The editor wished me a happy new year and told me to “fire up” for 2022.
Tough call, kind sir who pays me studiously each week for my contribution of page 11 prose.
Because, among other things, mask-wearing is causing me to chaff so badly around the edges of my mouth that I look like a sideshow clown waiting for ping pong balls to be shoved down my throat in pursuit of a prize.
The last time I saw it that bad was when I allowed a little too much build up in our children’s nappies. Once the pouch of the nappy gets that heavy, they start to swing, creating a rubbing motion at the top which in my day exposed a velcro tab.
No amount of cream was returning that baby’s bottom to its original state of “smooth”.
Similarly, nothing but time without a mask will help wipe the Bobo smile from my aching face.
Wanda says I need more time in the garden, and she’s probably right. The balmy weather has seen a healthy sprout of grass seeds climb their way into the strawberries.
I know there was a choko and passionfruit vine somewhere along the fence, but they both seem to have disappeared. I may or may not have weeded them in a slight bout of garden rage when the bloke down the street asked me to take care of my plumber’s crack.
When you’re bent over a spade trying to loosen weeds away from a stalk that’s only identifiable by the shape of its dead leaves and a few rotting fruit slithers, the last thing you want is for someone to question the social acceptability of the only part of your body carrying more sweat than your armpits.
I do recall asking the complainant for a loan of his handkerchief. He was none too impressed, but it was the first smile I’d mustered that day.
Nevertheless, when I do go out of the house, it’s usually at Wanda’s request to top up the pantry and fridge with dinner ingredients.
It’s probably a good thing I ripped out those plants because we now need to invest in a chicken coop because I can’t find any in the supermarket. The pet shop’s probably out of them too, but you can only try.
And as I look at the used-by date on the three remaining packets of low-grade mince, major chains have asked for my patience.
They say when I’m unable to find the right size of condiment jar, I need to be adaptable – for the good of my fellow man, they say.
I’ve been buying a certain size of milo tin and marmalade jar for 45 years and now they want me to adjust my pantry to accommodate a supply issue.
I tried to help Geoffrey the other day. For those unfamiliar with Geoffrey, he’s my best friend who has probably seen his best years. He remembers little, is deaf as a beetle, but loves to talk about accomplishments of years gone by.
He’s not dissimilar to myself, although I remember what I choose, have selective hearing, and also like to talk of better days.
The aged care home he’s in gives him enough custard to feed a small army but he likes a chocolate mousse I’ve been buying him for a few years now.
Like many things on the supermarket shelves, it was out of stock. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
When I went to visit him, the drawbridge was upright, and nurses were peeking from the turrets of their fortress.
The latest outbreak of the pandemic means I’m no longer able to pass the gates unless I swim the moat and dodge the crocodiles.
I get it. I understand why they’re shutting visitors out. But it’s no less frustrating to see Geoffrey cut from the outside world, and me from making a minor difference in his limited life.
So I’ve got a big useless tick on my passport and an arm full of boosters. Geoffrey’s off-limits, Wanda’s trying to accommodate a grumpy husband, the passionfruit and chokos have been ripped from their pasture, and here I sit with a over-sized tin of milo and marmalade on the kitchen bench.
So when it comes to planning out 2022, it’s not been a great start. And if you don’t mind, I may find it difficult to “fire up”, Mr Editor – at least not for a little while.
