Isolate!…. Isolate!

Necessitated by enforced self-isolation for the familial matriarch and me, I’ve just ordered a delivery of our weekly shop from Morrisons.

My inaugural experience of this comestible purchasing avenue a painless enough episode. Well, apart from for the engaging young lass in customer services who patiently guided this indecisive fella through the product selection process.

Upon concluding my call, I received a commitment this shopping bounty would be delivered tomorrow. An assurance which left me impressed at the measures this supermarket had adopted for ensuring larders of the isolated customer wouldn’t resemble old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

With the weeks shop out of the way, I’ve now gotta work out a strategy for spending two weeks stuck in the house without wanting to throttle my ditzy old mum.

Despite her well-meaning persona, fourteen days in her presence would test the patience of someone with s**t loads more patience than me….. Which, admittedly, is probably most of the globe!

The reason for this self-isolation is that a fellow attendee at a funeral I attended last Thursday was diagnosed with COVID yesterday. My mum or me don’t display any symptoms, unless my frequent uttering of “For f***s sake!” is an indication of contracting the pathogen…… If it was, there’s a chance I’ve had COVID for the last two decades!!

It was re-assuring to hear that the cocktail of drugs the US president received to treat his COVID diagnosis don’t have side affects which’ll impair his cognitive responses…… I’d have hated to think the free world was being led by a man robbed of his mental capacity to recall and repeat the words ‘Person, Woman, Man, Camera and TV’.

I’m gonna have to bring this narrative to a close shortly. I want to ensure the last remnants of any horticultural maintenance get undertaken before Friday, when the garden refuse bin it emptied, possibly for the last time in 2020.

Less than three months and this utterly surreal year will have run it’s course. I’ve lost count of the people who’ve recently posited “I can’t bloody wait for this year to end, you fat b*****d!”

Yours truly understands why these individuals feel that way, and their observations about my weight aren’t too far wide of the mark. However I bear little, if any, sanguine 2021 will injection more brio into existential proceedings, especially in the absence of a COVID vaccine.

As I officially leave my work role at the end of this November, one thing I’m certain about in 2021 is, at some juncture, I’ll need to seek new employment. In an ideal world securing a role where I’ll play to my strengths.

Talking about hopes for 2021 may lead to accusations of GJ Strachan wishing his life away. Since my heart attack last year, though, I endeavour to take each day as it comes, along with lots of other cliched b*ll*cks. Next year was merely raised to relay upcoming changes to my work status.

Right, I’m bringing today’s chronicling to a conclusion now. There’s grass to cut, a shower required, a cottage pie to prepare for dinner and a caricature to etch.

Until next time……. As the Until Next Time Society are oft heard mooting.

Leave a Reply