various flavours of moat
The country goes into lockdown tomorrow night, which seems sensible, and was predictable enough that I did a huge shop for it on Sunday in advance of actual announcements. In defiance of probability I had no problem stocking up on catfood and kitty litter this morning, which I forgot about on Sunday. (Nastily vindictive satisfaction in bypassing the massive queue outside Woolworths early today and going straight into the empty pet food store, clearly pet owners' priorities are all wrong). I shouldn't have to leave the house for a couple of weeks other than one chemist trip when a prescription runs out.
I find the "batten the hatches" approach curiously comforting, I suppose because retreating into one's castle and pulling up the drawbridge gives one a miniature arena in which one does, in fact, and quite unlike any other aspect of this crisis, have control. Also, I am a hard-wired introvert and like being at home for long, indefinite stretches. My condolences to those of you who are extroverted enough that this is going to be genuinely hard.
Of course, all control is illusionary. I woke up this morning to the persistent sound of water running through the ceiling pipes, which sounded as though the geyser was endlessly refilling itself. The nice landlord man is currently diverting pipes in the back courtyard, I appear to have a massive leak somewhere in the main water pipe that crosses the house from the intake - fortunately not in the ceiling, probably somewhere under the back step. The joys of rental are such that this is Not My Problem, and I am placidly playing The Witcher while he sorts it out. (A process fraught with added complication given that one of his first discoveries was that some pettily larcenous individual has made off with all the mains taps from the water point in the road outside, presumably to sell for scrap metal. Ah, as my mother says, Africa.) I am merely grateful that the sound effects of the leak made themselves known two days before, rather than two days after, the lockdown.
This pandemic, social media coverage notwithstanding, still feels curiously remote. Provisional. I am battening the hatches against something that's not quite real to me, personally, however real the deaths are across the world. Washing my hands and observing personal distance while buying catfood are almost ritualistic acts, placatory to some malevolent godlet I don't actually worship - however essential I know they are, they feel empty. Selfishly, I hope I can preserve that illusion.
This entry was originally posted at https://freckles-and-doubt.dreamwidth.org/975119.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
I find the "batten the hatches" approach curiously comforting, I suppose because retreating into one's castle and pulling up the drawbridge gives one a miniature arena in which one does, in fact, and quite unlike any other aspect of this crisis, have control. Also, I am a hard-wired introvert and like being at home for long, indefinite stretches. My condolences to those of you who are extroverted enough that this is going to be genuinely hard.
Of course, all control is illusionary. I woke up this morning to the persistent sound of water running through the ceiling pipes, which sounded as though the geyser was endlessly refilling itself. The nice landlord man is currently diverting pipes in the back courtyard, I appear to have a massive leak somewhere in the main water pipe that crosses the house from the intake - fortunately not in the ceiling, probably somewhere under the back step. The joys of rental are such that this is Not My Problem, and I am placidly playing The Witcher while he sorts it out. (A process fraught with added complication given that one of his first discoveries was that some pettily larcenous individual has made off with all the mains taps from the water point in the road outside, presumably to sell for scrap metal. Ah, as my mother says, Africa.) I am merely grateful that the sound effects of the leak made themselves known two days before, rather than two days after, the lockdown.
This pandemic, social media coverage notwithstanding, still feels curiously remote. Provisional. I am battening the hatches against something that's not quite real to me, personally, however real the deaths are across the world. Washing my hands and observing personal distance while buying catfood are almost ritualistic acts, placatory to some malevolent godlet I don't actually worship - however essential I know they are, they feel empty. Selfishly, I hope I can preserve that illusion.
This entry was originally posted at https://freckles-and-doubt.dreamwidth.org/975119.html. Please comment there using OpenID.