mask to go and buy a pint of milk? No, of course you didn’t, you brainless lump, so how the hell is this normal?!

If High St shops are going along with this nonsense and not allowing customers in without a mask, then they have only themselves to blame if their businesses go belly up.

Boris came up with another load of drivel at the end of last week – I don’t know all the details; I ignore most of it now. Until such time as he tells me I can hug my son and grandchildren… I’m not interested. The mere fact that I have to wait for permission to do something so human, so ordinary, makes me want to weep.

News from the kitchen: Having finally managed to procure some bicarb, I made Nigella’s Marmalade Pudding Cake that I mentioned previously. It wasn’t the prettiest, as you can see, but the flavour and texture were lovely.

Anyway, looks aren’t important when it’s smothered in custard! It was very moist, orangey and spongy. I don’t think it’d work terribly well as an actual cake, although I'm willing to give it a whirl, but it was very nice as a pud – I’ll definitely make it again, maybe with some lemon marmalade that I made a few weeks ago. I halved the recipe for justthe two of us - it's not that we wouldn't eat it all, it's more the fact that we would!

We seem to have been living on plates of roast veg and griddled halloumi recently, it’s my new favourite summer meal. It’s quick and easy, plus any leftovers get made into an oven-baked frittata, which is probably my second favourite meal du jour. Win, win!

Bye bye, shopping

As expected… Boris has made it compulsory to wear masks in shops from next week. He clearly wants to keep us all under control for a bit longer. Oh well, that’s shopping off the menu for me for the foreseeable. As previously stated, I will NOT wear a mask.

I mentioned on Twitter a couple of days ago that I’d be staying at home if Boris mandated masks. Well, blimey, that was it… they went up like a rocket! I was called every name under the sun for exercising my right not to go out rather than wear a bloody mask. Apparently, I’m selfish, stupid, childish and a few other things besides… furthermore, I am personally to be held responsible for the demise of the High St simply by having the temerity to stay in my own home! Who knew I had such power?!!

I know some shops are struggling to stay afloat and I’m sure it’s hard for them but, quite frankly, I'm not interested. It’s not my fault, so don’t tell me… tell Boris; he’s the one wrecking the economy and ruining the livelihoods of decent people, not me. I’m happy to go out and spend, but not if I have to dress up like a bank robber.

There has been talk of the death of the High St for a few years now – looks like that's going to happen more quickly than anyone thought. I can’t think why he’d want it but, if that’s what Boris wants, that’s what he’ll get.

I’ve given up a hell of a lot in the name of this damn virus… I refuse to give more ground. We saw the family at the weekend… socially distanced and, yet again, no hugs. It’s hard to articulate just how much I miss hugging my son and grandchildren, how painful it is. It brings me to tears just thinking about it. Boris has forced behaviours upon us that, only six months ago, we couldn’t have imagined. Stuff your masks. Bastards.

At the start of all this, when I began rambling on here again, I was angry. I’m way past angry now – I'm a permanent seething mass of fury. It’s probably best to stay out of my way.

I really didn’t think I’d still be sitting here four months on, still talking to myself and spitting with fury.

I wonder how much longer it’ll be?

Hair today

My hair has finally been cut for the first time in more than four months! Yippee! It looks lovely, you say…? Oh, you’re too kind… but thank you for mentioning it!

Now that we can have a hairdresser within inches of us, I wonder how long it’ll be before Boris grows a pair and says we’re ‘allowed’ to hug our adult children and grandchildren? Difficult, though, for him to relinquish some of the power and control he’s had recently – for polticians, it’s the stuff of which dreams are made!

I can live without shops and restaurants with their social distancing and bloody hand gel, I don’t give a toss about gyms and swimming pools still being closed and (sorry, nail bars) I’ve never had a manicure in my life… all I want is to hug my loved ones without feeling that I’m being delinquent. Nothing else. Doesn’t seem much to ask, does it?

The rates of deaths and infection continue to decline – it really isn’t bad enough to continue keeping the entire country living under a poorly thought out set of petty rules and regulations. Economically, this country is dying on its feet – it’s not Covid-19 that’s doing it, it’s our spineless politicians.

TV Sport is off the agenda chez nous for the time being. Footballers, tennis players and, last Sunday, Formula 1 drivers (with six decent, honourable exceptions) all down on one knee. (Update 9.7.20: Dear god, the bloody cricketers were at it as well, yesterday).

I don’t expect to see politicians playing professional sport and I don’t expect to see professional sportsmen making political points. I certainly don’t want to be patronised by Lewis Hamilton telling me I ‘have a lack of understanding of racism’… I understand only too well, thank you. Come back to me when you’ve grown up and sorted out what’s going on in your head, Lewis.

They can do as they please, though, and so can I... While this nonsense is going on, I won’t have anything to do with televised sport. Thing is, it’s all temporary; give it a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, and it’ll all blow over until the next fashionable cause comes along. And it will… it always does. Sheeple love a ‘cause’.

Shopping news: We’re off to pick up an eagerly awaited ‘click and collect’ tomorrow. Compost! My life is one long round of glamour, excitement and fun...!

Pub's open... cheers!

July 4^th – Happy American Independence Day, if that’s your thing.

It’s also the day when we’re ‘allowed’ to get our hair cut and go to a pub or restaurant, as long as you’re prepared to jump through hoops and stand on one leg while wearing mis-matched socks… OK, I might have made up the bit about legs and socks but, quite honestly, I wouldn’t put it past them to come up with it.

I’m getting my hair cut on Monday - whoopee! - but, having said repeatedly that I will NOT wear a bloody stupid mask, I at first refused my lovely hairdresser when she offered an appointment but said I’d have to bring a mask. When I said “Thanks, but no thanks” and explained why, bless her heart, she said she’d come to my house instead… where I can do whatever the hell I like and no mask required. Up yours, Boris.

I’ll still be angry, old and grey haired but at least I won’t scare the horses. Oh, happy day.

Going to a restaurant will take a bit longer because I refuse to join in the pantomime of having my temperature taken at the door, using hand sanitiser at the table and social-distancing while I eat my meal served by a faceless waiter/ess. Where’s the enjoyment in that? Going to a restaurant isn’t only about the food.

I’m sure some restaurants will go to the wall, thanks to Boris, and I’m desperately sorry for the people who’ll lose their livelihoods but, until it all returns to what I consider normal, I’m out. I’m sick of cooking and I’d really love to have lunch out somewhere (anywhere would do!) but for now… no thanks.

In an effort to get myself out of the “I hate cooking” rut, I thought I’d have a go at this this little beauty. Nigella suggests serving it with custard, which is fine by me. Actually, anything that can be served with custard is fine by me, Might post a pic if it turns out ok.

Anyone who doesn’t like custard is not to be trusted. Remember that – it’ll stand you in good stead.