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Here is a less than delightful result of Coronavirus lockdown; our dog’s anal glands are full to bursting resulting in a scooty brown trail now decorating our bedroom carpet. Relieving her of this discomfort is not within my skill set and not something I’m willing to learn. Sorry, doggie.
Starting week 4 of isolation and we no longer know what day it is, let alone the time. Sleep patterns have gone haywire and all four of us cohabitants are on different schedules which makes catering a challenge. One person’s morning meal is another’s pre-bed repast. A ‘breakfast supper.’ We no longer care. Crisps are an anytime snack, the kettle is on permanently and we have become feral, roaming endlessly between kitchen cupboards and the fridge, looking for edible diversions. Consequently, any ambitious plan to wear jeans for the day has to be abandoned in favour of elasticated jogging pants. How will we ever return to waistbands? Surely if nothing else, we have learned that loose flowing robes are a delight for all our future days.
Meanwhile, Zoom and Skype have loomed large in our lives, connecting us to friends and family, similarly trapped in their home prisons. We compare notes – what we’ve eaten, what’s been binged on Netflix, the bizarre pastimes we’ve conjured up. There has been some elated cleaning, some haircutting, a hoola-hoop record set, raucous quizzing and a constant sea of jolly memes flowing back and forth as we share morsels of humour to ease each other’s ennui.
Trips to the supermarket are fraught with stress and undertaken as infrequently as possible. Queues, a trolley sanitiser station and shopping from empty shelves are new, unsettling experiences. There are other shoppers to avoid as we cling to the edges of aisles and hope not to come too close. These stranger shoppers are either masked and gloved up like bank robbers or inexplicably casual in their social distancing, edging too close in the butter aisle. What is the etiquette here? A glare? A sarcastic British apology as we grumpily make room to accommodate their lockdown faux-pas? It’s a frantic experience as we glide around in solemn concentration, mentally wondering how we can make a meal from what we can find; a withered aubergine and a tin of sweetcorn. What would Jamie Oliver do? We’re slightly wistful for the heady days of visiting Waitrose to source fennel bulbs, padron peppers and Ras El Hanout on the advice of a poncy Sunday Times recipe feature. Now we rediscover the delights of beans on toast, Heinz Tomato Soup and tuna mayonnaise. No imagined Kensington Joneses to keep up with, it’s a liberation from middle-class pretension and it’s welcome.
The battle to keep order in the home is constant as we discover our own levels of tolerance to mess, released from the threat of unexpected visitors to motivate our efforts. The kitchen table has become a wild hot desk, giving itself over to any and all pursuits; jigsaws, board games, homework, colouring-in books, toast plates, joke books, mugs of tea and lists of possible ‘to do’ tasks. It’s become a fluid space, constantly changing, clearing, re-messing and emerging as the true hub of togetherness. This unofficial meeting space is crucial as we ebb back and forth from our various screens, reporting on TV viewing, YouTube silliness and What’sApp messages. The local town’s Facebook outpourings have proven to be a compelling horror as petty grievances, fear and belligerence show their faces. Groups of youths on the green! Joggers coming too close! Bulk buyers in Sainsbury’s! Thankfully, true compassion and togetherness is in equal evidence as communities come together to support the most vulnerable and spread cheer with acts of kindness. We feel the weight of fear and the balm of human spirit and discover our own pots of stamina and resourcefulness.
Meanwhile, we watch the news with growing terror and grieve for lost lives whilst feeling enormous gratitude and awe for those workers who are keeping us all going. NHS staff are our new celebrities but also supermarket workers, teachers, refuse collectors, pharmacy staff and police officers. We will never again so casually use the terms ‘hero’ and ‘legend’ unless they’re earned; we are blessed with a new urgency about what really matters and harbour hope that these new perspectives will remain essential cores in us as we emerge from this bleakness, blinking with gratitude.
We give similar thanks for the internet which is robustly sustaining so many of us through this isolation as we all pursue our own time enhancing/wasting activities. Revisiting ambitions to learn a new skill, a language, an instrument, calligraphy, fitness – we are faced with no barrier to harboured dreams of self-improvement apart from our own apathy which turns out to be the biggest enemy of all. We struggle with being bored with our own being, frustrated at a lack of motivation and skill, deepened by seeing others thrive with such inventiveness. The old adversary, shame, rears its head as we scroll through online stories of shining parenthood, mindfulness, heroism and brilliance. Sometimes it nudges us to match them but just as often it merely prompts another visit to the biscuit tin. Munching temporarily soothes our sense of uselessness.
With few of the normal structures of recognisable life, each of us finds our own rhythm – and we learn to accept and respect others’ ways of coping. We experience irritation, boredom and fear but we also feel gratitude like never before. Our isolated units are fortified with patience and love.
And we learn to laugh at ourselves, at our own vulnerabilities and vanities, at our capacity for pointless time-wasting just to get through. Seduced by a word game app which promised a weekend competition (a ‘tournament!’) I committed myself with crazy fever to the pursuit of solving anagrams, competing with virtual rivals to amass the greatest number of ‘coins.’ I felt a ferocious urge to win for the first time in my life! Giddy with adrenaline, and huddling over the iPad with furious concentration, I lost myself in anagram madness. Hour after hour of levels, eyeing the tournament leader board with fevered anxiety. My dedication paid off – a small lead turned into a large gap as I separated myself from the field of competitors like a champion racehorse. That is, apart from one competitor. His profile identified him as ‘Lee.’ I imagined Lee as a burly, tattooed warrior of a bloke, relentlessly chasing my lead hollering behind me. It became personal. Why would he not let me win? Why did he keep going? Surely second place would suffice for Lee? A noble silver medal? But no, Lee was as frenzied as I was, thundering away on his own race to secure victory. The hours closed in – 3am was the end point and I gave up any idea of sleep. Snoozing is for wimps! An hour and a half to go and Lee went quiet and, checking that my score was amply ahead of his efforts, I thankfully turned on the TV, grateful to be released from my anagram brain strain.
Heavy eyed, I checked the game one last time before settling for sleep. My god! Lee was back! In my hour of foolish telly watching, he’d launched a last attack on my lead. How dare he? Never before have I been filled with such outrage and panic. IPad primed, I anagrammed like a woman possessed, solving each new level with faster and faster pace, feverishly checking the leader board after each one, cursing at the intrusive ads I was forced to watch between levels. No! No! I must get on! With minutes to go, I reached an epiphany of triumph. Lee couldn’t catch me! It was impossible! Victory was mine! Stick that up your anagram, Lee!
The grand tournament over, my name shone out as the winner and I claimed my virtual coins as if they were real treasure, air-punching as I took several victory laps of my living room, hearing the virtual applause of ten thousand impressed spectators and the sobs of Lee.
Within half an hour, all adrenaline had gone. The stadium reappeared as my silent living room and the reality was that the sun was now rising on a woman alone with nothing to show for her night of exertion except for a pot of useless, virtual coins, an exhausted headache and an absolute certainty of my own ridiculousness.
It was my own personal lockdown nadir, a profound reminder that I am, like everybody else, a mad human being, getting through isolation in any way possible.
Tomorrow was another day and I had at least new anagram facts: the letters of ‘corona virus’ can be rearranged to form ‘carnivorous’ and ‘corona’ is an anagram for ‘racoon.’ Wait for the others to hear the story of Loser Lee at ‘breakfast supper!’ It would hopefully occupy and amuse them for a whole five minutes and that, after all, is a worthwhile outcome. I may be an idiotic racoon, but I’d made a story and a welcome chance for the others to laugh at me and at my crazy lockdown antics. And that is both a victory and true treasure in these mad times.
submitted by kibbutzshorts to LockdownThoughts

Lucas Pouille is going to decrepitate Djokovic

With a triumphant battle cry, Lucas Pouille hoists the commanding red flag aloft, eyes narrowing intently as the thunderous hooves race across the sand. Seconds before contact, he neatly pirouettes to one side, glancing back as his challenger clatters into a nearby tree, bringing it down in an almighty commotion. Puffing with satisfaction on his sun-kissed fingers, he approaches the dazed bull and removes the Djokovic mask from its face. The matador is ready. With a celebratory dab, the Frenchman grabs a Margarita and skips away to watch some paint dry with Kyle Edmund. Meanwhile, the clean-up operation can now commence, as Daniil Medvedev enters the premises to clear away any remaining bull excrement, with the assistance of Stefanos Tsitsipas.
A few miles away, Marian Vajda is excitedly contemplating entering next year’s Chelsea Flower show. He could plant a small garden in all the earth that Djokovic has provided, after repeatedly soiling himself at the revelation that Pouille is his drawn opponent today. So much so that the Pampers lorry has broken down under the frequency of trips to and from the store. Even Goran Ivanisevic’s killer squat routine can’t tear the Serb’s mind away from that excruciating battle at this year’s Australian Open. Pepe Imaz skyped in with an emergency pep talk – though it took him longer than necessary to realise that mentioning the name ‘Pouille’ every ten seconds wasn't exactly sending affirmative suppress signals to Djokovic’s bowels.
Meanwhile, many players have turned market traders on the streets of Cincinnati this week. Business has been brisk at Fergus Murphy’s tool shop, whilst the posters were quickly snapped up at James Blake’s WWE stall. Juan Martin Del Potro's lego hospital set was a surefire hit and Diego Schwartzman was happy to give prospective buyers a personal tour of his dollhouse. Alas, Eugenie Bouchard’s camera proved to be a hard sell, considering it had no memory space, whilst Grigor Dimitrov had no luck selling his copy of Eminem’s ‘Stan’. Then again, neither did Donna Vekic.
Elsewhere, South Africa have announced a national Bank holiday today, to mark the release of the official Kevin Anderson postage stamp. Seats to the ceremony have been some of the hottest tickets in town, kindly hosted by former Delray Beach finalist Donald Young at his academy. Anderson himself wasn’t present for the ceremony, citing fatigue after the open-top bus parade. Truth be told, he's getting tired of seeing his face everywhere. He’s already thrown all his mirrors out. Not to mention the marble statue in the seventh bedroom. He tried watching a bit of TV earlier, but failed to find a channel that wasn’t showing the ceremony. In the end, he resorted to picking up Radek Stepanek’s latest memoir: ‘New Sheets Please’. He was initially put off by the price tag, but it’s proving to be an excellent read. Maybe he’ll lend it to Pouille after he wins later.
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