The Grapes of Inertia
Reflections from a survivor after being locked inside with tiny despots.
That was the longest holiday from society, also sobriety. (Seriously, I am flammable right now.)
Given the complete fustercluck (pretty sure that’s German translation for Trump) of the world right now, it feels rather heedless to complain about anything from the safe haven of our little country which is actually on the cusp of coronavirus elimination. I don’t want to sound like one of those bratty Willy Wonka Golden ticket holders – Veruca Salt (“Daddy I want a squirrel – now!”) or maybe the fatty who gets stuck in the giant pipe of flowing chocolate… But I’m just going to say it, through that 8 week lockdown: I didn’t bake bread, I didn’t find enlightenment and I really struggled! (Give my regards to Gene Wilder.)
Over that interminable 8 week period, questions I found myself asking on a daily basis were: Wouldn’t these sneakers function better with velcro?, How long until unwashed hair begins to wash itself?, Does the same methodology apply to feral children?, Can man really live off Cheezels alone?, Why doesn’t my adult sized onesie PJ have pockets to store these sweets I have leftover from breakfast?, Does screaming into throw pillows count as a new hobby?, And (of sport socks and slides) does it get any better than this?
About midway through the lockdown, I started sleeping in clothes I had picked out for the following day, which just so happened to be pyjamas. Hand over heart, living through these levels of extreme comfort has altered me for life.
To think I once famously turned up at backyard summer BBQ in a scratchy knockoff of that electric green satin gown Keira Knightley wore in Atonement, when a matching tracksuit, socks and slides (also – braless) would have sufficed.
Let me tell you why drinking alcohol is so very nice. One minute you are personally accountable for a slovenly house with lumpy towers of rumpled up washing and two wild children on a dangerous sugar high, hissing and flinging polyester super hero capes near a gas stove burner flame, then nek minnit – you are hidden in a nest of clean linen, halfway through a lovely bottle of French Provence rosé, without a care in the world.
So anyway, since that absolute slosh fest of a quarantine, Mr Grouch and I have vowed to reign in our drinking to just the weekends, instead of just after 4pm any day of the week. The other day (mid week) I saw him patting his ¾ full Laphroaig whiskey bottle and gently cooing “See you again Friday, old friend.”
As Mr Wonka would say, “Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.”
P.S. In a fit of uncharacteristic good luck, I have been alerted to the news that Mundane to Friday (formerly known as Island Grouch) has made it to a list of Top 60 New Zealand lifestyle blogs in 2020. Yes, I am as baffled as you, but who am I to argue with the reliability of the world wide inter web? How much longer until I receive free things? Thanks Feedspot!