I have found that, in these Lockdown Days, some days begin well before they go downhill, while others start badly but undergo a radical - and welcome - transformation as the hours pass. You are right, of course, this has
always been the case but somehow everything is magnified to the power of ten when set in the current restrictive environment.
Today was one of those days that
started badly. I hadn’t been able to sleep so had taken to an adaptation of that well-known Sleep Inducing Activity - counting sheep - in the hope that this would send me into happy slumbers. My version involved trying to remember which family member
is pictured holding up which word on the beautiful poster with its loving and inspiring message which came yesterday (please see yesterday’s Daily Blog if you need to know what I’m talking about.)
This was quite a challenge in the middle of the night so, while certainly bestowing a warm glow upon my recumbent but restless body, it possibly kicked my brain into overdrive, rather than settling it down. I should have remembered
that the whole point about counting sleep is the Boredom Factor. Instead, I was wider awake than ever, thinking how grown up Faris the Rascal looked in his short Lockdown Haircut and loving Young Sam’s depiction of the word BE, each letter decorated
in stripes, with a bee buzzing merrily in the top right hand corner. I could go on - and on - but eventually, sometime after 5 a.m. I fell asleep.
When I awoke
it was to a message on my mobile from Royal Mail to advise me that our package from Sky had been delivered at 6.30 a.m. Slightly perturbed, but not yet panicking, I trotted downstairs to see if there was a tell-tale card on the doormat telling me that it had
not been possible to deliver because I hadn’t responded to The Call. Nothing. I carefully searched the front and back doorsteps, behind the rubbish bins - even under the car - to see if my Precious Package has been left in “a safe place.”
No such luck. I checked my phone again but it definitely said the parcel had been successfully delivered.
This is where I made my biggest mistake of the morning
by confiding the problem to Mr B who immediately went into a minor meltdown which, over the course of the morning, escalated into a major meltdown. Mr Grumpy was the least of it. I tried accessing the Royal Mail tracker but it was temporarily out of order
(rather like Mr B at this point) and made several valiant attempts at contacting Sky but couldn’t find a person to talk to. Mr B demanded that I ring our son (in whom he has rather more faith than in me when it comes to sorting such matters) but I parried
this suggestion, knowing that My Boy would be working from home at the dining room table in the company of three sons all supposedly doing school work. The last thing he needed, I reasoned, was a call from an increasingly unhinged mother.
Maybe the package had been left with a neighbour? I phoned Matt Next Door who was sympathetic but unable to help - then was on my way round to the neighbours on the other side
of us when I saw the postman coming along the road. In his hand, a small, cardboard box, just exactly the size of a TV remote control. “Is that for us?” I squealed, trying in vain to conceal my excitement. Did he know, I nearly said, that he might
just have saved my life? My Saviour in the Red Jacket waved the package at me in affirmation before placing it carefully on the roof of my car so that I could collect it from him at an appropriately social distance. A quick glance told me all I needed to know
- it was just what I was looking for. I knew that my day was about to get so, so much better.
The postie continued along the road, sorting through the letters
for the next few houses as he went.
“I actually think I may love you!” I called after him.
Believe me, you have never seen a postman move so fast...