As I perch in self-isolation, whilst endeavouring to reduce the risk of contracting COVID-19, I’m pondering who was the metaphorical Pandora who opened the box to unleash this odious coronavirus among the global family.
For the uninitiated, in Greek mythology, Pandora opened a jar left in her care which unbeknown to her containing sickness, death and many other unspecified evils which were then released into the world.
Though she hastily closed the container upon realised the can of worms she’d unleashed, Hope remained the only emotion she managed to contain. Hope the only altruistic member amongst the other bunch of evil misfits, which ironically was solely deprived of liberty from the cylinder.
The stark bunch released from Pandora’s box included gold, frankincense and mass toilet tissue shortages….. Actually, I might be confusing that with another historic tale or two.
Talking of the evil released from Pandora’s box, I spoke to my estranged wife Karen today. Legend has it that her forebears were amongst the enchanted cylinder’s escapees. Her great grandfather (x100) Isaac, a renowned coveter of asses, gaining notoriety from becoming the first man in County Durham to make both graven and ungraven images.
Seriously, though, I’d a cordial conversation with Karen, during which she offered me a gratis tub from the 112 portions of humus she panic bought last week. I deemed this to be a noble and conciliatory gesture, however as I don’t like humus I diplomatically declined her benevolence.
These days she seems to have thawed her motherly indoctrinated lack of joy and affection towards me. So much so she actually thanked me for still paying all the bills at the marital home I loved, which I’ll never be able to return to as a consequence of her penchant to rewrite history….. By rewrite history I mean make up any old bollocks to support her spiteful and misleading propaganda aimed at villianising me.
I’ve had a particularly productive day today. I’ve cleaned out the garage, binning lots of detritus and sweeping the floor based dust, which when in cloud form temporarily brought on a dry cough symptomatic of contracting COVID-19. To clarify, I haven’t become the latest victim of the globally destructive pathogen. Not that I’m aware of anyhow!
I’ve just returned back into my East Ardsley abode after joining street members after two minutes of clapping for our UK’s carer’s. Individuals such as NHS staff, food store employees, transportation operatives and public service workers who’re underpinning the public’s ability to survive COVID-19, along with supplying comestibles for our survival.
It was a very moving two minutes, during which not only was neighbourhood clapping heard in support of our ‘heroes’, but fireworks were also launched in what felt not only an appreciative gesture, but one of patriotism borne from being at war with this insipid pathogen. Our foe invisible and deadly, but seemingly the UK public’s resolve to prevail equally as robust.
This patriotic gesture moved me to listen to the aural accompaniment of Elgar’s Pomp & Circumstance – A composition sang traditionally each year in September’s Last Night of the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall.
