It’s me and the cat and a chamomile tea again. If you came here for the ill advised pissed up ranting, you’re way out of date. It’s been a long time since I’ve had three bottles of wine and drooled out my insecurities for all to marvel at. I’ve done so well in the past at being drunk angry blogman. I’ve got some people who got insulted by drunk Al in print once upon a time and are generally ill disposed to me as a result. The problem with this momentary thought is that you can Google it a year from now. On the whole it’s no big deal. But this record long outlasts the moment in which it was written. I frequently have to remind myself of that.
The paradigm is shifting so fast in times of COVID that it’s impossible to keep up. All the opposing theories and judgements are running up against each other and suddenly we are allowed to go to the pub so long as the wind is southerly and there are three people whose name begins with a vowel in your group. “Pubs and streets here are overflowing,” says Lou. They’re all out – all the people. Some clueless blonde moptop stuck a pin in the calendar and that’s going to protect us all from invisible pathogens or lizards or whatever the fuck you’re going to tell me is going on right now.
Everybody went to the shop in order to pretend they were normal and the last year didn’t happen. They bought pants.
I went for an exploratory stroll around my local streets, expecting to find at least one pub overspilling with laughing grown ups drinking sugary fun. This part of town is still pretty buttoned up though. A few small tables outside Gordon Ramsey, having their steak and wine despite the bitter cold that gives the lie to the spring. Everything else still boarded. Not yet for Chelsea it seems. Not yet.
So I went home and bought a Tiffany uplighter on eBay, and a cat scratching board that I’m hoping will draw the attention of Mao before he gets through the rest of my furniture. I’m not holding out much hope. I treated him to some gourmet cat food, and he responded by ignoring it and puking in the doorway. I got him a can of tuna and he was immediately happy again. He’s a temperamental creature. Good for the stroking. Generally affectionate. Leaves hair everywhere.
We had a half hour long hairball removal session just now and he’s patient and eloquent with the process. He wants them out as much as I do and he’s willing to work with me on it. I’ve never come across such a stoic little beast. As different from Pickle as night from day, but still undeniably a cat.
So here we are, having not gone out to welcome another attempt to bring back the familiar. I’ll get around to it. For now I’m gonna sleep and dream just as soon as I’ve finished this two litre pot of chamomile.