I never much liked Easter. This time, it is destined to be associated for ever with the drudgery of lockdown, which no permitted walk in the park ("only 20 minutes, madam, since you're not alone," the officer told Mme Salut as he passed us, not quite observing social distance from his colleague) or visit to the corner shop can ease. So I turn again to Bill Taylor and his Toronto notebook. It won't last ...
Revivified notes from the trenches:
In Easter news…
A mysterious self-styled “son of man” has been advised to remain in isolation for 12 more days because of his recent close contact with Romans.
Egg hunts are expected to proceed at a leisurely, non-competitive pace. Bookmakers are offering 2-1 odds on children becoming bored even more quickly than their parents.
Tears before bedtime? Even money.
The chocolate bunny’s ears will take their usual precedence in the order of eating.
Doubting Thomas, upon hearing that his name is an anagram of “Tom has big donut”, is demanding proof. And a big donut.
Now the weather forecast…
What do you care? You had some place you were planning to go?
In other news…
Standards on the street are beginning to slip.
Not ours, of course, but the neighbour on one side (not the side that’s getting invited to a barbecue one of these days) comes out in his bathrobe to pick up his dog’s poo from the backyard. At least, I assume that’s what he’s picking up.
I was under the impression that the dog’s name was Tommy. Doubting, Lesley says she’s pretty damn sure it’s Bobby.
This can be a tough time to have pets, especially when they’re ailing. We have friends whose dog, old and in pain, clearly had come to the end of his journey.
But there wasn’t even the mutual comfort of being with him as he went to sleep. The best they could do was take him to the back entrance of the vet’s, hand him over from a distance, and watch the vet, quite tenderly they said, carry him inside. Nothing more then than a door closing.
Fine days invariably bring out the morons. Someone we know happened across a group of young people whooping it up together on a bench in the meagre sunshine.
When, more in sorrow than anger, she remonstrated with them, one said merrily: “We all want to die together.”
She replied that it wasn’t their deaths specifically that concerned her.
Sorry if I seem to be getting morbidly off track but, even if you’re not a believer, what better a time than Easter to contemplate life and death?
Especially when you just swallowed your last mouthful of bunny. The ears are no more than a dark-chocolate memory.
As for your own ears, among the things you really don’t want to hear:
“Today would be a good day to do the floors.”
The floors (in chorus): “Oh, Jeez...”
Too late. The bucket and mop are already coming out.
Wanna help me move furniture? No, no, that boulder’s staying put.
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