Stream of covidness
I wake up with a stiff neck this morning. I squish my shoulder up to my ear and press it down. No joy. I roll my head around and pull faces. I moan about it to the Husband. It still hurts. I go downstairs, feed the hen, put the porridge on and think about the day ahead. Others begin to emerge from the house like woodlice from a fallen branch. The youngest daughter decides to make her own porridge. I use one third milk, two thirds water: she likes all milk. The eldest appears and takes her porridge straight to her makeshift desk. She’s working 12-14 hours in a virtual office world that is a far cry from the tranquil Berwick environment she’s roosting in temporarily.
I scan the Covid news briefly. I’m finding it harder to look at it as time goes on. I don’t think it’s because I’ve lost interest, I think it’s because this is it. This is what we are living. I wonder how it feels to be lumbered with Trump as your leader right now. The youngest daughter and I discuss briefly whether he has an ideology – the Husband says not. I suggest it’s all about self-aggrandisement and project Trump. He has made it clear in the past that he believes anyone who doesn’t grab what they can and take opportunities to increase their wealth and power – even if it’s against the law or hurts others – is an idiot. So, I guess he’s living the dream. Why do people trust him? Does anyone seriously believe that now is the optimum time for the States to withdraw funding from the World Health Organisation?
It’s a long time since the two daughters and the Husband and I have all lived together. The mini Trump in all of us is beginning to emerge. Instead of answering questions or responding to the point in hand, we toss casual insults at each other: ‘What’s he doing now?’ ‘Yes, look at him. Staring. That’s what he’s doing. Just staring.’ The girls lurch from hugging each other lovingly, to mocking each other’s knees, toes, noses, hair. They even bite each other. I am told to stop making everything into a lesson and accused of being over-sensitive. It’s just like being a family again. We focus on memories of small injustices. Turns out the Husband tortured the eldest daughter by forcing her to have celery salt on her quail’s eggs as a teenager. What an arse. She hates celery in all its forms.
I hear the news on the radio that there are cases of Covid in the camps in Yemen. I feel sick and anxious. There’s a wobbly ceasefire there which is pretty much being ignored. The UN predicts that 93% of the population could become infected. I distract myself by pulling up some weeds in the garden.
A dear friend’s dog had to be put down yesterday. He had been poorly for sometime. I’m not a great dog lover but I did love Cuddy. I was one of his walkers – along with a stalwart crew of other locals who ensured he got his exercise twice a day, rain or shine. It will be hard for my friend not to have her lovely canine companion. I wonder if she will be able to get another dog and if I would help with walking it if she does. I’ve felt guilty not walking Cuddy during lockdown.
The whole celery torture thing came up because I felt compelled to cook the celeriac mouldering on the shelf: it would be a crime to let any food go to waste right now. Although, why now and not before…? I’ve taken to gathering onion skins and other vegetable offcuts in a bag in the fridge and using them to make veg stock for stews, risottos, soups etc. We are also working our way through the ice-encrusted weird and wonderful offerings that the Husband has secretly stashed in the freezer over the years, hoping I won’t notice. Well, I’m finding them now! He froze yoghurt. Defrosted, it became a curdled liquid mush. We made him eat it on his porridge.
I squeeze my shoulder up to my ear again. Ouch! At some point my stiff neck will magically disappear but, until then, it’s really painful. As the pandemic continues, I wonder if more American people will notice the painful truth: Trump is as insane as any James Bond villain.