Self-isolation day nine – A day where tiredness reigns, but the rain never tires.
I spent a decent part of yesterday afternoon purging no longer worn clothes from the drawers and wardrobe in GJ Strachan’s bed chamber. Not all unused attire; but still a decent proportion of my threads were lobbed into a bag for onward transportation to a charity shop.
On Planet COVID, as I barely switch from the same few t-shirts, hoodies and jeans, binning stuff everything I don’t currently adorn would’ve left me with the sparsest of fashion choices.
For example, prior to the emergence of this dysfunctional pathogen, yours truly would occasional wear a jacket, shirt and smart jeans/chinos for a night out. Three items which I’ve not worn for months, but’ve no intention of consigning to the clothes bag of death.
Footnote – I realise clothes don’t technical die, but, like the person who stole my hamster Archie, they’re dead to me…… Well, that would apply if I knew the identity of Archie’s kidnapper.
Incidentally, I’m aware you can still go out for a drink (until 10pm). However, I’ve a much enthusiasm to partake in that jeopardous act as I have to be a passenger in a Barnard Castle bound car driven by Dominic Cummings.
My jackets cost me too much money, around £200 each, to merely chuck out because my next night on the tiles could be 2025…… Incidentally, that’s the year, not the time.
In particular, I’m very fond of my tweed jacket, which cost me an arm and a leg. This despite one of the sleeves being empty after sacrificing the arm and leg.
I always feel smartly dressed in the coat, unless I wear it with raggy ass jeans and mud covered wellies….. Which, admittedly, is rare….. When saying rare, I actually mean never.
It’s nice to occasionally dress with sartorial elegance. I’ve particularly missed getting suited and booted to attend events such as York race meetings. The last three occasions I’ve worn one of my suits was during attendance at funerals.
Prior to COVID, typically my year’d witness me adorn suits at four race meetings and a funeral. Which, as an aside, were episodes provided yours truly with similar brio levels to that experienced by Hugh Grant’s buddies in comedy movie ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’.
I’ve no idea who’d play me in ‘Four Race Meetings and a Funeral’. I recently asked my adult daughter Rachel who she thinks would portray me most believably, to which she responded Whoopi Goldberg…… A retort I’d venture rules her out of ever holding down employment as a Head of Casting.
Among the plethora of mostly creased t-shirts I sorted through, were around ten procured during the scores of occasions I’ve undertaken voluntary work for cancer charities.
However, as I plan to enrol for further voluntary roles as and when coronavirus loosens its vice like grip on the globes throat, they weren’t added to the clothes bag of death.
My cautious and mistrusting nature also blocked me from disposing of the t-shirts I’ve proudly worn when representing MacMillan Cancer Support, Marie Curie and Wakefield Hospice. I didn’t want to jeopardise them being picked up and misused by nefarious individuals.
For some reason, despite filling a 40 litre bin bag of clothes to pass to a charity shop, my bedroom drawers and wardrobe remain burgeoning.
I’m told that these stores have to quarantine any clothes donated for a fortnight. I’m unsure if the relayer of this information is ‘taking the Michael’.
However, if they aren’t I don’t understand why you’d be any the wiser whether clothing was COVID infested by merely dumped it in the corner for two weeks.
To me, it seems a pretty hallow act…… What next ? Taking the temperature of all inbound clobber!!