April 24th An Old Bra and a Pair of Scissors

Most mornings I make myself comfortable peering out of the window. Beside me my London Review of Books, my History Today, my Kindle, even my Bible with a commentary. But my reading gets no further. With complete satisfaction I sip my tea and just stare. No unwelcome interviews or troublesome meetings lurking later in the day, no reports to write, no jostling deadlines. I have to consider no future plans because any future possibilities have been shoved ever further forward to some indistinct point on the calendar, maybe next year’s calendar. In fact I would feel a bit resentful if I were urged to do some specific future planning. Our future is so vague at the moment anyway. I can safely ruminate upon the past because the past is not going to rear up and bite me; it's pre-defined and tidy. So I sometimes do that.

However some aspects of the present are becoming a little tedious. At the moment The News Quiz is on Radio 4 and it sounds so strained without live interactions with an audience. The Big Night at Home last night meant well and the technology was clever, but all those stars have such sterile looking homes with ornaments on book shelves where books should be, their gold discs framed on the wall of their home recording studios. I was amused to see that the Strictly dancers only seemed to have tiny patios outside but enormous rooms inside with all the furniture pushed back. The One Show is struggling with all its mobile phone footage and increasing scraping of the barrel. News interviews are conducted with microphones on the end of barge poles. I appreciate their attempts to keep us informed and entertained but the limitations of remote communication are beginning to irk. Mind you it works both ways. We were watching an action drama the other evening and something was wrong. People were in cafes, or crowded together in the briefing room at the police-station; they were shopping and jumping into taxis. People don't behave like that nowadays. It all seemed old fashioned, like 80s crime thrillers without mobile phones and satellite tracking. Do you remember George Dixon putting a coin in and pressing button A? I want someone to write a drama with social distancing, where they jump into separate beds two metres apart and have to settle for shooting each other because you can’t stab someone without infringing the proper space. I suppose jousting would be alright with a long medieval lance, and armour would qualify as protective clothing.

Which brings me to a piece of biting topical satire.

Pass me down that old used bra with two substantial cups

And a sharp pair of scissors so I can cut them up,

Not a black and lacy one, some skimpy lingerie

But one that’s built to do a job, a good old Double D.

And pass me some old knickers, though a thong’s the modern taste,

But I want to unpick the elastic that’s sewn into the waist.

You’re wondering what I’m up to, you’re too polite to ask,

But I need to make one for myself, a personal protective mask.

Now I’ve tried a balaclava, a snood or yoghurt pot,

A bandana and a shower cap, in fact I’ve tried the lot.

The Brownie’s had a project, with paper mache they made a

Mask from a pattern modelled on Darth Veder.

So off I go to work now, poly bags upon my feet,

My hands washed in Swarfega and scrubs made from a sheet,

A pair of old ski goggles, a bathing cap on my hair,

I’ll be working a twelve hour shift now - in Intensive Care.