To set the scene, it’s 3pm and I’m lazing in my garden, resplendently attired in speedos and silk kimono whilst basking in the sunshine like an albino elephant seal that’s just broken into Liberace’s boudoir.
I suffer from insomnia during normal “sleeping” hours, so working night shifts has really messed with my head. I now don’t know what time, day or year it is; hell, I’m not even sure what dimension I’m in.
So, because of last night’s instruction from our PM that everyone should stay at home, I thought my little corner of Somerset would enjoy a few weeks of blissful near-silence.
I even fashioned a bath-chair out of a reclining lounger (complete with tartan knee-blanket) so I could get out into our sun-trap garden for some much needed alfresco napping in the early spring warmth.
But no, the nearby bypass sounds flat out. Not just flat out, it actually sounds busier than normal. Therefore, as any chance of a fresh-air kip fades rapidly with each passing boy racer, rather than relaxing I’m contemplating a “Falling Down” style murderous rampage instead.
Maybe I’ve been hallucinating because of a lack of sleep, but I was definitely under the impression that to help stop tens of thousands of people dying in the UK, we were told to undertake essential journeys only. That’s ESSENTIAL you dumb illiterate twats.
This has led me to believe that the constant stream of traffic I’m hearing can only mean one of two things: the people of Bridgwater are either really fucking needy, or really fucking thick.
I know where my money’s going…