Covid Lockdown (Day 2: Frank The Cat Starts A Turf War)
My wife woke me up this morning doing exercise in the sitting room. She was extra loud. It was almost as if she didn’t want to me stay in bed all day. She has never exercised before, why would she start now? The lockdown paranoia was clearly beginning.
I turned over to see Frank the cat on his way out the door. It looked as if he was brandishing a butcher's knife in his left paw and a box of matches in the other. But I was still a little tired so it could just as easily have been a paring knife. Those matches better not have been for him. He’s meant to be off the cigarettes. He gave me a little nod and walked out the door. Apparently, some alley cats were moving in on his territory. From the balcony he saw one of them dealing kitty litter. This was Franks part of town and he wasn’t about to let some undomesticated flea-bitten alley cats take it over.
I wanted to a do a little light reading before getting out of bed. I rummage about and find a pamphlet on Olympic gold medal winning nuns. Turns out there wasn’t too many. Sister Assumpta Dooley won gold for pole vaulting in the 1970’s. Sister Mary Ann Mary Ann won gold in the 110-meter hurdles in the early 1980’s, but her medal was taken after it was discovered she was juicing. She was knocking back holy water by the gallon before every race. I’ve heard she still has a nasty habit.
I get out of bed and take a shower. It's great having a shower in the bedroom. My wife has to keep drying the sheets though, but I think she likes it and it gives her something to do.
Special K for breakfast. I don’t see what's so special about it. The woman on the box looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Why do they get skinny people to advertise food? If advertisers were really obliged to advertise honestly, on the box there would a be an overweight middle-aged woman with no makeup on. She’d be in her dressing gown watching Oprah on a very small screen television. Actually, it does taste pretty good. Even with the terrible Spanish milk. I give my wife a bowl. She’s in her dressing gown watching Oprah. I ask her to turn over. She doesn’t move.
I go do some writing. I get a couple of lines in when I hear scratching at the door. It's Frank. He’s looking none too peaky. It looks like he's missing the tip of his right ear and his tale is a little singed. He walks over to his food bowl and finds it empty. He shoots me a look like he’s about to do to me what he did to those alley cats. I rip open a tin of the finest whiskers. “Pheasant and rabbit sir” I say in a posh voice as I scoop out chunks of the gloppy muck into his dish. I can tell he’s impressed with my posh waiter act. He takes a shit in the corner and walks off. Little bastard.
We go to do a shop in the local supermarket. We don’t really need anything. We just need to get out of the house. A couple of local police slow down and give us the “Get the fuck back in the door gringo” look. I wave the bag for life and hope they won’t shoot me.
The supermarket is almost empty. The few people there have masks on. We don’t, and feel a bit stupid about it. The shame of not having a mask has clouded my judgement and I grab random stuff off the shelves. Bread, cheese, a red pepper, grapes, toilet duck, crisps, Hog farmer weekly. I had no idea what I was planning to make for dinner.
We returned home and I asked my wife to cook. She makes a good effort. I pull a page of hog farmer weekly off the plate. Apparently hogs need love too. I wonder is there any Special K left. We put on another episode of Seinfeld. It’s pretty good. I begin writing.
Alcohol levels: 5 bottles of beer remain.
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