Is it too obvious to say that we all want good news in these days of Covid- Control disrupting, disturbing and destroying the very centre of all our lives? Good news has been in such short supply of late.
More than a year into the Helter- Skelter slippery slide that is lockdown, lock in, lock up we crave good news like a pint of real ale at the pub. The pint of real ale at the pub is, of course, not mine but Mr Carmichael’s. He has, I believe, plans afoot for lockdown lite next week. Me? I’ll take anything (not whiskey – another story altogether) as long as its WITH girlfriends and NOT in my house or garden. I have seen enough of Casa Carmichael and the green, green grass of home these past twelve months. Yes Sir, yes Madam, yes indeedy.
Some good news is that 33 million people (including YT) in the UK have had their first dose of vaccine. More than five million have had both doses. The take up is high and transmission, infection, hospitalisation and death are all going down apace. In this kingdom at least. Let’s not cast a hairy eyeball at Mr Bolsonaro, Copacabana way.
Some bad news is that Mrs Carmichael is finding it terribly hard to maintain standards. They are slipping. Oh my! Such slippage in Yours Truely’s play pen. Honestly, I’m struggling to know where to begin.
Shall I begin?
Last week I found the need to google ‘what day is it?’. In my previous normal, real lIfe, pre Covid, I have had to check the date de temps en temp. I’ll lay money Dear Reader, that you have too. Never, ever have I not known or been unable to muster brain cells and synapses to know, or rapidly remember, what DAY of the week it is. I asked Lyle, my cockapoo, but he was unhelpful.
It was important I knew the day of the week because, pandemic panic has found me, for the second time, taking up a foreign language. Spanish. Again. I have been judiciously wedged into an Intermediate class. This is a stretch. GCSE Spanish mumble or fifteen long years ago is not cutting the mustard. I am mastering the art of silence. Silent Spanish. I struggle with the Spanish AND the silence.
Studying Spanish is a good thing for many reasons but not a good thing when you don’t know if your zoom lesson is starting in five minutes, tomorrow or could it potentially, have been yesterday? Gracias Google.
Good news – It WAS Tuesday.
Good news – the class was running late.
Good news – I had two minutes to do my week’s homework.
Bad news – it was the subjunctive. The list of things I do not know about the Spanish Language grows, like Brazilian Covid, (thank you Mr Bolsonaro) exponentially.
And like the Brazilian variant, I, in my Covid free castle, have become expert at growing other things. The growth includes but isn’t restricted to, toenails, eyebrows and bikini line. I am not proud of the results.
Photo deleted.
I also have become somewhat expert at making wrinkles appear on my face. This is not a talent I want to embrace moving forward. Obviously. Few are yet to see these new additions to my physog but this is all about to change as lockdown eases and my wrinkles and I don glad rags to paint the town red or as red as we can in a socially distanced, covidly- tested brave new world. I am told silk pillow cases may help.
Please be kind. If necessary, pretend to recognise me. I probably won’t be able to see you anyway. Did I mention my eyesight?
I have found a recent talent for dying clothes. Unintentionally. Knickers in particular.
White to sylvan green in one hot wash. These were an accidentally muted success. Not so much others, now in landfill.
Yesterday I drove to Surrey to visit my friend, Kate in her back garden. Although we both have raging colds now due to sub zero temperatures outside, it was wonderful to see her after eighteen months apart (thank you corona virus), one missed holiday together and two Yule’s without a glass or five of celebratory champers. Dressed for the Artic, I collected my 2019 Christmas present.
And got stuck in a two hour traffic jam on the M25.
A two hour delay in stop- start, five lane traffic must herald a return to normality. Oh joy, oh bliss. Please let it be true.
It must be true because my, every evening for fourteen months, harem pants now sport a semi sheer crotch and very baggy knees. I have tried to buy another pair. They have been discontinued. And so I have decided, in a moment of cautious optimism, that the disintegration of these Carmichael Covid-Comfys MUST prophesy the beginning of the end of the blue blistering bad news we have been boiled in for ever and a day.
This morning, with Covid brain and woefully slipped standards, I put my yoga pants on back to front #plank #forthesecondtime #ouch
Good News for Yours Truely, cannot come a moment too soon.
being mrscarmichael 
Ah, Mrs C, great to see you back in the blogosphere….Glad it’s not just me and knickers, I had a few in an un-fetching shade of East German grey (binned now)
OMG what a year. done three posts in a year! Burning the House Down was my nadir. Hopefully coming outa it wish now ….. When will I ever be allowed to got back to NZ – my homeland?
That is a very good question
and one, even with my typos I have NO answer for.
At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour along with your sense of time and day, Mrs C. I’m wondering what was in your birthday present. It doesn’t look like new knickers.
Sadly, no white knickers but nice signage for Lyle, the unhelpful cockapoo.
Thank you re humour. My sense of has been sorely tried.
We can’t begin to imagine how difficult this past year has been. We’ve been very fortunate.