I can’t physically see my feet anymore. Where have they gone? Has someone kidnapped them along with my sense of humour? I’m sure they were there 3 weeks ago. I try and suck the mottled beach ball in that has taken up residence just above my hips but it just reveals a couple of chipped orange toenails.
Squinting into the mirror I don’t recognize the puffed up face staring back at me. I look like the Pillsbury dough boys granny. My hair hasn’t moved position from the scrunchie I wrapped it up in 3 days ago. I tilt my head and it remains static, a monument to apathy.
My dressing gown has become this seasons essential item; worn throughout the day, only to be removed when Brian needs to perform his ablutions and only then is it peeled off my reluctant torso to be replaced with an ‘I love disco’ onesie which is now my dog walking ‘no more than 50 yards or you’ll get fined’ activity ensemble.
A prolonged fart omits from the kitchen area. A tall middle aged figure is stood filling up the kettle staring blankly at the tiles. He’s rarely seen before noon; an apprentice Nescafé vampire in 80’s underwear. The only reason he rises at all is to fulfill his yearning for caffeine which is usually enough of an energy boost to propel him into another room. Once the relocation of choice has been decided upon, seldom does he rise again until the battery on his phone dies or he runs out of digestives.
My son, infrequently seen out of his bedroom at the best of times, can be heard yelling into his headset throughout the day until the time comes when he is dragged out to the terrace to reluctantly run his enforced 100 laps and then returns to his den of inactivity to resume the position, promising to shower at some later date, probably sometime in June if we still have enough gas in the canister.
My long days are filled with a series of stimulating observations and conversations
“That women at number 23 has been out twice today, she didn’t even have a shopping bag with her the second time”
“Do you want cheese AND ham in your sandwich? I’m not risking Iceland again, I’ll probably get taken out on the bridge by a sniper if he sees me foraging for cheddar again”
“Can you flip me over if I haven’t moved in the next 12 hours, the bedsores are starting to antagonize my cellulite”
“Shut the F*ck up, I want a divorce… not that we’ll have any money left at the end of this”
And so it goes on… our enforced isolation. The world is holding its terrified breath awaiting a time when we are allowed to walk freely along our chosen foreign shores and dip our toes back into normality again.
But today is not that day and nor is tomorrow, or next week for that matter.
I sigh and rearrange my face into one that isn’t terrified for my child’s future.
‘Right, who fancies a game of Trivial Pursuit? Winner gets to take the bins out!!’
To be continued… Day… Who the F#ck Knows?
IF YOU MISSED THE BEGINNING OF OUR TALE – BACK TO DAY 1
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Click HERE to read all about our relocation to Spain