The Art Of Staying Positive.

It’s not all doom and gloom out there you know. You have to find the positives from situations like this (I can’t even write the word anymore) and to do so one must first look. It’s not as if there’s much else to do anymore. Wifey broke the news to me gently yesterday morning and I finally realised that yes, the gym had really, really shut and that the world, and in particular my modest little world, had changed and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back. Ho hum. But I didn’t wallow and weep too long, that’s not going to help anyone, and instead I leapt out of bed with gusto and declared that we needed to go to Runners World, immediately. Once the excitement had died down we agreed that it might be better to wait until 9.00am, when it opened.

 

I can barely remember the last time I went running (it used to be my default exercise a few years ago) but if that’s the solution to fighting potentially fatal levels of slothery then run I must and my gym trainers were in dire need of an upgrade. There are few sports quite as dreary as long distance running and there is always the added nightmarish chance that you might bump into Chris Evans, but on the bright side it gets you some fresh air and you get to explore new places and of course you keep fit. I broke in my new pumps this morning and very fine they are too (they bloody well should be at £55 a foot). I took Wifey along with me and she fluttered about beautifully and it felt lovely to be out and running again. My legs will ache like hell tomorrow but you’ve got to start somewhere.

 

It also dawned on me that it might come to a time when barbers have to shut and so I plonkered around on Amazon (Bezos really should be splashing his cash around a bit right now) for a bit looking for clippers. If you’ve ever met me you’ll know that my hair is about as low maintenance as you can have without having leukemia, and so all I need is a quick buzz every fortnight and I’m happy. They arrive tomorrow, probably just about the time that my leg muscles explode with grief, and it’s all a little bit exciting. Wifey says she’ll look on YouTube to see how to do the job but I don’t really mind trying myself. Besides she’s a key worker on the front line and I imagine she’ll have enough on her plate. Anyway, let’s hope that’s £47.83 well spent.

 

It hasn’t stopped there. Yesterday I also got my hands on a penis extension. Not a real one, you understand. If anything I probably need a reduction, y’know, to take the pressure off my hips, but this was an artificial one: a power hose. If we’re going to have more time on our hands then the least I can do is clean the patio so we can spend a summer self isolating in the garden. The power hose, like the hammer drill and the chain saw, is not much more than a penis extension when you think about it (if you’re worried I’m being a bit sexist then I will happily call it a clitoris enhancement). Now that we don’t have spears and swords to wave around we must find the equivalent in the domestic arena, and I can say with some pride that I’ve been waving it about all morning and the back patio looks as fresh as a baby’s arse. It bloody well should, £120 is a lot to pay for a noisy hose.

 

My final celebration of joy is that we spent about 6 hours curled on the sofa watching all kinds of shit last night. Several episodes of ‘Man With A Plan’, which is half as funny as ‘Friends’ but almost as comforting. Four episodes of ‘Travel Man’, which is always exactly as good and funny as Richard Ayoade’s companion – the one with Stephen Merchant was brilliant, the other’s not quite so but it is never less than distracting. It did dawn on me that watching travel shows seems a bit pointless at the moment, but I’d still rather watch ‘Travel Man’ than, say, the Emmerdale omnibus. The triumph of the night was our film choice: ‘The Art of Self Defense’, an American dark comedy so brilliantly black and warped it had us gripped from scene one. It is films like this, that sneak out almost un-noticed, that renew faith in a film industry that is often really quite lame. It was well worth whatever we pay for Sky, and that isn’t something I say lightly.

 

And so there we are, a tiddly little report from our own tiddly front line. It’s nice to feel positive, though who knows how long that will last. Yes, you might scoff, we had to spend our way there, but then that’s money that won’t be spent on restaurants and pubs and cinemas and gyms. And besides, it’s quite satisfying proving wrong anyone who ever says that money can’t buy you happiness. I trust you are all well, dear readers, and that nasty thing doesn’t come knocking for you. The sun is out and shining, just remember that, and when we’re all dead and gone the sun will still be there. And it will still have its hat on. Hip, hip, hip hooray.

 

G B Hewitt. 22.03.2020

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