Yes I know, but I didn’t have a picture of daisies. And I had a Great Aunt called Ivy.
…et o ces voix d’enfants… (or rather Grandma, to Dad, a hundred years or so ago)
“That Ivy – once she gets her feet under your table she won’t budge…”
Funny how grown-ups assume children aren’t listening – forget they are there, even – and have no thought that a hundred or so years later, when they are dead and gone, that same remark…
Poor old Ivy, whose face I can’t remember. She was single and she was lonely. No wonder she lingered overlong.
I am experimenting with one-finger typing on the tablet in an attempt to combine my photos with my writing, without a technological battle involving a box full of those black joining-up cables, only one of which will talk to my desktop. Sometimes.
Expect very short posts.
I am still shielding. Technically I could now go out for a walk once a day, with one other person, but distancing. The thing is, the virus hasn’t changed, it’s still here. And my health hasn’t changed. Therefore I am just as likely to catch it and expire most unpleasantly from it as I ever was. The only thing that’s changed is the Government’s need to re-start the economy. People have to start dying a bit more, basically. I’m not going to be experimented with. I was never much use to the economy anyway.
This morning I did have to go out, though. Four of the cats’ claws had reached the ‘dangerous’ stage, meaning they had finally entered the realm of ’emergency surgery’ and could be seen. I had had to actually email photos of the sixteen paws in question.
I haven’t had to get myself organised for anything since two weeks before lockdown, now suddenly I had to embasket (probably not a real word) four cats, one of whom is at death’s door, stow them in my car, drive (actually, physically) to the next village and deposit them, in the icy, spitting early morning rain of an English June. I phoned reception, got stuck in the “very, very busy at the moment” queue, then let them know the cats had landed.
A nurse came to the back door, and waved. Rubber gloves, mask. Cats disappeared inside. I waited in my car for half an hour. Rain on the windscreen, fighting the panic attack. I should be in there with them. I seem to be attached to my cats by that old invisible elastic band. It stretches, it stretches…
Then the cats reappear, re-embasketed, with the nurse, and a burly vet. They come right up to the car. This was not how I rehearsed it. No, I squeak, leaping back, I’m meant to be distancing.. My new pink flowery mask, I notice, is still on the dashboard, not on my face.
We do that cumbersome little social dance that only the English can do. The burly vet shuffles backwards on the gravel. The nurse has bought the paying machine out with her. I fumble in my bag for the card. We lean across the cat boxes at an awkward angle, passing bits of plastic back and forth, tapping in the PIN. It rains on us both. It rains on the cats. I mustn’t touch my face till I can get home and soap away the germs.
I mustn’t order any online groceries for at least the next fortnight. Four cats manicured equals two weeks’ food. Of course there’s still the Government’s food box, Friday. All those yummy carrots…