Not much out of nothing.

I can’t think of anything to write. It’s becoming a serious problem. Seriously. Well, that’s a slight exaggeration because you could write about anything at all but the trick is to make it worth reading. So what I really mean is I can’t think of anything to write about that is worth your time and effort, and this is a very sad state of affairs. Since New Year I must have racked up half a dozen chunky drafts and not one of them is close to being finished. As in properly finished, not just decorated with a full stop. Not that I’m expecting you to feel sorry for me (I know already that you don’t) or to offer some friendly advice (I’m quite good at asking but I’m not so hot on taking), I just thought that in the absence of anything to write about I would instead write about not having anything to write about. Do you see?

This revelatory new approach to the written word came to me in the shower, as I was wondering what on earth had happened to my toe. I have more than one toe, just in case you thought my body is being harvested by some very peculiar black market gang. Indeed I’m proud to say I have the full set of ten (although long term readers may recall that my left little one has seen better days, views by request only). The toe in question this time is on the right, the one next to the big daddy toe and it hurts quite a bit. Whatever happened to it must have happened on Thursday because that’s when it started hurting. I then ran on it the next morning, cos I’m ‘ard, and was surprised to find that this rash act did next to nothing to improve matters, let alone my rash. It feels angry, my toe. It feels indignant. I was worried that I might have got gout, though it seems odd that it would isolate itself in the tip of just one toe, but I also remembered some smartarse once telling me that you break bones in your toes all the time and often don’t even notice. I expect (and hope) that this is what has happened and that given a few days of not running or dropping bowling balls on my feet (a popular time filler, round our way) the healing process will kick in.

And the reason I was thinking about my toe in the shower was because I’d just done a bit of non toe related exercise in the dining room while Wifey did some bubble gum, pop tart, full of beans, excitable little American confectionary workout in the living room. It is not unknown for us to join forces to exercise during lockdown time but this isn’t possible at the moment because she is self isolating. We’re not sure if Covid has actually come knocking but it’s certainly making things awkward at the moment. There’s not a lot we can do about it as she’s spent quite some time seeing her mother ebb and (I won’t say flow because that would give the wrong impression) ebb slightly less with her triple whammy of old age, dementia and a great big testiony positivo. Remarkably she’s still hanging on in there and I did wonder out loud the other day whether she may be perfectly well and is just doing this to keep her occupied. Either way I’m glad that Wifey has had the chance to finally see her again and say all the things she wants to, because it’s not been easy for her either.

In case you were wondering self isolation is shit. I don’t even have to do it and I think it’s shit. Wifey can’t go anywhere and I’m working from home too and so we’re in the house almost all the time and yet we can’t go near each other. You might think this plays to her advantage but in truth (quick, fetch a bucket) we’re both having to come to terms with a complete absence of fond tactility. It has suddenly become apparent just how often we share a touch and that’s coming from someone who is usually only compelled to hold hands with his wife when he sees another couple doing it and doesn’t want them to think we’re less in love than they are. Alas though: kissing, hugging, leaching heat off each other in bed; they’re all out of the window, and at a time when Wifey really could do with a lot of comfort.

Anyway, we have now become a house of a thousand wipes and a couple of pairs of marigolds, but with luck it will all be back to normal by next weekend (just normal, not new fucking normal), which might coincide with my toe being back to full fitness and my ability to write vaguely reinstated. I think Bob Marley had cancer of the toe, that would be bad luck. And just imagine how supercharged it will be around here after that: you try depriving yourself of a few affectionate gestures a day whilst hitting a toe of your choice with a butternut squash and see how well your being feels. I’m informed that God works in mysterious ways but based on our current trials I can tell you that God is not at all mysterious but is instead, in fact, a twat. So there you have it, out of nowhere comes a post about literally nothing. Who’d have thought it? In retrospect I’m glad I had that shower and I’m also glad I’ll leave you with that image. Me. In the shower. I trust you still have that bucket to hand.

G B Hewitt. 16.01.2021

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