Back pre Mid March 2020, Cornflake and I ate out all the time, I went to the movies, to the theatre and generally lived a London style, life of Riley.
The current restrictions have taken the pleasure out of our pleasures. The stop and direct on arrival, you can go there, but not there, the complexity of down loading this app, that app, ordering online although you are on site, has sucked the joy out of previously simple, joyous outings.
I only want a cup of tea and a piece of cake ffs.
I am well aware that our pleasures are easily trumped by public health issues. As far as the big picture is concerned, we can fuck the fuck off and stop moaning.
Another pleasure ruined, I love a good moan.
After many efforts to enjoy outings within the set rules, without the full grasp of, or patience for, the prerequisite online skills, we have decided to give up on external sources of fun. They are no longer fun.
My ambition to be paid to write and illustrate a weekly, what’s on, guide to entertainment for senior Londoners, looks like a definite non-goer. By the time this Covid-19 thing is sorted, Brexit will have happened. The chances of London life, as I love it, surviving both of those is limited I imagine.
Damn.
More time to write, nothing to write about.
Perhaps the embargo on moaning will be lifted, I could manage hundreds if not thousands of words daily in that case.
Perhaps I could write it as a work of fiction? An imaginary life about town, for previously outgoing Londoners.
Probably not.
fat tart 