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Glass Bottle Carnage

With this sceptred isle’s populace upping their alcohol consumption during lockdown, I expect when this sorry chapter eases bottle bank queues will replicate those currently witnessed outside supermarkets.

This future episode leading to current advice to UK citizens of ‘Stay In -> Protect the NHS -> Save  Lives’ being updated to ‘Stay In -> Protect Glass Recycling Workers -> You Bunch of P***heads‘.

The latter lacking the concise, snappy message of the former, but if you’re a government PR strategist you can consider the tagline a gift from me…… Anything to help my country in its hour of need.

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This afternoon, I’ve been undertaking garden maintenance. Being bereft of access to purchasing new shrubs, courtesy of COVID-19, I’ve been forced to scavenge around my borders to locate flora and fauna that’ve been starved light by adjacent plants. Subsequently, replanting them within the more suitable shrub sparse locales of the borders.

On completion the garden circumference bears a tidier, healthier balance of plants. Consequently, this colourful sanctuary will soon hopefully return to the chromatic splendour it enjoyed prior to my old man’s passing. The space in recent years being a victim of losing his meticulous horticultural maintenance once cancer came calling.

As an aside, on returning into the house post-gardening, my mater felt moved to suggest my shameful shrub scavenging “Showed us up!” Adding further that neighbours witnessing my behaviour would now bear a misapprehension the Strachan household haven’t got “Two ha’pennies to scratch their arses with!“….. Unsurprisingly, a thank you from Mrs S for sprucing up the garden was conspicuous by its absence.

Like all households in the UK, this morning I received a generic letter from 10 Downing Street bearing a copy of prime minister (PM) Boris Johnson’s signature. At least I’d envisage they’re copies of Boris’ mark.

I doubt very much he’d have spent the last week adding a signature to millions of letters bound for his nations abodes…….. To be honest, as he’s currently in an intensive care unit after contracting COVID-19, I bloody hope the communications haven’t been in his possession!!

Seriously, though, get well Boris!

It’s now early evening. Scrutinising the aesthetically pleasing canvas of my back garden, I concentrate my gaze on the shrubs I laid into the earth this afternoon. These a mixture of acquilegia and foxgloves; cottage garden plants which’ll shortly provide the area with an infusion of colour, or would have if I’d not planted them root side up!….. What the….!!

Earlier, I spoke to my brother Ian over the phone. He informed me he’s so stir crazy living under current restrictions have negated against him immediately hanging up when offshore call centres ring surveying his retail spending behaviour.

It was good to chat with my younger sibling, who’s lots of interesting anecdotes to share. Sadly, this evening none of them were aired to his older brother who, on hearing a tale about how gobstoppers got their names, opened a conciliatory bottle of wine, which’ll later be added to his line of glass bottle empties!

When my mum came to speak to our kid she bizarrely decided to go through the same ‘WWII baby makes me stronger’ spiel she’d furnished her middle child with the previous week; of which I wrote in You Don’t Know You’re Born!

This COVID-19 existence truly is a Groundhog Day episode of immense proportions.

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