Entering my second week of isolation in chez Strachan, I sit reflecting on what’s been a productive first week with regards ticking off small projects from the chore inventory I’ve created myself during lockdown.
With the rear patio and retaining wall jet blasted, the garage and my bedroom spruced up, both front and back gardens manicured to within an inch of their lives, along with two blogs a day penned/published on my website writesaidfred.org, I’m contented with my initial endeavours.
After I’ve created this daily chronicle, I intend to spend my Saturday afternoon kitchen in situ. My mission, should I choose to accept it (which I have), the cleaning out of kitchen cupboards containing non-perishable foodstuffs. This project aimed at creating meal schedules from a more informed position; consequently, understanding with greater clarity when larder replenishment’s required.
I’m aware that’ll sound a banal enterprise, providing the adrenalin rush equivalent to that experienced when counting how many flakes there are in a cornflakes pack. However if this humdrum step, along with checking freezer contents, leads to reducing the number of yours truly’s risky odysseys to purchase comestibles, it’s a task worth undertaking…… Isn’t it?!
When I’ve accomplished the non-perishable foodstuff audit and should my arrival at a lofty plateau of giddiness allow, my next intended task is to shred the massed ranks of paperwork unearthed Thursday afternoon while decluttering the garage.
Like jet blasting the detritus from patios, I find shredding documents to be a cathartic exercise. In the past I’ve spent many an hour sat alongside my Hillary Clinton Super Shredder (HCSS) watching confidential documents being turned into parchment spaghetti.
Footnote – Other makes of shredding machine products are available, but may not prove to be as swift at annihilating its paper adversary as the HCSS.
Other diminutive projects I’ve written onto my self-isolation ‘To Do’ list are replacing the ‘big light’s’ bulbs in the Lounge which demised months ago. As there are three bulbs per light fitting (x2) and only two of the six aren’t fit for purpose, I don’t deem this as a high priority task.
My mother, though, in whose house I reside, begs to differ; consequently, she’s frequently heard chirping at me to replace them. The are two reasons I’ve prioritised other tasks above this very simple task.
Firstly, the only step ladders at my disposal at this residence are 50 year old wooden ones which my late father acquired from his pater (my grandad) in 1970. The unstable nature of these DIY antiquities, along with lack of a handle to aid balance, means I’d feel more secure undertaking the bulb replacement while elevated upon a Jenga tower.
Secondly, I’ve been in no rush to swap out the dud bulbs as my mum doesn’t even use the bloody ceiling light. Preferring instead her home to be illuminated by bulb light from table lamps. Mum’s lack of use of the ‘Big Light’ actually makes me wonder how the hell she knew two of the six bulbs weren’t fit for purpose.
Another task on my self-isolation checklist which I’ve procrastinated over has been the cleaning (inside and out) of my car. If you don’t know me, you’d not be aware that providing my automobile with tender loving care is alien to me, well unless you saw it!!
If I’d have treated a child in my care with the some indifference and unloving behaviour as I do the vehicle, the social service authorities would’ve been removed from my guardianship years ago.
It’s not through laziness that this TLC isn’t forthcoming, moreover the behaviour is borne from deeming a motor vehicle as something that gets me from A to B. Consequently, the only concession given to my old Vauxhall’s well-being is an annual service, along with a compulsory yearly MOT test.
I’ve no problem with individuals who possess, or aspire to possess, a performance automobile – Good luck to them I say!….. As with most possessions, any sort of endorphin rush from owning a flash motor appears to be bereft from my DNA.
That being said, one day I’ll tick that chore of my self-isolation ‘To Do’ list. It maybe the last project I achieve from the inventory, but it’ll be undertaken. Probably just after I’ve changed the bulbs on the lounge light fitting which no one uses!!
2 kids who've flown the nest, 1 wife whose flown with Jet2. Born at a young age in 1960's Leeds, the author became interested in the literary life when his wife bought him a dog. Having an allergy to dogs, he swapped it for a typewriter. Being unable to train the typewriter to retrieve tennis balls, he reluctantly turned to writing...... Website - www.writesaidfred.org