It’s wet and wild outside and I don’t want to get up. Thankfully it’s Sunday so I don’t have to, well not yet anyway. I’m not budging, content to stay under the covers and write some words instead. It’s still dark, very dark, so I can’t see what is going on outside. But I can hear it, and that’s more than enough proof for me. The wind howling, the rain splattering off the bedroom window. That’s all I need to know.
The real world is a bit like that at the minute. Since finishing work on Friday I haven’t ventured out of the village. My only forays have been to the local shop for essential supplies. Chocolate, crisps. Stuff like that. I worked on my latest manuscript yesterday and, in the evening, watched a movie with Fionnuala and the girls – ‘Enola Holmes’ on Netflix: very good, by the way, should you have two hours to kill. The ‘real’ world can wait.
I’ve watched the news and been aware of what’s going on outside. President Trump is in hospital, infection rates in Northern Ireland remain worryingly high, the Covidiots still refuse to wear masks and follow basic health and safety instructions. It’s the same sad, tired, old story. Why on earth would anybody want to get out of bed for that? This pandemic has brought out the best in some people, as well as the very worst in others.
Monday will roll around soon enough. Another week at work, I’ll have no choice but to get up and venture into Belfast. I don’t particularly want to but the bills won’t pay themselves. I hope this week brings out the best in me and I have the patience and dignity to rise above the many things that anger and annoy me. If I bite my lip much more, it may well fall off. Until then, though, I’ll stay under the covers a little while longer.