“All legal restrictions on social contact could be removed by June.”
This fucking world. “Legal restrictions on social contact.”
A friend rang me up today. “How are you?” people still ask at the beginning of conversations. With social mixing gone, so have the social niceties. It used to be a reflexive question reflexively answered. One of the reasons Minnie and I are close friends is that we synchronised in college on a bad day, and we didn’t answer reflexively: “How are you?” “Well, I feel fucking shit, actually. How are you?” “Yeah, I’m shit too and angry. Let’s get a coffee.” Today my friend and I both opened the conversation saying how shit it all is.
Everybody does it. It’s the new thing. We aren’t walking around with painted on smiles anymore. It’s pretty nice that we can tell everybody we feel awful without confusing people socially. It’s shit that we feel awful though, just as it’s shit that we’d be breaking the law if we hugged each other. The only people that don’t feel awful are the people who now have generations of their family in comfort because of money made out of bent contracts awarded because of this fucker. But to be one of those people you basically have to know Boris personally.
All of the restrictions and limitations would be easier to bear if the people nominally in the hot seat weren’t such blustering crooked idiots. I’m sick of the thought of them. God save the Queen.
This isn’t about politics. Look at them. Watch Hancock trying to duck questions. Look into Boris’s eyes when he weaves his words. I hate to say it but he and I share a very very similar upbringing. It’s a choice not to evolve from it.
And yet here we all are. Let by idiots, on our island surrounded by water, still hiding in our homes while on the other side of the world another island has a maskless wreathlaying ceremony for the victims of the Christchurch earthquake ten years ago today. New Zealand is the same size as us, and it’s summer and they’re all in the pub. Bastards.
On the plus side, the plumber came round and fixed my boiler on the insurance policy. I’m running a bath and it hasn’t depressurised once, nor has it made that loud banging sound as if a small person was trapped inside it. Brave new world. One less thing to worry about. And this week the spare room is gonna get paint on the walls at last. And it might become my bedroom again. I kept on saying February is often the beginning of spring. It has been a huge disappointment. I shall be writing to my MP to complain about the cold. Likely he just gave control of the weather to one of his friends from school.
Hex had a mouse this evening. It’s incredible to be part of his life – I’ve been his sole carer for a year on March 3rd. His wayward manner and his cold warmth has been some measure of comfort to me. He is just a snake though. He isn’t pretending to be a man of the people. He isn’t making policy. He probably should be.
And that’s that. It was foggy in London. All this and weather too? Get in the bin, February. I’m done with you.