The end of incarceration is in sight, although that’s just as well, as I’m really starting to get tired of this situation now. There is a mosquito net installed over my bed here, and I am using it, but I haven’t actually seen any mosquitoes — possibly there was one that drifted by, last week. Otherwise it’s purely cosmetic. And if you think that might be a metaphor for other things, well, help yourself.
I am aware that this is an extremely dull photo but sometimes putting up a really dull one is the only way of epitomising the day. The whole Covid testing racket is just such classic 21st century: the private sector creams off cash from us all based on claims that it’s the only way forward, there is no alternative, no dissent to be had. I pay £75 to be told I don’t have a virus that a) I’ve already had b) I’ve (twice) been vaccinated against c) I have no symptoms of. And before 8am, too.
Still, at least I have been given my official “UNINFECTED!” bar code, stamp on my forehead, tattoo, whatever. So I’m off to St Helena — a day later than originally planned, but I will be there from Tuesday. And then sat in quarantine for 10 more days, but that’s a whole other story that is still to come.
The boys watch the real thing, being played outside (Wakefield Trinity LFC v Hull Utd LFC, as it happens). The man watches the TV version. I watch them all.
No point claiming that I did anything other than this kind of thing today — and there were almost another three hours of it to go after I took this shot. Jet lag, I seem to have avoided. Work lag, I have.
The end of another week…. and some snacks are required for the journey home. This is one of those where I just saw some good light over on the far platform and tried it out.
Following a negative Covid test this morning — but of course it was always going to be negative — this should be the penultimate shot of around 615 consecutive days in the UK. But on Sunday, I will be leaving for a week; if the clenched-up bureaucracy at each end of this journey does deign to let me through. Destination — well, you can find out on Sunday (or possibly Monday).
I didn’t plan it this way but this is turning into a very uneventful week, spent mostly at home. It’s lockdown all over again, except the pubs are open. Including this secluded little spot at the back of the Railway, unoccupied at this point in time.
There remains a Joe-shaped hole in the house at the moment. But perhaps this shot, taken on a rare foray into his unoccupied room, is evidence that we didn’t pack him off to Dundee after all. Although decomposition has set in pretty fast, if that is indeed the case.
Work, at the moment, consists of me banging my head against various Kafkaesque brick walls (Covid has infected the bureaucratic mindset far more profoundly than it has our physiology, and to more danaging effect) until I can’t stand it any more on any given day and need a drink. Today that point was reached about 3.50pm. Ten minutes later I was admiring the woodiness, almost meatiness, of the table in Nightjar at which I drank my first pint of the day.
A day out at the football, and it was Clare’s idea. She sits there looking rather amused at the boisterous but harmless fellow Morecambe FC fans who took over The Leopard pub near Doncaster station at lunchtime. The stencil of Pelé, to the right, also sets the tone. Sadly, no one was feeling as boisterous after watching a rather tame 1-0 defeat, but that was all still to come.
With my legs increasingly suffering from overuse and basic middle age, I went and paid £50 today to get legally beaten up by a masseuse. I think it helped; and your average dominatrix would charge a lot more. So I’m led to believe.
Being 42 