It's Clearly A Sign

Outside, some non-specific roadworks have been moved slightly west so that the temporary traffic light with the large red sign saying WAIT HERE UNTIL GREEN LIGHT SHOWS is right outside my house.  It seems very appropriate.  Because what else can we do right now except wait for the green light? 

I'm still having weird days of illness but it's all sort of merging into general porcine lethargy now.  I do a little work, faddle around a bit with stuff in the house, do a bit more work, have some lunch and then nap.  Do a little more work, and so on.  Try to unblock the sink.  There isn't enough boiling water, vinegar, bicarbonate of soda, Mr Muscle (and his various associates) in the world to unblock this motherfucker.  It's going to have to be snaked.  It is currently making belchy snoring noises after being fed several kettles, a lot of vinegar, and then vigorously plunged.

A delivery guy today told me that it was hush-hush but that lockdown was likely to end on 11 May.  I'm no more likely to believe a delivery guy than someone on Twitter or Boris Johnson (wherever he is) but it's a nice thought that 11 May might be the day we get green-lit.   In the meantime I should probably do some work.

 

The Power of Ealing

I took a walk tonight past the house I moved to in 1983, and along surrounding roads, where I have visited only in dreams since then.  I don't remember it all being so grand, but the buildings are the same, just a little botoxed and primped.  At 21 you tend not to notice buildings much.

There is Castelbar Hill where I was pushed in a supermarket trolley, coming to a perilous halt just short of the road, laying on the pavement laughing.  The large cocktail bar in a converted garage (which I suspect was called The Garage) that served goblets of sweet creamy booze with umbrellas on Springbridge Road, is long gone.   It's now an energy consultancy, whatever that is.

I walked across Haven Green at dusk.  It's been allowed, as have we, to run a little unkempt.  And we've been locked up so long the daffodils are now just brown shrouds.  To Tesco, on Haven Green, even though I don't really need anything.  It's well stocked for the time of night.  I have noticed a quiet but confident resurgence of toilets rolls and Lemsip recently.  Presumably because those who stocked up with thirteen 48 packs are still diligently trying to shit their way through them.

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.

Life in the Old Bitch Yet

One of the many things I learned since coming back to the UK was how to live in a small space.  In Belgium I had places that were ridiculously large - in one flat, an entire room for dining and an entire room for sitting and an entire room for bed.  So many rooms.  Now, I'm pretty much in one room.  I have a toilet/shower room to the side.  It's what might once have been disparagingly called a bedsit.  I think of it as a cosy studio.  It's going to be jewel-like and tiny and beautiful once sorted.  But cosy means I currently trip over things a lot.  It won't be COVID-19 that gets me, it will be the fucking un-unpacked boxes.

I've also learned something approaching patience.  I returned to the UK only with possibilities or lack thereof.  More lack thereof than anything.  There was a lot of crying in the shower.  I gritted my old amalgam-filled teeth and carried on, not really with any sense that it would work out, but it did.

What does this all mean?  Maybe that you can teach an old dog new tricks.  An old bitch, strictly.  And I can now walk on my hind legs and do presentations to 30+ colleagues via the internet. 

Another space-saving trick there.  Woof.

Going Viral

My, that was a fair old pause.

As you might know, I'm now happily and permanently employed at a university, and have moved to a tiny flat in Ealing.  That should have been a couple of neat bows to tie things up, should it not?  The -after tagged onto happily-ever.

Then covidity arrived.  Within the space of a week we went from having jolly drinks at work together and joking about people going off precipitously sick with man-corona, to being in seclusion, working from home until further notice.  I'm adapting slowly to co-ordinating 30+ people from home (who are also at home) from my bed, with my computer resting on boxes.  Because I just moved, and have no furniture, and am basically camping.

Today is Mother's Day and my birthday.  It's fine (I'm not saying that in a Ross from Friends way).  It really is fine.  My best present will be that you all stay well and keep laughing at my lame jokes.  I can celebrate after these projected months of enforced solitude are over.  I've been much heartened by the goodness I've seen displayed, and the willingness to help vulnerable people.  I've been much disgusted by the sheer cuntery that can clear a supermarket of all its staples with piranha rapacity.  I don't care how worried shoppers are: every unneeded item bought is leaving someone else without.

We'll get through this.  Thank god we have the internet to help us, and connect us.

 

Moving Pictures

Today I moved to Bromley.  I now have an actual address, and have registered to vote.  It's a shared house but it's still an actual home, as opposed to an AirBnB, which is only one step up from being homeless.  It's been quite a tough three months.  Now I can settle a bit, save some money, and work out a plan. 

This morning as I was packing, I realised I had about a third of a bottle of wine hanging about, so I drank it.  I've never, ever drunk in the morning before so it felt daring and a little bit degenerate.  It was fine and had worn off by the time I handed over my keys.  It will be our secret. 

I had a brief love affair with Croydon in the six weeks I was there.  It was time to move on.  I'll take with me lots of mental images:  the butchers where they only play Bob Marley; the jewellery shop that sells functioning gold dummies; the market that has been setting out stalls since 1276; the slightly feral edge to the town on Friday and Saturday nights; and Boxpark, which is probably a sign of the apocalypse. 

Apparently it is possible to live with uncertainty and insecurity.  It's not fun, but it's possible.  Next week I have an interview for the job I have been doing as a temp the last two months.  Quite a lot rides on that.  If I do not get it I will have to reassess my situation quite sharply.

Goldilocks and the Three Shares

Too hot.  Too salty.  And so on.  Actually it's technically four shares but more of that later.

First of all, I'd like to take issue with myself.  In my last post I said If I were a lesser person, my confidence would have taken a huge knock.  Which sounds like I think I'm a greater person.  I'm not.  I suspect that what I meant was: if I were the person I was a few months ago, in simpler times, my confidence would have taken a huge knock.  I've had to become tough and resilient in ways I could not imagine possible.  I've had to learn to poo in a variety of homes that aren't mine.  I've had to learn that if someone is an arse to me at work, that is just because they are an arse and it does not have to spoil my day.

So, the three shares:

First of all I was in an AirBnB in Stoke Newington (Stamford Hill really, but that doesn't sound anywhere near as cool.)  I would probably have stayed there as the live-in host was a nice lady and her cat was lovely.  But she had other guests coming so...

I moved to an AirBnB in Beckton.  Too hot.  Too salty.  Sorry, I meant too many fucking aeroplanes and too far from everything.  And the live-in host was kind but really weirdly over-sharing.  So...

I moved back to Stoke Newington, this time to share with a mate for a few weeks.  I loved the area.  I was opposite my favourite cafe!  My friend was very kind and generous but the broken flat door and the broken internet finally broke me.  I started feeling very miserable.

So now I'm in Croydon, for my sins.  I feel it is obligatory to say "for my sins" after saying I'm living in Croydon.  Another AirBnB.  Live-in host seems very nice.  I shall go out exploring tomorrow.

It will be easier to get to work from here, and I have a feeling I'll end up living round here somewhere as it's relatively cheap.