On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you describe your customer experience?
Zero. I rate it zero. I’m not entirely certain whether I’ve unknowingly infected the whole fucking planet, or whether it’ll be OK because I’ve had both vaccines and I’m a healthcare worker. The whole Test and Trace process is REALLY DAMN CONFUSING. (Small disclaimer here to state I figured it out and have followed the guidance appropriately).
Ten. Fucking. Days.
I’m fatter, I’m older and I’m enforceably at home for what feels like at aeon, self-isolating with the same little fuckbag that spurred this blog’s beginnings all those years ago. And Jayne. Thankfully (for both of us), at her house. Poor sod counts as a chunky contact, so she gets to sit at home crocheting with Netflix carefully defrosting mystery meat and meals prepped in the middle ages, smug with such esteemed meal planning that an Insta-Ho would want a selfie with.
I get to isolate with Barnsley's answer to Kim Jong-un.
In other news, our first day at home has lead me to other musings.
Small is sat before me eating an entire box of grapes, I’m secretly wanting to shout at her for being so frivolous with the living green things. Does she not realise we’re mere days away from eating the ‘freezer veg’? That we’re one badly thought-out snack from having to reconstitute the sultanas? Do I regret getting cocky with the bread dough ingredients yesterday and wasting both a) and apple, and b) a can of cider? Yes of course I fucking do. But it’s easier to scowl at a 6 year old greedily upending the sodding grapes secretly cursing the fact that I have no snacks of any level of reasonable entertainment.
A fortnight ago I gave a bestie’s 18-year old bottomless pit all of the carbohydrates unfit for non-teenage consumption. I waved the hotdog flavour Pringles away with not even a spared thought. How stupid was I, that shit is practically real-estate. I could have traded this on the black market for antibiotics, a prosthetic limb, all sorts. I could have re-lived my student days and turned this into a fucking food group?! (Can we please have a moment of silence for the kidney bean crumble of 2010?)
Job one: Find Batteries. 108.9kg. That’s about 99,000IU of tinzaparin. I’m pleased however, I thought I was 120kg. Every cloud. 108.9kg of course is rather large. I’ve spent the last year or two genuinely making peace with my shape, size, lumps and bumps. In other word, fat, loud and proud. Self-love doesn’t always start with a bath (because that’s still upended in the spare room) and a glass of something pretentious in a fluted glass for social media purposes. Sometimes it’s about loving the whole person, or at least trying to learn to. That’s been my mission for a couple of years now. Isn’t that a much more lovely way for describing an inability to see your own twat in the shower?
That said, I genuinely felt like I was about to bring a delivery bed crashing down when perching aside it getting ready to examine someone recently (I’m used to apologising for the impromptu noises upon bending for more organic reasons), so I cracked out the scales. What’s that? I don’t exceed the weight limit for both a birthing ball, and the rubber dinghies at water parks? (not that I'll be visiting one anytime soon, from both a viral perspective and the less recent event of having to return a swimsuit I got stuck in and ripped open- the quest continues). I could possibly travel with more than one person in a Spanish lift? Life is fucking good. However, I’m feeling about as wholesome as re-warmed donner meat on a Sunday morning.
So I have a theory. No Just Eat. Being forced to stay at home and eating those things that get shoved further and further back on the shelf, until you’re having to decide whether you’re barbecuing the cat or making a chickpea…… coconut…… mystery-freezer-veg curry. I may see if this is a thing.
I highly doubt I’m likely to be having an emotional Love Actually style reunion with the aforementioned body parts as a result of painstakingly eating vile food but it will be an interesting experiment.
We have a list. I feel like this has all the momentum of one of those companies that save up your Christmas shopping money all year, to go bust on December 1st, but we may as well try. A favourite was Hide and Seek. I shall hide. She may seek. I’ll be rocking in the cellar like a shitfaced Harry Potter.
I have 10 bottles of wine, 9 toilet rolls and two packets of fags. Should be fun.