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Covid jail day 4- Bush fruit and shit puns

Hearing the gasps of shock upon stating that Small has been foraging for raspberries outside, gave it a fair 5 minutes before admitting that the fruit picking was from our garden. It would appear that in the 15 years that some previous owners lived here, they developed a penchant for bush fruit -snort- including gooseberries, and what I discovered following a very bitter mouthful wasn't lethal but in fact blackcurrant. What do I do with a fuck tonne of blackcurrants?

Periodically affirming that I'm not the shittest Mom in a 50 mile radius as she's feeling incredibly smug with the haul, I had to force myself not to laugh in her face as she badly washed then wolfed more than a couple of aphids along with these garden jewels. 

Day 2 of covid jail saw me in more than a small tangle. Who knew covid would give me the coccyx of an aged Chippendale and ankles of a hockey player? Maybe that's just too much enthusiasm demonstrating weird and wonderful birthing positions. In any sense I felt like dog shit and spent most of the day hiding under a curtain of Netflix and self-pity, tactfully inviting Small to go and play on her swing in the attic. I fucking love that I can legitimately write that sentence.

Yesterday saw something mildly erotic happen in my kitchen. There was a flurry of activity, gaping holes were filled, and it was all followed with self-satisfied moans of fulfilment. The obscenity of the whole thing left me feeling spent, overwhelmed and in need of a nap. Thanks to two magnificent friend-folk I have the fullest fridge I reckon I've had in years. And I'm actually excited to cook! Much to Small's protestations, she in fact having no choice but to embrace something other than the tin of beans I was hoping to trade for that post-apocalyptic prosthesis in years to come.

A haul even Jayne would be proud of!

Being able to have a conversation through the obsessively disinfected gate with one of your oldest friends that lockdown painstakingly drove a viral wedge between, was a highlight. Other than 2 minutes after the pubs reopened. The first of one of only two instances where I was Out out. Even if we couldn't give Auntie Vicki a hug, seeing that cherubic face put a distinct zing on a day where in which half was dedicated to mentally writing a defence statement for how Thing ended up in the cellar. In a world where dark humour and blogs in a digital age are the perfect recipe for losing one's registration, I shall refrain. Fuck, I've become a millennial meme-whore.

I suck at writing today, and am coming to the unfortunate realisation that maybe it wasn't worth forking out a whole £10 to renew the domain. Fat and only mildly funny... not quite the same ring to it. One of the only things that I shall persevere with. Haven't weighed self since day 1, and the list of shit to do hasn't been updated since that damn positive test. How the fuck do I even manage to adult, when everything takes a lead time of at least 10 days? Shit, and now we know why the fireplace is still dusty. Or maybe that's just me being marginally odd.

Small is practising with a gyroscope, it's like watching someone giving themselves a breather by learning trigonometry and saving string theory for a rainy day. I'm not laughing, honest! Off to mourn my paling sense of blogging-worth with purple cheese, because why the fuck not?



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