Lurgy
Sometimes Nature decides it's time for you to sit in the corner and consider your choices. That's what happened this week, when late on Tuesday, the arrival of wobbly legs, sore bones and sandpaper throat brought me to the undeniable conclusion that I had a lurgy, and it was time for tools down.
I can’t tell you it wasn't entirely convenient, as Mr Tweddle and I run a Fish and Bear on Tuesday nights. And yes, I could have sent him, but it seems like Nature had decided it was time for him too, to park his arse. He too had the sandpaper throat and the sore bones, with the added bonus of a snarly cough.
Back in the day we might have muscled our way through it, but then came the pandemic years, when the horror that we might die was only outweighed by the notion that we might unwittingly kill someone else. So ‘Tweddle down tools’ it was.
Looking back on the COVID years feels unreal. I often find it hard to believe that it actually happened. Odd memories stick in my head like picture postcards of a place I never want to visit again.
At the beginning of lockdown, I was going through radiotherapy. With my chest burning and heading out every day masked and gloved to get my chest burnt a little more, I wasn’t at my most affable. One afternoon while slapping calamine lotion on my chest, I whined to Mark how I just wanted all the radiotherapy to be over so I could “enjoy the pandemic like everybody else.” He had laughed and told me I really wasn’t missing much. I guess being in pain meant it was harder to see that others were too.
I remember Fergus wandering into our bedroom on lockdown day whateverthefuck, and announcing with a sigh, “Who knew living through a major historical event could be so tedious?” And I remember how much we all laughed, because that somehow seemed like the only thing we could do.
It was a time of extremes. A friend who is an accomplished seamstress in Scotland sent over four specially made masks, which we used to replace the masks that another friend had made us as soon as the pandemic broke out. Mark built a massive table in the backyard, that meant we could social distance with friends, and we had socially distant evenings when we tried to pretend everything was normal when it very clearly was not. I remember talking with my sister on Zoom, and we’d catch up and chat about daft stuff, and then as soon as we hung up, my heart would fucking break because I knew there was a chance we may never see each other again.
And of course, like everyone, I lost people. Some I lost to the virus, others I lost due to their response to the virus. A friend who had held a party in our backyard, and been round at our house many times, posted on Facebook about how she felt her freedom was being threatened by having to wear a mask. Then, in another post, she stated that if the virus (if it even did exist) killed off the immunocompromised, then surely that was just Nature’s way of culling the herd.
I posted a simple “Thank you for letting me know who you are” on her feed, and then I blocked her. And we’ve never spoken again. I’m happy to keep it that way. When someone tells you who they are, it’s wise to believe them.
Anyway, this week’s lurgy was not at all lockdown style - it was just a regular down tools. Though I think that having gone through what we all went through, there will always be a part of each of us that remembers.
Arthur loves it when we’re sick. In fact, if there really was any individual who enjoyed that Pandemic, it would be him. He is never happier than when we’re sitting around, chilling out. He hates when we go out at night, so he was thrilled we were home instead of at Fish and Bear. And on Tuesday, something pretty magical happened, but not just for Arthur.
Because we recognized some time back that we need to spread Fish and Bear, Mark and I have spent the last couple of months looking for others who can host established events instead of us, so that we can spend time opening more. And that’s what happened.
Jolene and Garrett, who are brilliant at hosting and frankly just lovely, took the lead, ably assisted by YaaYaa on tech, and Fergus dropped in to deal with the door. And by all accounts the whole event was a tremendous success, which is weird knowing that it all happened that way, because we weren't there.
Still, if the point of life is that you’re meant to try and leave the world a little better than how you found it, I figured that even if my mysterious lurgy were to take me out in the middle of the night, at least that box had been ticked.
By Wednesday, I was actually feeling a bit better, though that might have been because my good pal, Amy, from down the street dropped off a couple of Starbucks medicine bombs at the front door. If you, like me, had never heard of them before, they’re a mint tea, citrus combo thing, which literally does make you feel perkier pretty much after the first sip. In fact, I was feeling so much better that that night I thought I could basically stave off the rest of the lurgy with a glass or ten of red wine. Yeah, don’t do that. It doesn’t work. Let’s just say, I did it, so you don’t have to.
Thursday I felt like I had a murderous hangover, which was fair really, because I kind of did, and I made the terrible mistake of thinking I could take my mind off it by scrolling online. Jeez. Don’t do that either.
Because then I stumbled onto the supposed Senate Hearing on Dr Fauci, which was basically just some whiny morons, with bad hair and suits, yelling threats and insults at an accomplished man of science. It was awful, and I would be truly scandalized if it weren’t for the fact that I’m so fucking over it. I don’t know whether they’re airheads, opportunists, sociopaths, or just amoral cowards, but I found the same blah blah blah, whining, bullying, and downright lies combo of the orange blob cult disgusting, but truly unsurprising.
Stephen Miller’s wife got COVID during her pregnancy. She begged Fauci to help her get an injection, which he did. Then he called her every day to reassure her. And now this very same woman is out the other end with a healthy baby, calling for him to go to prison. Of course she would. She’s built her whole brand on being crass.
You know, if one day in the future I am asked what the Trump era was like, I’ll obviously say, “Appalling really,” and then echoing the words of my firstborn will add, “and also truly fucking tedious.”
Anyway, by Friday I could feel the light at the end of the tunnel. I was not quite at my fighting weight, and still a bit achy. But thanks to science, and afternoon naps, and friends who send over healing tea, the end was definitely in sight.
You know, it’s an unavoidable fact that each of us must exist in the society we create around us. Good or bad. So I console myself by recognizing that one day, these fuckers will seek help, and will find nothing but a reflection of themselves.
And when this moronic, so-called political, flatulence comes to an end - which one day it will - I will be glad to recall this period only by way of picture postcards in my head, of a time I do not want to revisit.
So yes, this week Nature decided that it was time for me to sit back on my arse and consider my choices, and I’ve learned I am pretty good with my choices:
1. Because I’m still alive.
2. Because I haven’t killed anyone because I was too precious to wear a bit of cloth over my face.
And 3. Because when I sit back and think about what we have all been through in the past ten years, I genuinely am truly astonished by how brave and resilient we humans have been.
Till next week.
Lynn
Xo
PS: If you can find your way to click the wee heart on this post to say you like it, I will tell Arthur, who will still be pissed at us going out again.
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