I don't actually like blogs; a great many of them are simply people emptying their heads onto a screen... and that's what I'll be doing. So you have been warned/discouraged in a rather pompous way, too. Nothing much happens until about paragraph 4.
This is my diary (not my secret diary for posterity, filled with exciting insights into the human condition, gnomic - but curiously accurate - predictions which people will marvel at in centuries to come and all set down in elaborate and beautiful prose - with the occasional haiku chucked in for good measure) - typed by me (using one finger) written for my own entertainment (and as a memory aid so that I can accurately recall what I had for tea last Thursday... damn, that's gone already.
I started this blog because I was 70 (yup, so my influencer days are way behind me so anyone under the age of 53 should stop reading now. Nothing to see here. Move on) on the 20th of March 2020 and that seemed a bit auspicious. Since I'm self isolating (I've stopped writing self-immolating, mainly because nobody thinks it's amusing) and I've got a bit of time on my hands (which I washed just a moment ago as keyboards are a notorious breeding ground for germs) I thought I should keep a diary. All great writers seem to have kept diaries; I never have but my partner, Susan, suggested I write a 'blog' (and she only ever has excellent ideas). So I am writing a blog.
First thing on Birthday Morning, downstairs, make a pot of tea and open my cards and presents (Rather than buy me presents, I had asked people to make a charitable donation to our friend, Caroline, who has founded a school in Sierra Leone. If this sounds like humble bragging, too bad.) but people can be ridiculously generous; my old chums, Dave and Jo, had sent me a 'box of delights' which was filled with silliness, including a tiny octopus and a harmonica - Susan now wants me to self-isolate... in Croydon. She had gathered together all the silly cartoons of mice I had drawn for over the years and turned them all into a magnificent poster. Nevertheless, she was very doleful because the plans for my birthday which she had been working on for months had been blown to bits by Covid-19.
Originally we had planned - on my birthday - to gather my friends and relations all together for a week of merriment in a big house (Bittern House - fab name. Dated qualification... first of many) in Walberswick, in Suffolk. Well, that didn't come off.
Instead of loading the hired car up with goodies and setting off (Destination: fun) I found myself looking up recipes for 'Make your own hand sanitiser'. Apparently the words 'sanitiser' and 'Tizer' are unrelated.). Looked like I needed aloe vera gel and alcohol. I wasn't going to waste our good gin on personal hygiene so I decided to buy a bottle of cheap vodka (which, ridiculously, cost more than cheap gin. Just after I bought the gin, I discovered that vodka is not nearly as full of alcohol as was required; I needed rubbing alcohol (Wossat? Surgical spirit.).
I went into my local chemist's and attempted to buy two bottles of surgical spirit. "I can't sell you two bottles - only one. But would you rather have a bottle of hand sanitiser?"
"But the sign says 'No paracetamol, not wet wipes, no hand sanitiser, no baby milk'."
She sighed and handed me a bottle of hand sanitiser. "Fine," I thought. "I can probably flog it on eBay for a tenner." I didn't actually think this but I might have done.
Back home with my plunder. Susan was still in a miserable mood, not helped by the dreadful weather; a biting cold wind was sweeping across the Downs which we had planned to walk on. I was considerably bucked up when she persuaded me to click on a link https://youtu.be/-BtBi5OouPw which was a lovely compilation of my friends and family toasting my birthday. I confess to getting quite tearful at this. It was compiled by our brilliant friend, Cressy. Genius.
And whilst that word hangs in the air, I can't not mention the cake which Susan had commissioned for me. It was/is (still eating it) a thing of rare beauty, which featured, again (Susan warned me there was a theme emerging for my birthday), my old mouse (Mouz) drawings - but in icing! The fact that it was a large cake, suitable for sharing with friends and relations gathered together in a big house in Suffolk was a source of sadness but... what can you do?
We both cheered up as Susan prepared our birthday supper. We were assisted by modest glasses of Nikka whisky, courtesy of Cressy. Supper was superb: halibut with wild garlic, pecorino and mayonnaise; exceedingly tasty.
And then we danced the night away... not really. We went upstairs to watch a film of my choice (not a good choice: Peter Bogdanovich's 'What's Up, Doc?'. It hadn't aged well and we turned it off after about 9 minutes) but ended up watching an episode of 'Strangers'. And very strange it was, too; Cold War circus antics and a flasher who wore a silver blue cape and a knight's helmet. It was a metaphor for our times, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep, after the oddest 70th birthday I've ever experienced.
To be continued... I'm new at this blogging lark so I don't know how one finishes. But one has, for the moment.
