Day Nine:

Being confined 24 hours a day is difficult enough but if you’re also isolated with someone who brings out the worst in you, it can seriously impact on your emotional well-being.

My neighbour Mabel, a pleasant enough woman with a great deal to put up with from her boozy, bad-tempered husband,  had a visitor a few days ago.  Her nephew, Bruce.  

He leaned against her fence, some 8 metres away from her door and they had a shouted conversation, which of course, I heard.

I don’t usually eavesdrop on other people’s conversations but being confined to the house and away from the interesting minutiae of life has made me nosy.  
Besides, distance didn’t just lend enchantment, it forced them to bellow.

‘How are you, Auntie?’

‘All right I suppose. Apart from being stuck in here with Him all the time.’

I’m fairly sure she didn’t mean Jesus. 
Mabel has an awkward husband, who, at the best of times, doesn’t like visitors.

He once threw a cat at the postman. 

He's home all day now but for the odd sortie to the grog shop.

‘Is there anything you need?’  

Mabel listed a few essentials and I saw Bruce taking notes.  Then she added, ‘And some rat poison.’

‘Oh my god, don’t tell me you have rats.’

‘Just the one.’

She nodded backwards to the house where Himself was shouting at her to get back inside and stop gossiping.

She wasn’t serious about the poison of course, at leasat I hope not.  They’ve been married for over 50 years and despite, or perhaps because of their constant arguments, still occupy the same small unit.
They seem to thrive on being embattled, as many couples do.

He is normally at the RSA, the local social/drinking club during most of their opening hours;  Mabel is normally a volunteer, working in the local Thrift Shop. 
But these are not normal times.

‘Is Uncle playing up again?’ asked Bruce, trying to keep his voice down to a whispered yell.

‘He wet the bed last night.’

I tried to stop listening at this point, there's such a thing as too much information. However,  even though I was sitting in my own kitchen, all the doors and windows were open on this warm, sunny day, so it was inevitable I’d hear.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was incontinent.’

‘He’s not incontinent,  he’s  incompetent.   He’d came back from the liquor shop with a crate of beer,'  (Alcohol it seems, is an essential item).    'and by the time he came to bed last night he was so sozzled, he spilled  a whole can of Lion Red on the duvet.'

Lion Red beer is brewed in the North Island of New Zealand and has its avid devotees.  Mabel’s husband is one of them.  She often says they brewery will never go bankrupt as long as he’s around.

I spent many years in the South Island and though not much of a beer drinker (a cold glass on a very hot day is my limit)  I prefer Speight’s,  brewed in the beautiful, South Island city of Dunedin.

There’s a sort of rivalry between the two beer camps and this has given rise to a ditty, no doubt penned by the Lion Red adherents.  It uses the initial letters of Speight’s delicious brew.

Southern 

Pee

Everyone

Including

God

Hates 

The

Stuff 

Which is quite wrong.

I happen to know God is very partial to a sparkling glass of Speight's Gold.

Day Eight

Day Eight:

How lucky I am to be totally alone and locked up-down in my little home.

 Here I am with no one to please but my own dozy self;  no arguments, no irritations,  no expectations or obligations to be anywhere or do anything.  
It’s quite liberating - but for the fact I’m not at liberty. 

 It’s also a sort of allowable selfishness which doesn’t impact on anyone else, or put anyone at risk. 

 Many stories are emerging about the tensions, particularly for families and couples thrown together in unaccustomed  isolation and on the verge of insanity, divorce or worse.

Were I locked down with the sort of persons I’m reading about: women who secretly have friends round for ‘drinkies and bikkies’ at night; men who won’t wash or change underwear because they have no need to leave the house,  I'd very quickly be grinding soporifics  into their Muesli. 

 Then, of course,  the local Constabulary and I would be having Very Serious Words.

And a new word has been coined.

 ‘Covidiots’ are the people who feel they are immune to the disease and all the rules which aim to keep people safe.

It’s possible to be asymptomatic with Covid-19, although being a total imbecile is less easy to  hide.

The Backpackers who phoned a radio stationin New Zealand and declared they had no intentions of restricting  their plans to tour the country,  are, like Typhoid Mary, potentially infecting thousands.

The 3,000 people who thronged to Brockwell Park in South London yesterday, not only compromised their own health but that of everyone with whom they subsequently socialised.

If just one person in that gathering of 3,000 was infectious and asymptomatic, everyone they talk to and breathe on; everything they touched, had the potential to infect and even kill.   

They could be responsible for the sickness and death of  babies, young children, pregnant women, essential workers and more, not to mention themselves and their own families.

That’s the unacceptable side of selfishness but I suppose if you are a moron, you don’t see it as such.

When I was at school, we used to chant a silly rhyme.

Happy little moron, he doesn’t give a damn.

I wish I were a moron

Oh no, perhaps I am!

Day Seven

 Day Seven:

I feel myself becoming morose.

I’m a cheerful person usually, weathering life’s many storms and fighting on.

In fact our family motto is:  Numquam desistas, numquam dare in -  Never give up; Never give in and it has stood me in good stead during 73 years of a less than peaceful (but extremely interesting) life. 

I’m also by nature an optimist , so I don’t expect to feel glum for long but today has been just a bit scratchy.

‘It won’t be long before this is all over,’ said my cheerful friend during her weekly phone call, “to check up on you elderly and housebound”. 

She  continued,  ‘and you’ll be able to kick up your heels and celebrate.’

It's been many a long year since I could kick up anything other than a fuss and  at the moment, with the death toll still rising and people not allowed to attend the tangihanga and funerals of their loved ones,  I’m not sure I’m up for a celebration.

The only thing I want to kick right now is my cheerful friend.

We are still at Level 4 and the statistics world-wide show that New Zealand is doing better at containment than any other developed country due to the stringent rules brought in early and enforced by our Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern. 

 These restrictions were so much resented at the time and there were many who felt they could be flouted but that was probably because they simply didn’t realise the implication and the virulence of C-19.    Or the mixed and very confusing messages of 'stay at home but it's fine to crowd en masse into supermarkets.'

Now everyone is aware and we are far more cautious and obedient. Most of the time.

It will pass and we’ll attend the kawe mate/memorials for those whom we’ve lost. 

The supermarkets will once more have a few hundred, rather than a few thousand crazy panic-stricken chooks crowding the aisles;  I will be able to see my darling grandson again.

There will be bluebirds over New Zealand's clover... 

 But not yet.

Day Six

Day Six:

Email from a friend tells me her recalcitrant husband refuses to wash his hands, even when he’s been out shopping, so she follows him around, wiping  every touched surface  with disinfectant and a damp cloth.

If he were my spouse, I’d be following him round with a blunt instrument.

Her only revenge, being confined with him to small quarters,  is to eat a combination of broccoli , Brussels sprouts and cauliflower,  then and stand as close as possible to him when she breaks wind. 

Brussels sprouts contain cyanide (which is why they're bitter) I won't tell her this, it may give her ideas.

The gossip in my neck of the woods is that cauliflower is only to be had at 5 times its normal price.    I’m assuming it’s gold plated not brass-ica. 

It will lack cheese sauce as there’s not even mousetrap (my usual purchase) in our supermarket, which has rather saddened the mice who are now considering coming in from the fields during these cold mornings.

The matter of wind (well, it IS March) has highlighted one small compensation of being locked up, or down.

 I can eat as much garlic, onions and cabbage as I please, with no fear of exterminating anyone with the gaseous results.  Except the mice of course.

On that subject, I used the last of the bathroom deodorising spray yesterday but a dear neighbour agreed to get some and a pack of toilet rolls from her local corner shop which, being fairly remote, hasn’t yet been pillaged by the ravening hoards.

It is only a matter of time before raiding parties try further afield in their insatiable lust for consumer goods.

My friend, for whom English is not a first language came back not with an aerosol to dispel odours, but one of those Spray n' Wipe bottles and a Chux cloth instead of toilet rolls.

She passed them to me with such happiness and satisfaction, 'No need for paper, all in one cleaner, spray and wipe bottom.'

I have a feeling someone’s garage may be full of toilet tissue and if only I knew where they lived I could effect a midnight sortie to liberate some.

I’ve got to the stage where I'm eyeing Christmas wrapping paper.

 I still have no deodorising spray to keep the wharepaku sweet but I read online that striking a match can eliminate smells but is it safe when methane is inflammable?  

Were I 40 years younger and in a slightly different context,  the idea of igniting Mr Muscle  might appeal but I do not wish to be rushed to hospital with a barbecued fundament, so perhaps I’ll just turn on the extractor fan.

Day Five

Day Five:

The fresh vegetables bought before Lockdown are now mostly consumed. 

An old, dry carrot languishes in the fridge and with half an onion, could, were I desperate, make soup.

I don’t live within reach of any shops and all the people I could call on are also staying safe at home.

Except for one old rebel who never does as he’s asked and for once, I’m glad of it.

The gentleman (and he’d hotly dispute that if he ever read this blog) and I have been friends for many years.

‘Hello darlin’, ' he said when I picked up the phone, 'anything you need?’

 I would normally give him a cheeky answer to a question like that but I requested instead a bottle of milk and a pumpkin.

‘You shall go the ball Cinders.’   

Two hours later I heard a bellow,  ‘Merry Christmas!’ outside my door and there stood the most unlikely elf with two bags of vegetables. 

‘I got extra because it’s almost Easter and you won’t be able to get into the shops soon.’ 

‘You mean you can at the moment?’  

It seemed security guards were stationed at the entrances and exits to the largest supermarkets and as soon as 10 people exited, another 10 were allowed in.  

The only way, apparently, to prevent battles over items on the shelves.  

It hasn’t prevented drivers fighting in the car parks for the last space as they queue for hours to get in.

My rebel stood well back as I threw a roll of notes at him.  

After he’d gone, I unpacked the vegetables and at the very bottom of the bag  found a little chocolate Easter Egg.    

 God love ya Martin!