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A Cure For Many Ills

With the COVID wrecking ball’s Mexican Wave continuing it’s circumnavigation of the globe, life in this Wyndhamesque post-apocalyptic landscape lingers unabated. With the world bereft of a scientific counteragent, the pathogen making hay following its Faustian selling of soul to Beelzebub. A stark metaphorical pact granting coronavirus carte blanche to proceed with its grim agenda.

COVID-19’s insipid objectives aided by those obdurate global citizens ignoring pleas to remain indoors, along with social distancing edicts. As the bible observes “Hear now this, O foolish people, and without understanding; which have eyes, and see not; which have ears, and hear not.

For the first time since lockdown incarceration, GJ Strachan has woken meandering a path of disenchantment at the prevailing coronavirus restrictions. Even prospects of waxing lyrical, gardening and a social distancing compliant wander, activities which ordinarily infuse some degree of brio, have thus far failed to lift my mood.

Let me say here and now, I deem myself lucky in that only real danger of contracting COVID-19 is during a daily 20 minute walk. Yours truly isn’t and won’t (hopefully) be exposed to the prolonged dangers of front line medics, or indeed anyone who can’t work from home. A situation for which I feel contrite and truly blessed.

My mum, witnessing my melancholic mood, endeavoured to lift my spirits by suggesting “Cheer up you miserable bleeder!…… In Africa some people have to walk 500 miles for a glass of dirty water!” 

Her sentiments I should cheer up are of course not without foundation. After all I’m living in a comfortable home with a garden, providing the wherewithal to exercise, inhale fresh air and sun bequeathed vitamin D. I’ve also access to food and beverages.

I would argue, though, her suggestion that “…… In Africa some people have to walk 500 miles for a glass of dirty water!” is factually incorrect. I suspect the silly old sod is getting the actual walk distances to obtain water confused with a song by Scottish band The Proclaimers.

Actually, the idiosyncrasy of Maggie’s muddled adages does generally cheer me up. In fact, I actively encourage them by, during verbal exchanges, raising controversial observations hoping to prise out a comment of jocular gold from the old lady’s mouth.

By lighting the oratory blue touch paper, I can oft lever whimsical maternal observation like “I’m not paying that much for a new lawn mower!….. My arse isn’t bleeding studded with diamonds!!” 

Just one of many humorous sayings in her quotations locker. Sentiments which are oft given an airing/dust down to impart levity into the prevailing existential soundscape. Most of them I’m pretty sure she made up herself….. A conclusion reached as, during my half century on this planet, there’s several of the expressions I’ve never heard anyone else utter.

If truth be told, just thinking of these sayings and penning a few hundred words has manifested a perking up of my mood. After concluding this chronicle I’m gonna proceed with my day with a far greater spring in my step than when I sat down to write the narrative.

Thanks, mum!!!


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