Where to begin…..
We set off for the Isle of Wight primped and prepped. Our little party was staying at the Grand, where an ongoing ambience of being in the middle of a Hercule Poirot adventure coexisted slightly uneasily, but in a good way, with the breakfast mix tape of 70s funk classics. The wedding itself was lovely, set in the botanical gardens in Ventnor on a gloriously sunny day. A heady mixture of generations mixed and mingled and later hit the dance floor with a level of utter commitment rarely seen in the corridors of power (the commitment that is, given the fun fest over lockdown, I suppose dancing can’t be ruled out – though I doubt of the same calibre…..). We returned, hips aching but trailing clouds of terpsichorean glory and with several cuttings of the biggest pelargonium in the world wrapped in disposable bath caps – as you do…. Two days later it became clear we had brought home a less welcome addition.
I have been on Covid isolation for the last week and a half and I shan’t lie – I have not been an invalid meeting poetic standards. Whilst I have lounged on a sofa emoting “nigh unto death” vibes, I have failed to wear flowing violet silk robes, flowers in my hair or a “rise above it all like an angel” demeanour. Instead, I have been sporting rumpled shorts and channelling grumpy, if not downright malevolent, troll that lives under a bridge vibes. Luckily, Keith has not managed to get his hands on a billygoat gruff. I haven’t been able to taste or smell anything for over a week which, for a committed foodie with a rose garden and lavender field, is utterly dispiriting. However, as the plague bar on the test has now dwindled from emphatic black to whispery grey, I am beginning, intermittently, to get a very slight hint of a tint – an almost homeopathic memory of aroma. When this passes I am going into sensory overdrive – I shall be wallowing in attar of roses and eating whole heads of garlic in the bath.
I am also completely whacked. Yesterday, I repotted a few tomatoes and had to lie down for an hour. Today, an hour’s dead heading nearly finished me off. The only thing to do, it seems, is to read a book and blot it all out. I am averaging 1.2 novels a day. Always though there’s the background mosquito whine of things I should be doing. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore. In a panic, yesterday I cut some flowers for drying in case they were all gone by the time I actually felt like doing it. I was most definitely not up to grovelling in the garage, so stuck hooks on the wall of my garret and strung them up there. I promptly had to go for a lie down on the big sofa to regroup. However, it seems finally we have a silver lining – it turns out that flowers dry so much more quickly up there the colours are better preserved than when I use the garage.
My on off companion in the poorly person handicap has been Lyra. She was at the vet last week, has been banned from long walks and sporting a rather natty navy blue one piece to stop her from scratching at the stitches. If things proceed the current trajectory I’ll be testing negative about the same time she get’s to take her Kylie Minogue one piece off. This must call for some sort of celebration surely?
And to leave on a positive note – I can definitely tell that the random sweetie I just popped in is rhubarb flavoured (as opposed to wallpaper the predominant flavour in the rest of the packet – or so it seemed). En avant mes braves.