The Moths Ate My Knickers

We are experiencing very unusual times. What a facetious remark. All times are surely unusual. Yesterday was different from its previous day, year, decade, as it will differ from tomorrow and a century hence. But, I reiterate, we are experiencing very unusual times.
I am sure you will know to what I am referring. Throughout history people have referred to current occurrences as unusual, bizarre, visitations from God, any god, the devil, or the government that happens to be in power at the time. In our present situation I am not sure who we can blame.
Now this brings me to  my predicament. Being forced by government dictacts I am confined to ‘chez nous’. No meals out at my favourite hostelries, no buying of must have but unnecessary items of clothing, no hairdresser to hide my advancing years and no much longed for and planned voyages to the unknown. 
Many of these misfortunes can be overcome. Food purchased and delivered by Mr Sainsbury with all the ingredients needed to conjure up a gourmet meal. Problems, one essential item forgotten and my skills as a master chef sadly lacking. The dish I produced ‘just’ edible. He (my other half) smiled and ate what he could, not daring to criticise in case I had a meltdown. Bless him! He does appreciate how stressed I am.
Now to the problem of clothing. I have a wardrobe full of items worn only once, drawers overflowing with things I’d forgotten I had, but a girl (I can see raised eyebrows at that description) does have to keep up appearances. Being incarcerated for so long gives terrific mood swings. Waking up some mornings I can’t be bothered and spend the day in my dressing gown eating ice cream, chocolate cake and beans on toast, true ‘slobby’ comfort. At other times I look at myself in the mirror and am shocked that I have let myself go. ‘He’ I know sees beyond appearances and looks at the inner person. I am, afraid, too shallow for that. I wash my hair, put on some makeup, select a garment that will enhance, or rather hide my figure. To complete this I need some suitable lingerie, internal unseen items as important as externals to complete how I feel. Investigating my undies drawer I find it full of ‘Bridget Jones bloomers’ and that will just not do. Trusty google search produces a plethora of sites from which to buy exclusive garments of all shapes and sizes. A selection made, plus a blouse in just the right colour to complement the new me. I wait with baited breath but it seems next day delivery is just what it promises. Items stashed away in the ‘larnjeray’ drawer for when I need that morale booster. The French seem to have much more poetic words, undies is such a utilitarian description but there we are I suppose calling a spade a spade. But it has given me an idea of how I can fill up all my spare minutes, hours, days, weeks, mon..., my incarcerated time. I will do an online French course in preparation for the chateau holiday I am planning.
The task now is to tackle the hair. I do have a ‘tame’ hairdresser who has been my backstop for many years. She manages, with poor material, to conjure up something that doesn’t look half bad. Without her ministrations my crowning glory has become a haystack, in much the same colour. A call again on Mr Sainsbury and my salvation is at hand. A bottle of a magic elixir which will turn back the years and will make me feel and look much younger. Lotion applied, plastic bag donned to help the colour take and I can now sit and wait for the magic. 
Time on my hands I decide to plan for that holiday that I have not been able to take. Strangely there are all sorts of adds for places that we have been forbidden to visit. They dangle before your eyes the hope that things can only get better. I make my selections, a Caribbean beach, a French chateau or an Italian palazzo, I save my choices for future perusals.
Suddenly realising that I have missed the peep of the timer I snatch off the plastic bag and frantically rinse off the dye. Fearing that my hair may have become some bizarre colour, I rinse again. The colour not one that I would have chosen but the haystack has disappeared.
Now I am ready for the day when my spirits need to be raised to the zenith.
The rest of the week requires washing, ironing, gardening and the daily walks that my government, in its wisdom, decides I need.
The day of extreme pampering has arrived. Would you believe the day is New Years Eve. A look to the future, a better future. It can’t be worse can it? Just reassure me things are going to get better.
‘He’ has taken himself out to the shed knowing that I need this ‘me’ time. First a bubble bath with aromatic oils and nourishing body creams. New hair do protected by a towel turban I carefully apply make up. Pleased with the result I select the clothes I will wear. This will help, for a few hours at least, to dispel and hide the fears of the world. Now for the ‘larnjeray’ drawer, my French pronunciation I feel is improving. Pushing aside the bloomers I make my selection from the new items. They had been hideously expensive but so pretty. About to put them on I notice something, a small hole. Further investigation reveals even more, the items are riddled with moth holes. Have they attacked the Bridget Jones knickers? No! Obviously very discerning creatures who only go for the best. I am distraught. I can see you shaking your head, ‘if this is the worst the world has thrown at her she is very lucky’ I hear you say.
Yes I am very lucky and have survived this annus horribilis (to quote our Queen on a completely different matter), but these moth riddled items I saw as a token, as a hope for the future.
I have just had this brilliant idea, could moths be trained to eat viruses instead of expensive items of clothing. I’ll write to Boris.
Midnight, New Year’s Eve 2020. I am in my dressing gown, curled up on the sofa with ‘him’, (I am very fortunate to have a significant other), a glass of wine and the remains of a pizza which had lurked at the bottom of the freezer. As we hear Big Ben chime, happy new year!