COVID 19 DIARIES

26.03.2020

I go for a run uphill, armed with a shopping net.  Uphill running is harder than I remember. Needs must! A lot of social distancing calories to burn. 

The shop is well stocked, spaghetti  is the the Dejour! So that the cashier lets me have two spaghettis- one more than my daily ration.  I considered making home- made ones with chick pea flour (the only one I could stock a couple of weeks earlier). There are no eggs! No eggs at all. I would settle for some battery eggs at the moment. Would I draw the line on non-fair trade ones? Happy eggs? The horrid scandal of slave trade surrounding the happy eggs is still resonating in my head. Perhaps not ! So that I am grateful for my daily spaghetti  ration.  Paracetemol is  also back; on the backstage.  “I don’t have to ration on paracetomal!” I coo at my asthmatic husband as I take a couple for my hang over! Exactly one glass too many last night.

We sit down on a lesson with my son- literacy finding what happened to Fenrir! The giant wolf of the Norse!  He was tied on a rock with “fish’s breath and a cat’s footstep!” awaiting to break away from his chains and pounce upon the gods on the doomsday.  “He is already upon us!” I hear myself thinking. My palms are moist.

My phone beeps! It is my son’s friend’s mum: she hadn’t bought enough presents for Oscar, his birthday is on Sunday. Her work load is more than ever! “You can still place an order with the Amazon! Don’t panic!” I reassure her, “just get rid of cardboard prompto before he decides to turn it into a train or a scientific project!” Covid 19 (or is Sars?) is very prolific on cardboard.  She calms down.

As her daily exercise, my daughter and I decide to turn the  patch- a wasteland in our close into an edible garden.  We sew the new potatoes  strutting green at the back of our store cupboard and some butter beans which was soaked from the previous day . Dews of sweat on my brow! The soil is harder than a rock!

For dinner I cook shepherdess pie “quick I must invent a story for its origins!” My inner voice warns me.  It’s pork with beef drippings topped with new potatoes, leeks. “ Even grandmother in her grave would  turn her nose at beef drippings !”  Husband  grumbles. “Still kids need extra calories!” I reason with the husband. “We don’t!” He walks away.

“I am allergic to potatoes!” My son protests. “But you love mash and chips? Sometimes together?” My voice is week! “I am allergic to boiled and sautéed potatoes!” My son retorts.

In the evening the neighbourhood WhatsApp group beeps, we clap for NHS at 8pm out of our windows.