Week six went really quickly. So much so I did not keep up with the diary, or much else for that matter. No idea how and where the time went, all I know is I frittered away the whole week with very little to show for it. I blame the heavy rain on Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday.
After initial confusion arrives a semblance of clarity. Certain things are becoming obvious.
Number one. I am not going to achieve any great things during lockdown. Despite promising early signs in mid-March, I am not going to emerge at the end of June, or whenever, as a skateboarding pro fluent in French. Not happening.
I have managed to dodge every opportunity to improve gardening and baking skills too.
The closest I come to mindfulness is staring out of the window for prolonged periods of time. It’s a nice view. Very therapeutic.
I am the true embodiment of ‘the lack of time was not the problem’ meme.
If I were destined to achieve greatness in anything, it would have happened by now, I would not need a global pandemic to spur me on.
Arriving at this harsh home truth does hurt a little, so I quickly click play on yet another episode of Silent Witness (I am on season 12 now) to dilute the full meaning of week six reality check.
Number two. It might be an age thing, but I’d rather do without certain things altogether than go for their online substitutes on Zoom, or YouTube. Theatre shows, art exhibitions, coffee with friends. I miss all of the above, but doing it online is not doing it for me. I’d rather stare out of the window.
Three. I discovered that there comes a point in the life of a vanity prone middle-aged locked down woman when the state of her roots is beginning to overshadow pretty much everything else. This point is most likely reached sometime during week six. After that, any face time communication is strictly limited to members of immediate household until a satisfactory solution is found.
Moving on.
Workload has gone up a notch this week. The increase has been mainly due to a large number of NHS 111 calls relating to severe dental pain. Mixed blessing as by the end of each such call I feel as if I all my teeth are aching.
Meanwhile, my husband is making a name for himself as the Waddington Way Juggler. Every afternoon without fail, he goes out to juggle on a strip of grass surrounded by woodland at the end of our road called The Lawns.
He informed me recently that he had developed a juggler’s shoulder, an injury akin to tennis elbow, which afflicts top jugglers everywhere. No, not really, but it sounds good.
What is true however, is that he has been approached by total strangers, asking him excitedly, ‘Are you the Juggler?’, to which he proudly replies, ‘Yes, I am’.
If he plays his squishy balls right he might become the first family member to earn a blue plaque.
‘The Waddington Way Juggler stood in this spot every day during the 2020 Lockdown’.
This would be only the second time in history that a blue plaque has been awarded to an Upper Norwood resident.
The first one went of course to Pickles, the mixed breed collie, who found the stolen FIFA World Cup trophy on an evening walk with his owner in Beulah Hill area in March 1966. Which is a juggling ball’s throw from The Lawns.
Ania Heasley 