Yesterday one of my friends asked on Facebook – ‘How are you handling the new normal?’ and the instant reply that came into my head was ‘like a drunk in a tumble dryer’.

It describes perfectly the amount of grace, or lack of it, that I have on hand right now to handle this dystopian loony tune of a situation that both I and the rest of the world finds ourselves in right now.

After all, I have no control over anything much, and like the metaphorical drunk, I I tumble and fall at the whim of the ground beneath my feet.

I’m seldom literally drunk, though. Although I do enjoy alcohol, I don’t enjoy the feeling of inebriation, so I take it to the edge of tipsy usually, before retreating, wind in my hair and the waves crashing on the rocks below.

I’m ageing rapidly, and the invisibility I began to discover with horror as a 45-year old woman has now morphed as I screech towards the end of my fifth decade into kind of wholistic, healthy, tiny ball of Chernobyl-strength fury that sits somewhere near my root chakra.

It fires up whenever I lapse into being ‘nice me’ when it’s at the cost of being ‘real me’. If you’ve been there, you’ll know what I mean, and if you haven’t, no explanation will suffice. Just take my word for it.

My lovely husband has prostate cancer. This fact alone is the major feed of the tiny ball of fury, and gives it just enough radioactive anger to keep me seething along.

They can treat the cancer, but can’t operate on it or cure it. Best scenario is they come up with a cocktail that will prolong life as much as possible. We’re about 18 months into this journey (yeh I know, journey is such a hack expression but tell me a better one – voyage? escapade? experience? cruise? safari? road to hell?)

We were looking forward to growing old together, travelling, mucking around when it came time to retire. Now all that is up the swanee and we have to pack as much living into the near future because we don’t know if or when he’s going to be too ill to do that. And now that we are actually coming to grips with all that, the world decides to go on a pandemic sabbatical! You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Thank goodness we’re slightly extroverted introverts and don’t mind too much being at home.

Anyhow, by all accounts we’re just at the start of this COVID-19 hibernation, so join me as I document the experience.

Expect sarcasm, expect venting, expect to be treated to the details of my weirder than usual dreams (mangy satanic highland cows, for example). Expect alcohol. And swearing – expect swearing. One of my ex bosses said I was fluent in Wharfie.

Welcome. It’s good to have the company

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