Today is a Sunday, the Sabbath. It’s difficult at the moment marking out days as being different or special. I was never any good at painting because somehow all my colours used to run into each other so every picture was orange. The days have become a bit like this, except not orange. Today is a yellow day, some are grey, we have blue days and green days, but none are highlighted in red as a special red-letter day because nothing special is happening. I’m having a blood test on Wednesday, so that’s something to look forward to. We’ve a click and collect on Tuesday and the prospect of an outing to the far end of Sainsbury’s car park has the pulse racing with excitement. But I never look at my diary these days, so I have to be careful not to miss these epic occasions.
The days used to be way-markers that guided us through the week, but now the way-markers have all been overgrown: Sunday – church; Monday – choir; Tuesday – Pilates and so it went on before lockdown entangled them in undergrowth. Now the calendar goes all awry. I forgot it had been a bank holiday so I put the bin out on the wrong day. I always associate pizza with Wednesdays, but we had pizzas on Thursday and so I thought Friday was Thursday.
People have their own ways of marking Sunday as being special. They may head for the shops, or buy a newspaper, or go to a garden centre, have a roast dinner, watch Country File or wash the car. And everyone would know what to wear. Now we wear casual every day because no one is going to see us, so it wasn’t surprising when I saw someone on Facebook all dressed up and made up in order to have a disco in the kitchen on her own. Today we were due to see the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury so I put on a clean shirt. It was gratifying to see that they had both taken the trouble to dress up for their YouTube occasion, though I did wonder whether, in respect for social distancing they had both filmed themselves using a selfie stick.
Yesterday while out walking we had the opportunity of thanking one of the main organisers of the Crich Covid-19 volunteer group. We have found them extremely helpful and supportive, and the whole project had swung into motion immediately the lockdown had been announced. However, we never felt it right to bother them with those trivial things that are suddenly needed and have ordered some most ridiculously banal but essential items on-line. Here is a list: one photo album (not yet delivered); one hose spray gun; pea, broad bean and yellow rattle seeds; several bags of compost; a selection of suncream; two or three books; two packets of BluTac; two Pritt Sticks (6 arrived); two Dental Floss (6 arrived). That is 150 metres of dental floss, enough to outlast our teeth. Laid in length it would take Usein Bolt 14.37 seconds to cover the distance, that’s half the height of the Shard and nearly the height of the BT Tower. That’s a lot of plaque to be dislodged. I’ve been trying to think of a smart literary reference – I suppose in years to come we’ll be Still on the Floss! Hence the pithy title.
The Pritt Sticks were essential because we have run out of birthday cards and Deirdre is manufacturing her own. The only glue we had in the house was No Nails, which certainly ensured the envelopes couldn’t be opened. Birthday cards are an item you can’t ask a volunteer shopper to purchase: two with flowers on, one rude one, two funny ones and one suitable for a baby, please. You just can’t ask that.
Today started a grey day.
Not cloudy or sunless,
But a day of grey hours,
Drab like a blanket,
Spread over the buttercups.
Then a rose the colour of a baby’s lips
Pursed and opened outside my window,
Soft as pink champagne or an evening sky,
Sweet as marzipan, scented like love.
So the day blinked and sunshine came in,
And from high in the empty sky
A cawing of triumph as a single crow
Saw off two buzzards.