Jackie Jillings

Competition – #2

Many people are temporarily unemployed, inactive, downsized or otherwise becalmed at present. I find myself in strangely unchanged times, albeit with more restrictions on my movements outside the house. However, my lack of daily purpose has perhaps become slightly more pronounced – a state of enhanced purposelessness, if you will.

So, following my limited success writing to a deadline recently (here), I thought I’d get a bit of a grip on things, and try writing something else for a competition. This time I had allowed myself a whole week, to come up with 3-4 minutes of monologue. By the morning of the final day, I had about thirty seconds worth – procrastination and self-distraction having engulfed my every waking moment.

Clearly I am motivated by urgent deadlines though. With just five hours to go before submission closing time, I finally knuckled down and completed it very quickly. This allowed me a short break which was followed by a re-read, a ‘performance’ re-read (strictly in private, but definitely performed, so as to confirm the length) and several ‘final’ edits, before I chucked it into pdf format and sent it off with a mildly whimsical email, the character of which may owe some debt to Daisy May Cooper whose script-writing Instagram broadcasts I have loosely been following over the past couple of weeks. This may, of course, be a mistake…

The satisfaction was immense. I had decided to be kind to myself and not care if I couldn’t achieve the deadline – but hell did it feel good to have done it. It (almost) doesn’t matter if it’s rubbish, and it really doesn’t matter if I’m not selected, but I’m just so pleased and surprised at myself for achieving it at all.

And the content was, in itself, something of a self-explorative narrative. So that was liberating too.

My reward was to spend all morning on Easter Sunday sitting in the garden reading the newspaper. With no guilt. Hurrah!

Sobering times

Hard on the heels of a light-hearted post about Facebook challenges and musical memories, I just heard of the death of a friend’s wife.

They had been married for 61 years. For the past year or two they had lived apart, after she had to move to a residential care home. Aged 90, he not only soldiered on alone at home, but launched himself into new activities – mostly musical, which is where I met him – to keep his spirits and his mind active, whilst still visiting his beloved wife each day.

The past few weeks, of course, he has been housebound due to self-isolation. He had not been able to visit his wife for at least three weeks before she died and not at the end. The funeral arrangements will be difficult – or at least dictated by current rules and much restricted.

Such deep sadness and pain, with nowhere to go. We will sing with him on Monday in our rehearsal session. I hope that will help a little.

Album covers

Enjoying a particular facet of Facebook at the moment. I normally stick photos up there – usually of the plays I’ve seen or the views I’ve been fortunate enough to snap on my phone.

As I’ve said before, I don’t normally do these competitions or copy/paste lists, but in these strange times, one or two have appealed. I was challenged to post the cover art work of 10 albums that have influenced my tastes and my upbringing. Great fun, and made me think a bit too.

I was a shop assistant on Saturdays and holidays through my sixth form and university years and I could easily have listed 10 album covers which are ingrained on my memory from those years. Blondie’s ‘Parallel Lines’; Meatloaf’s ‘Bat out of Hell’; Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’; Jeff Wayne’s ‘War of the Worlds’; The Police ‘Regatta de Blanc’; Michael Jackson’s ‘Off the Wall’; BeeGees ‘Spirits Having Flown’; Genesis ‘Duke’; Dire Straits ‘Making Movies’; Springsteen’s ‘The River’. I chose different ones for my Facebook list – the shop ones are just those I remember selling most, not the ones which influenced me.

Interesting how it is bringing different people into the comments on Fb. Music and memories – always a good place to start.

Not a proper neighbour?

It turns out I’m not on the neighbourhood WhatsApp. Not sure why – probably my own oversight somewhere along the line.

They have apparently been asking people to help out with a number of things. I have already been asked if I would like to be on the cookery rota. I declined. I’m not a great cook, but more to the point, I don’t actually know what other people eat these days. If it’s cooking for old people I could have a bash, but not for the young NHS family – they’d be horrified, I’m sure.

And now they want us to sew mailbags, or maybe it’s pillowcases for nurses – or some such. Sounds great, but I don’t have a sewing machine or the skill needed to go with it. Call myself a woman? Another polite no.

Aaarggh. There must be something I’m equipped to do apart from sit at my laptop drivelling on.

Trolleyed

Whilst in the queue waiting to be allowed into the supermarket, there was a young couple immediately in front of me. More than six feet in front of me. They were clearly making the most of this adventure and, as we neared the entrance, he dispatched her to collect a trolley. Once they were in possession of said trolley, they proceeded to muck about – she trying to climb into it, he to dismantle it to see how it could perhaps be repurposed as… I don’t know what, but he was having a lot of fun and doing no actual damage.

I found this very funny and started to examine my own trolley to see if it would come apart in the same way as theirs (it would, but I was very subtle in my investigations). As we shuffled forwards, I also joined them in trying to surreptitiously ride on the trolley (I love doing this in the store – it annoys my husband no end). Their enjoyment certainly cheered me up in an otherwise slightly unaccustomed and unnerving situation.

It was only when we neared the front of the queue that I noticed a sign which urged people to shop alone, thus making this flippant and joyful couple properly in breach of the ‘rules’. I was quite happy to ignore the fact that of course we are not supposed to ride on the trolleys or be silly in our use of them, but the ‘one person’ seemed somehow more serious. So, I had to stop smirking and mucking about myself and get down to the serious job of being a middle-aged worried shopper once again.

Being British, I didn’t say anything to them of course, and they had steadfastly avoided making eye contact with anyone else at all, being in their own playful world.

Quite envious really.

But I am not currently taking my husband supermarket shopping with me. Sadly, nor am I cavorting down the aisles on the trolley myself, for fear of crashing uncontrollably into someone or even careering to within two metres of them. I suppose that should be a consideration normally, but somehow it matters a whole lot more right now

Soggy start to the weekend

I just soaked myself doing the washing up.

It’s not even lack of practice or unaccustomed domesticity. I wash up every morning.

Just incurable cack-handedness.

So now I start my Saturday with one wet knee, two wet slippers – and no promised sun yet!

Shopping again

I risked the supermarket again today.

Last week we offered a ‘vulnerable’ person the option to ask us to do his shopping. He initially declined, but rang us yesterday to see if we could do a shop for him. He can get about, but should not visit big public places like supermarkets – he’s elderly and a former cancer patient.

I was more than happy to have a valid excuse to get out of the house. He dropped a typed shopping list through our door last night and we called him to verify a few things before I went out. I have never met this guy before: I was very nervous about understanding his preferences. I know almost nothing about him!

Anyhow, I managed to get everything on his list. He claims it will last him four weeks. It included some fresh fruit and veg (although the fruit will not eke out for a month, I’m sure) and some meat for roasting, lots of tins, bread, milk – but nothing I would class as a treat. It all cost £46. Six bags, very heavy. For forty-six quid!

So, there’s a lesson!

He refused to let me drop the shopping off, preferring to come to our door and pick it up (in a reverse manoeuvre from what I have seen on other people’s doorsteps when their supermarket delivery has arrived). I suppose he wanted some sort of an excuse to put his coat on and drive a short way to get away from his own four walls.

I have been feeling I should volunteer for something now I’m pretty sure I’m clear of any travel-acquired nasties. So that’s done me some good too.

Travel thoughts

On Facebook this week, there has been a spate of posts with lists of countries and cities, annotated by each Fb friend to show how many of these somewhat random places they have visited. I rarely participate in these ‘share and re-post’ exercises, but travel-logging is my Achilles Heel, so I merrily spent a few surplus minutes completing and sharing my results.

In fact, I should now be in Vancouver with my daughter. Our flights were yesterday. We were heading for a mother-daughter-bonding train trip cross-country to Toronto, where she would have met friends and continued with a longer stay to include a visit to relatives in the US. The flights and the train were cancelled. Instead, my daughter has virus symptoms and is holed up in a flat the other side of London, newly unemployed, and I’m at my desk doing silly quizzes.

On the upside, I found a shop selling eggs today! All is not lost.

Competition

At the weekend, I was made aware of a script-writing competition, just two days in advance of the submission deadline. I knew I wouldn’t be able to complete anything worthwhile in that time, but my goodness, it gave me something to focus on.

For a while I thought maybe there was a chance. I quickly got to grips with the format required: I wrote a script for a sitcom once before for a competition, but that was about 15 years ago. It comes back though. Over three to four hours on Sunday, a script bumbled along nicely, looking pretty professional on my laptop.

I didn’t submit anything. In the end, the bumbling was fine but I couldn’t get to the conclusion in any satisfactory way. It has, however, given me some ideas, and in these confined times, what better than to have a script on the go?

Running

I used to be a decent runner. I enjoyed the local twice-a-year 8 miler, but have not done that for more than 10 years now.

I’m not sure it’s wise to subject my joints to road-running again really, but in these restricted times I feel more conspicuous just going for a walk in normal clothes, than donning my leggings and trainers and taking ‘a bit of a run’.

So, I lurched out of the house on Friday and managed the first road at a jog before walking for a while. I believe this is called ‘interval training’ and is very fashionable. ?? Anyhow, it was helpful to be wearing my running gear, and to be slightly out of breath, when I accosted a nice young policeman in Richmond Park to enquire what the exact rules are about exercise. None the wiser at the time, to be honest, but he was very polite. (No doubt he was thinking ‘Get these mad middle-aged lycra-wearers OUT of my vicinity’ – yes, although I was definitely more than six feet away from him, there were other women queuing to talk to him. He was quite a nice young man, I suppose, but I think it was more the need for some sort of social interaction)

On my return route from the Park I found a brilliant road with speed humps which I could use to measure out my intervals more scientifically. This worked well, and genuinely I was exercising properly for a while. By the time I got home, I was mostly walking, but for the final stretch – past the houses where I know everyone – I made sure to sprint. I always do this, even if otherwise completely knackered. Of course, sprinting is a term defined in the body of the sprinter: in the eye of the beholder, this may very well be a flailing stagger with added gasping. But I promise that any gasping was not done in the direction of the houses.

And my Fitbit awarded me PEAK minutes and umpteen calories – yay.

Sainsburys!

I have succeeded in doing my first proper big Sainsbury’s shop today. I walked there, for exercise, sanitised hands, trolley handle and scanner device at the outset (after queuing for maybe fifteen minutes to get in) and was gobsmacked to find shelves re-stocked and most of what I needed, or a reasonable alternative, available.

Cleverly, the scanner prevented me from taking more than two items from the loo-roll and tissue aisle (I tested it) and that pleased me somehow. I suppose I could have stolen an extra item without scanning it, but of course I did not and I’m sure others wouldn’t either!

Once again I was annoyed with myself for being smug about using the scanner and self-packing, which is what they’re advising people to do. We have been doing this for months now because it helps with orderly packing. Erm, well it does when David does it. Sadly, when he brought the car over to collect me, I had to apologise for the dreadful mixing of products and the higgledy-piggledy state of the packing. I know he hates this, but he was so pleased to see that I had succeeded in finding most of his staple foodstuffs, that I think I was forgiven this time.

I just don’t know how to feel about all this

After last night’s glorious coming together of the neighbourhood in applause for ‘our’ NHS, as we now seem to call it, I have started to wonder at the emotional chicanery I’m currently experiencing. On the one hand, the clapping/whooping/cow-bell clanging was tear-inducingly uplifting. On the other, was it a bit mawkish? It didn’t pay them any more or provide any new masks or ventilators, did it? But it did attract attention and it was a way of publicly thanking people. And we all cried together.

Why do I fight such internal battles? Who cares? It was a nice thing to do and we all waved at each other from a safe distance, before retreating rather uncomfortably back indoors to our TVs. I imagine I was not alone in being confused at my response. It is a very small thing to worry about – and perhaps easier to focus on than the HUGE worries others have right now and we might have at any point in the future. Get over it.

Suitably over it, this morning I marched purposefully to the local small supermarket, a branch of Sainsbury’s conveniently located across the road from a large hospital – even more conveniently, just a 5 minute walk from my home.

In the bright cold sunshine around 10am, the road was eerily quiet. No other pedestrians as I walked, no-one in their front gardens, and no road traffic. Truly like one of those post-apocalyptic films. Would there be a dinosaur or a futuristic alien round the corner?

In fact, no, no aliens*, just a small queue of obediently self-distancing people outside the supermarket.

There are also confusing joys and pressures in food shopping, it seems.

On the plus side – more availability cheers me up. Fewer shelves were empty today. On the negative side, when there is almost nothing left of a product, it makes me feel bad to take it, even if I genuinely need it.

The best bit of all, though – and here I am guilty of massive smugness – was when an ambulance driver turned up while I was first in the queue outside. Both I and the security guard on the door simultaneously waved her straight inside. Hurrah – we’re spontaneously DOING THE RIGHT THING!

Mind you, I then felt bad for feeling so good. Aaargh!

*Why did the spell-checker change ‘aliens’ to ‘clients’? !! There’s a throwback for you.

Pond?

This appeared on our doorstep yesterday, wrapped in black plastic and clearly addressed to my husband.

We think it’s some sort of pond (probably upside down in this pic).

We did not order it, but initially suspected our daughter of random-presenting. She denies this, and an online family discussion revealed that none of the other usual suspects who might have misaddressed one of their own orders was to blame.

Although we have been thinking of creating a pond in our garden (hence our suspicion regarding our daughter’s possible gift), I’m not sure this quite fits the bill. And it’s a large and unattractive addition to the indoor household in its current state.

It caused some amusing debate on our family WhatsApp though. Given our potential boredom in the upcoming few weeks, perhaps we can think of novel uses. The current front-runner is creating our very own Tracy Island model. But do we still have the toy Thunderbirds to go with it?

Starts extensive search…

Decluttering? Overrated

Although I understand the benefits of decluttering (and of not cluttering in the first place), I am currently feeling smug regarding my personal failure to leap on-board the Marie Kondo bandwagon.

In these days of scarcity, I am happily working my way through all those little bottles of shampoo, old soaps and face creams which have spent years on my bathroom shelf, in the shower rack and under the bed. In the end, this will of course also achieve the decluttering objective, and in future I have pledged to reduce plastic waste, so new products will be different anyway. But in the meantime, it is one less pressure to worry about.

If only we had a stash of novelty toilet roll somewhere…

Coming clean

I have mostly been fortunate enough to employ a cleaner for a weekly visit to my house. I always felt odd about this, as my parents never countenanced such a thing, but times change I suppose: I mostly worked full-time (or nearly) and was financially able to do it. Apart from a year when I didn’t work, when I nobly wielded the duster myself as penance, I have learned to get over my stupid guilt and pay someone else to do most of the dirty work for me.

In these interesting and isolating times, we have ‘paused’ the agency clean (which had recently been reduced to fortnightly in my end-of-financial-year budgeting spreadsheet recalibration exercise) and today I determined was this week’s Cleaning Day. Alone in the house* apart from the irritated cats – and whilst the other occupant took his chances with ‘going out once for exercise’ – I merrily cleaned surfaces with anti-bac, dusted and vacuumed. I believe I have achieved a reasonable level of cleanliness, if not to a fully professional standard.

This cheerfulness and positivity will no doubt not last – but I will make the most of it while it does.

*Being alone for this exercise is important. It allows me to sing loudly and repetitively throughout. I believe this is a family trait inherited from my mother’s side. My granny sang hymns constantly whilst tidying, cooking or sewing. Today, inexplicably, it was the Birdie Song. Trying times.

Desperate times?

It was a wonderful holiday, but I have woken every day for the past 3 weeks with a migraine – a routine which has continued since returning home.

I am fortunate to have medication which, usually, makes me better within an hour or so. I am even more fortunate to have been able to collect another month’s supply of the medication on Friday, thus making me feel secure in these lock-down days, and also giving me the interesting experience of queuing outside the local Boots to be allowed in only in small numbers several metres apart. The whole time I was in there, I tried not to breathe and kept my gloves on, such was my paranoia – but then, I always feel like that when queuing at the pharmacy; usually worse, because my vomiting phobia means I generally imagine I will catch norovirus.

I was also noble in allowing an older gentleman in before me even though I was there first. I confess this was primarily because he was droning on too much (and too close) about it all being China’s fault and listing a load of nonsense I just couldn’t be bothered to listen to, but I suppose I could have gone in and left him outside with the rest of the queue, so it’s still noble, right?

On the migraine front as well as Coronavirus, prevention is better than cure, they say. If only I knew what would work for my headaches – I have spent my whole adult life failing to solve this problem. Last night, I confess to a moment of negativity at bedtime – the thought of waking once again with a pounding head takes away from the pleasure of settling down to read and nod off.

A sudden thought occurred. I had placed my last remaining muesli bar beside my bed to eat with my almost inevitable early morning tablet (it helps it to take effect if I eat something). Perhaps a slug of Baileys cream would do the trick instead of the muesli bar, rather than venture to the plague-ridden shops for more.

Then the thought of having the large bottle of Baileys left over from Christmas on my bedside table made me properly laugh out loud. That cheered me up and I picked up my book.

Desperate measures for desperate times? Hardly. It will only be desperate when we can’t make ourselves laugh about anything.

Cheers!

Changed times

Just a few posts ago, I was in a theatre with hundreds of others. Since then, I have been crammed on several planes and in airports in two different countries. I had a very nice time and, even as I was doing those things, I promise that I recognised my good fortune. That recognition is today in even sharper focus as we enter the ‘lock-down’ (or almost) phase of the UK’s response to Covid19.

Now we are not supposed to congregate anywhere and everything is cancelled. Theatres are dark, in many cases for the first time since the Second World War. Even the pubs have been ordered to close and there are no sporting events to watch on TV – the latter more important to others than myself, but it’s shocking nevertheless.

I have all the time in the world to write my blogs.

What on earth will I write about?

Oh, I’m sure I’ll find some minutiae to rabbit on about…

Car crash (or Honesty Pt II)

On the last full day of our holiday, we had a small car accident. It sounded like a HUGE car accident at the time but, as with many experiences, the mind plays tricks.

It is hard to determine exactly who was to blame and to what degree. In fact, there’s no point worrying about it. We were in a hire car with expensive comprehensive insurance, and the other driver was in one of his own company’s vehicles which sustained little damage and there were no personal injuries.

In order to satisfy the hire car’s insurance requirements, we reported the incident at the local police station in Port Elizabeth. Although we were dreading this, it turned into a somewhat surreal social occasion, albeit conducted in a confined space at the temporary police premises after extravagant hand sanitising as per coronavirus procedures there. The other driver was summoned to attend to provide his details. To our astonishment, he duly turned up within minutes – still unconcerned – and proceeded to chat with us about all sorts of unrelated topics, until the police officer had completed the enormous form to everyone’s satisfaction.

When we presented the car back to the hire company at the airport, there was an initial in-drawing of breath, but after full inspection and explanation – and another slightly less lengthy form – we were told that we had passed the necessary examination with flying colours. Isn’t it wonderful when expectations of conflict and difficulty are instead met with understanding, pleasantness and humour?

Accidents do happen and we’ve been lucky to mostly avoid them to date. In this case, we divided responsibilities in our accustomed manner – one to do the actual driving, the other to supply the accompanying over-the-top histrionics. I’ll leave you to guess …