Bloody Lock-Down!

Don’t you just hate that coronavirus? I mean, come on, three million of them will fit on a pinhead yet there’s seven and a half billion of us and even just one of my nose hairs is way too big to balance on a pinhead. And if I managed it the ends would hang over and droop down the sides like Mexican Pete’s moustache.

‘Lock-down’, what the hell sort of word is that? Presumably it’s the opposite of ‘lock-up’. Okay, but that means to make secure, to fasten the bolts, so if ‘lock-down’ is the opposite surely it’s a synonym for ‘unlock’ or ‘go free’, so why am I cooped up in this house and likely to be arrested if I step outside?

Of course, it’s politician-speak. Politicians never say what they mean, so instead of telling us, “Right, we’re going to lock you up in your houses and never let you out,” which could sound just a smidgeon authoritarian, they instead announce, “Now, all you super-duper people we’re going to jolly well have some fun and give you a lock-down for thirty days until we’ve sent this nasty old virus back where it came from.”

All of which seems almost to suggest we’re about to indulge in a month long sexual orgy and bags me that girl from number sixteen with the big knockers and botox lips.

Sadly, nothing is further from the truth. Here we are, stuck on our own with no company, no-one to talk to, and Zoom’s being hacked by pornos. Oh, well, one ray of sunshine, then!

I can go shopping once a week. It’s a nightmare. I wander around the supermarket with my trolley and I’m the only one in the store not wearing a mask. And nobody speaks. There’s not much point when your mouth and nose are grimly competing for the one cubic millimeter of air that’s getting through the ultra-heavy-grade canvas mask your grandmother made for you – “…and don’t you take it off. I sewed three layers to stop that germ getting through,” “Yes, but grandma, if it’ll  stop a virus an oxygen molecule will have no chance.”

I can’t wait to get out. The checkout girl mumbles something but all I can see is the little bit of white mask over her mouth pumping in and out when she speaks, like a pregnant mother’s stomach when the baby’s due. I shake my head. She could have been asking if I’d meet up for sex, but no, just if I had a store card.

At least, in France, you’re free to come and go at the supermarket. There’s no queuing. I believe the British are only allowed in one at a time and have to queue for six hours just to buy a bog roll.

Oh, well, that’s Brexit for you. You gotta laugh. Six hours for a bog roll! Oh dear,  the very thought of it almost makes the lock-down worthwhile.

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