Yesterday was the day.
After loading up the shopping at the supermarket, I sat behind the wheel of the car and pondered.
“What day is it?”
I was thrown. It had taken 47 days to get to this state, but in reality it had only taken just one. The weird Friday Bunting Holiday had left me in a state of discombobulation.
I got home. Unpacked the shopping. We had dinner. And then we waited.
We waited for the kids to go to bed.
Which is a thing at the moment. And one of the reasons why days. Especially at weekends. Have next to no meaning.
The kids are struggling with the concept of time. The boy will get up most mornings – after 6am if we’re lucky.
He and his sister will then be a loving, adorable and enriching experience in our lives, throughout the day. Yes, that was typed in a code you won’t need a machine to decipher.
Then night time will roll around again. Which will mean a series of challenges to get them to go to bed.
So by 9pm – if we are lucky – the day has all but slipped past us. The idea of “me time” or togetherness is then constricted in to however long we can be bothered to stay awake for.
Whatever is presented tonight. No doubt in a bumbling, incoherent fashion. The promise of a night alone. Just the two of us. Seems unlikely.
Seems as unlikely as the Government actually getting a handle on the messaging that matters. Which is more than simply standing behind a new warning sign. One created as a set of magnetic words are slapped on to a fridge.
Today is Sunday. There are nearly 13 hours before the kids go to bed. This is our lockdown.