Fannying About

One of the worst things about the Lockdown is that one cannot tell hypochondria from genuine illness.  This morning I woke up feeling as if heavy pigeons were fighting inside me.  I've had waves of weirdness several times over the last weeks and either it's mild C-19 returning for another little crack or it's just me catastrophising, or both.

So the beef stew is back in the oven, augmented with falafels and a slug of Canadian whisky.  This crisis will make chefs of us all.  I suspect I'll be more Fanny Cradock than Nigella.  If I start dyeing eggs blue please disconnect me.

Today I am planning a walk around the ghost streets of Ealing.  Ghostly not only for the lack of people but for the fact that every road is loaded with past, in my head.  Perhaps someone lived there at school, a boy or something.  Not a boy on every road, obviously.  I was never that popular.  The ghost buses go past my window, ferrying empty seats to Greenford. 

I'm planning Co-op potato slices with the stew and then I will sit and wonder about the pins and needles in my arm, for hours.