DIARY OF A DEMENTED HOME WORKER: Week 37 and and I’m going through how the next few weeks are going to pan out ... when I’m not looking for lice
• IT happened. The text we’d all been dreading arrived with a terrifying ‘ping’ on Thursday evening and put us all up in a right heap. There was a confirmed outbreak. We were all advised to take the necessary precautions, check for symptoms and make full and honest disclosures in the event of discovering anything. Until that point I had felt fine but of course I immediately started scratching like a dog with mange. Yup. Nits had hit. In fairness, we all thought it was the one year there mightn’t be an outbreak, what with Covid regulations. But it seems like we can’t even catch a break on that front. I reacted like I do to most problems and tried to outsource it. Considering my ‘go to’ forensic nit checker (sister) is outside my 5km, I went online and bought a nifty little electric comb device, complete with suction cup. I’d recommend one. We’re in the clear but are still pretty shook (although not as shook as you’d feel, I imagine, if you actually caught a nit in the suction cup). Nasty business. Let’s move on.
• Now, to be completely honest I really don’t know how I feel about the RTÉ retirement ‘do,’ or rather the retirement ‘don’t.’ Generally, my opinion depends on the last person I’ve spoken to. Some might say I’m impressionable, I prefer open-minded. Anyway, in this case I’m inclined to think ‘let he or she who hasn’t sinned cast the first stone.’ It was certainly very stupid of the broadcaster’s heavy hitters, but it wasn’t a full blown party, there wasn’t a sausage roll in sight and well, the apologies were epic. In Miriam O’Callaghan’s case, she said she’ll be ‘forever sorry.’ I don’t know. Mainly I feel bad for the lady who retired. Talk about going out with a bang.
• So where are we all with the Christmas shopping? I’m a bit stuck in limbo, as I’m waiting for both the Level 5 restrictions and also the craziness that grips me at this time of year, to ease. I think it’s those glossy gift guides in the Sunday newspapers that do it to me. I get totally sucked into the decadence of it all and think I should gift my sister a €400 pyjamas trimmed with ostrich feathers (€500 if they’re monogrammed), convince myself that my brother needs a pair of whiskey tumblers for €500, and that my life would be perfect if only I had a full-length, green velvet peignoir (fancy robe, note: not a dry robe!) that costs €3,000. Sanity will return at the start of December and I’ll do what I always do and get everyone vouchers. A gal’s got to dream, though.
• Obviously I caved and I’ve started The Crown. I am on a strict regime of a single episode a night though and I’m hugely enjoying it. I’m swinging between pitying the Royal family but also wondering how amazing it would be if you never had to think about mundane tasks like laundry, putting fuel in the car, or making the dinner? Or if you could legitimately have your own bedroom (like the Queen and Prince Philip) without people thinking you were a bit odd? Being called Ma’am would be a bit of a novelty too, for a while anyway.
• I had a fit of WFHR (Working From Home Rage. It’s a thing. Look it up) during the week. Nothing to do with my colleagues. It was the sight of my husband arriving home from work and placing his bag, keep cup, and car keys on the hall bench that set me off. After 37 weeks of just me, myself and I, I couldn’t contain myself at the thought of him being out all day, among people, with opportunities to consume food that he didn’t prepare himself, and with need of a bag, and car keys (imagine?). So when he casually asked how my day was I let rip like a mad woman. ‘Wicked,’ I said. ‘In fact it was desperate. Desperate altogether. One of the worst yet. You have no idea. None.’ I felt bad, but I couldn’t help myself, and the relief was huge. This is normal pandemic behaviour, right? The dinner was in the oven (I’m always the first one home now!) so I was able to redeem myself. A little.
• I’ve got myself a major dose of Black Friday anxiety (not sure how to explain the uneasiness I feel from Mon-Thurs?). I’m torn between the fear of missing out on never-to-be-repeated bargains, and knowing something is only a bargain if you actually need it in the first place. In no particular order I’m trying to decide if I need: an air fryer, Dyson vacuum, Dyson hairdryer or Dyson air wrap; a new laptop; a tripod (just in case), new runners, or a new mattress? Also should I go for Sweaty Betty or LuLulemon leggings? And could someone source me Irish versions of all of the aforementioned to ease consumer guilt? Ugh. Actually, can someone just knock me out and wake me up when it’s all over? Any time after January 5th would be ideal please.
•At least we’ve some easing of restrictions to enjoy, unless of course you’re a wet pub owner
(Jesus wept). We mightn’t get past the county bounds just yet, but even leaving the parish will be welcome. For now at least we can go the hairdressers, go to the gym, a golf course and to mass. Holy Moly! What are you waiting for?