I’ve lost track of our lockdown day number. In fact I’ve lost track of the days, Tuesday, Wednesday or Sunday? My days are defined by who is on Radio 2, Ken Bruce, Jeremy Vine and good old Sara Cox let me know it’s a week day anyone else on during the day, it must be a weekend. I’ve washed up, hoovered, dusted, put the washer on and done it all again and again. It’s like Groundhog Day.
I did venture out to the chemist the other day. Stood outside in a queue of 5 people for an hour, what a twit, I didn’t take my coat. Pigging freezing by the end of it. Standing in line 2 metres apart, everyone had masks and gloves on and I didn’t even have a coat on. It gave me time to appreciate the beautiful town we are isolated in without all the tourists.
There’s nothing on the box, there’s only so much of Antiques Roadshow and Homes under the Hammer you can take. Online he goes, with a smile on his face The Boss announces he has a free month on Netflix, then spends the next hour trawling through it, apparently there’s nothing on there he fancies either.
I’ve gone and got myself a puncture, a thorn straight through. Guess what? Not only have I no clothes here, we also have no inner tubes for my bike here, they’re all at home. He digs out a super skinny racing inner tube and sticks it in my fat tyre. He says “Not to worry, you don’t ride fast enough for a high speed blow out”.
He’s worked out our garden loop is three laps to a mile and ten miles is mind numbingly boring, but he’s also sure it’s better than ten miles around your standard back garden. He will go again tomorrow … and Tuesday … and Wednesday, there’s a groove appearing in the tarmac.