You'll have heard those bloody annoying little Pollyannas who urge us, "If life gives you lemons make lemonade." Well the problem with that is I don't like lemonade, so it's no help. I like wine, actually. But just lately life seems to have been giving us all a shed load of lemons. Actually, it isn't just lately, is it? It's been going on for a while.
I blame 2016. That's when the shitstorm started in my opinion. That was the year, you may recall, when you couldn't turn on a TV or radio without hearing of the death of a beloved singer or national treasure. Even an abbreviated list includes, Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen, George Michael and Victoria Wood. It made you paranoid, wondering who'd go next. Then came the EU Referendum. It'll be fine, we cried, only a fool would think it was a good idea to leave the EU, and we went to our complacent beds secure in the knowledge that we were not a nation of fools. How wrong can you be? The following morning I found myself sobbing in the Baked Goods aisle of Marks and Spencer's. Humiliating.
And then, just to top off the year from hell, along came the US Elections. Oh how we laughed at the very idea that a great, orange buffoon with the IQ of a gnat and all the charisma of a cold turd could possibly be elected as leader of the most powerful country in the world. And to be honest, Trump did look as surprised as the rest of us when the awful truth dawned. We tried to cheer ourselves by saying things like, 'It could only get worse if we had someone like that bumbling blonde idiot Boris Johnson as our Prime Minister..... '. And we chuckled heartily at the very notion. Oh how we scoffed...and how little we knew of what lay ahead. Shocked and dazed, we stumbled on to the end of the year.
But I digress. Back to the year 2020 and the fact that this hasn't exactly shaped up to be everybody's favourite either. And we all know why that is. Covid has turned our lives upside down and deprived many thousands of theirs. 2020 is the year of plague and it's definitely not going to helped by a glass of fucking lemonade. I need alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Especially as the blonde twit and his evil mate, Cummings, actually ARE in charge now. Dark days indeed.
I'm not saying my wine habit's a good thing, but I find it helps, at the end of a long day of lockdown, having tried to find meaningful ways to occupy the empty hours (and if you mention sourghdough starters you're dead to me) I just look forward to pouring a glass of something that has the duel benefits of tasting delicious and making me feel a bit better, all at the same time. I'm not a cause for concern, I'm not putting whisky on my cornflakes, but I do get a frisson of excitement when the text comes through to say my Majestic delivery is on it's way.
And that's another thing. I'd never had any sort of food delivery before lockdown, indeed I spurned the very idea. I liked to choose my own stuff. But, as it was either that or starvation, I went on line and started clicking. And it's not as bad as I thought, plus the delivery drivers are all unfailingly lovely, so that's a bonus. But the bit I like best is when they don't have what you asked for so they substitute it with something else. I like that delightful element of surprise, as you rummage through your goods to see what this week's picker considers the nearest thing to a Tunnocks Teacake. It was a packet of weird wafer biscuits, since you ask. But the more random the better I like it. And when my husband asks, 'Why am I spreading something called Rhubarb Compote on my toast when I believe I asked for Thick Cut Marmalade?, I can reply, 'Take it up with Anthony, your picker for this week, Sunshine.'
I know that in many ways we're very lucky but I miss seeing my family and friends, other than by way of Zoom or Skype, with all the attendant, 'Are you there? I can see you, can you see me....oh you've gone!' Though it's certainly better than nothing. And yes, we have been doing family quizzes. So go judge us!
But back to my main thrust. For many people, an unexpected benefit of lockdown has been all those people discovering the joys of nature. The planes and traffic fell silent and we could hear the birds. Within weeks, people who previously didn't know their pigeon from their puffin would stop in their tracks, cock an ear and declare, knowingly, 'That's a Ginglewolds Lesser Spotted Great Bottomed Boomer, if I mistake me not!' And people are walking and cycling more, both of which we happen to love. Consequently I decided to combine the pleasures and benefits of a country walk with a spot of foraging (also increasingly fashionable, as long as you don't overdo it and deprive the wildlife) that would ultimately turn into alcohol. Result! You see, I got to the point of all this rambling in the end.
Thus, on a sunny, Autumnal afternoon, we strode off over the fields in search of Sloe berries and spent a couple of happy hours, getting scratched to buggery picking the little sods and bore them home triumphantly. I now have two jars of Sloe Gin fermenting on a shelf in the understairs cupboard. It should be ready for drinking somewhere round mid January. And that will be just about perfect for toasting the inauguration Joe Biden as President of the United States of America.
Now all we have to do is find a vaccine, overturn Brexit and get the Tory gits out of office. In the meantime, we can at least rejoice in the downfall of a pig shit thick fascist, racist, misogynist, sex pest, gun loving, daughter fancying pervert, draft dodging, tax dodging, climate change denying, narcissistic, thoroughly nasty cunt. Cheers!
