Views

The weird of lockdown is shifting to the weird of partial, post lockdownish, kind of what might be the new normal, maybe.

It’s upsetting.

I’m upset that the minute we were let out, humans proved we’ve learnt nothing, are as messy and polluting as ever, with the added c-19 detritus to litter with, rubber gloves and disposable masks left on the streets, in the canal, tucked into hedges.

Some people are upset that the ruling party are useless, unless you’re a disaster capitalist mate of theirs. Upset that the government don’t work for the people, are very obviously not of the people, upset that they lie. I have some sympathy with their disappointment but I still want to shout, what did you expect? WHAT?

Then of course, there is the strange, minority group that thinks the government is doing ok., that the johnson IS the man for the job. Someone on fb said, I almost envy their ability to discount the evidence. Not just loyal, cultish. I couldn’t agree more, I think of these people as, the cult of the c*nt.

My crash is to come I expect, currently I’m fine and appreciating the view from our window.

One of my criticisms of chez Tart has always been that we don’t have a view. Not the view I’d like. The sky, a sunset and the weather coming would be my preference. Our view is the back end of a famous, beautiful building. The thing to note about that sentence is, the back end. It’s not beautiful.

My relationship with the view has changed over the lockdown period. I’ve been working by a window. I now see the street like a curious dog might, interested in any sign of life and able to recognise the regular and appreciate the exceptional. I haven’t started barking yet and I’m relieved that lockdown probably won’t extend to the point at which I will.

Most of the regulars that aren’t drunk, drug addicts or homeless, are dropping things off or picking stuff up. There’s a single yellow line outside the front of us, delivery guys park there, often more than one at a time. Their conversations remind me of Shakespeare comedy characters, almost funny. They swear every other word and are very handy for catching up on traffic news, attitudes to lockdown, the virus and the government. Most days the breakdown of chat is; it was great when the roads were empty, farce, useless, muppets, wankers.

Then there are the postmen who come to empty the post box. One of them looks like Lord Baelish, you know, Little Finger. He’s a bit plumper and a bit fairer, I’d like to think he’s not as malevolent, power hungry or manipulative, but there’s definitely a facial resemblance.

Early last week there was a man in a high visibility jacket with a falcon on his arm wandering down the street. WTF? Really, WTF? I told Main, she said that falcons are used for pest control. It’s true, they are, pesky pigeons apparently. They are very effective according to falcon pest control websites.

Amazing.

I wonder what other medieval skills could be brought into contemporary London life. Emergency, anti terrorist, long bow archers shooting rubber arrows?

Probably not.