What I Want For My Birthday

I’ve been wracking my brains for something to write about that isn’t in any way related to the coronavirus, but frankly, it’s difficult to think about much else at present. I’ve got some ideas, but somehow, they all seem trivial or inappropriate right now. When I started writing this blog, I said that I saw it as cathartic, and creating structure. That’s even more true now, writing is quite therapeutic, even if the content isn’t groundbreaking.

It’s the same with everything else at present. My enthusiasm for reading or watching TV has nosedived; I’m finding it very difficult to concentrate. When I pick up a book, I read a couple of pages, realise that I’ve not taken much in, and put it down again. Because of that, I’ve decided to try reading only books that are set in either some alternative reality or in the distant past. It’s difficult for me to read about the world as normal as it was a couple of weeks ago. Given the popularity of dystopian or post-apocalyptic fiction, one wonders how well those genres are going to do in the coming years after the human race has lived through something more normally confined to the pages of a book. My major solace at present is listening to old radio comedies on the BBC Sounds app, although I am looking forward to the new series of Friday Night Dinner that starts tonight on Channel 4.

One thing I have been reading a lot about in online forums and social media is how the football season should be completed. There’s been lots of debate, lots of different opinions and eventually The Football Association took the plunge this week and announced that football at Steps 3 down to 7 and at grassroots would not finish this season, which would be treated as null and void. Cue much opposition, although this would have been the case whatever the decision. We await a verdict on how the Premier League, Football League, and National League (Steps 1 & 2) will conclude. In many ways, the debate about all this is a welcome distraction from what is happening all over this country, and all over the world, but I can’t help but look at it disinterestedly. It’s purely academic when we don’t know how long we are going to be confined to quarters.

My TV diet in recent days has been documentaries and quiz shows, both of which are well separated from the current reality, although when the host of a game show asks a contestant what they would do if they won that day’s cash prize, and the answer is that they would like to take an extended tour of Italy, reality immediately intrudes.

I’m diverting myself by playing Scrabble on my iPad, and I dread to think how much my screen time has gone up in the last week. I really ought to do something more useful, but find it difficult to raise the enthusiasm, unlike my wife, who is undertaking a major reorganisation of her belongings. Earlier this week the contents of the wardrobes were all over the bedroom, currently the hall is strewn with books and stationery, and yesterday the living room floor was covered with knitting needles and other paraphernalia. I’ve been roped into helping by putting up hooks and carting unwanted items out to the garage preparatory to it going to a charity shop, and I suppose I ought to take the opportunity to have a good old clear out of all the old tat that I’ve accumulated – the CDs that have not been played in years and won’t ever be again, and the clothes that I no longer wear for one reason or another. But I don’t have the enthusiasm.

I have a Facebook group and a Twitter account where I post scanned images of old football programmes, together with some blurb about the game in question, and that keeps me occupied for an hour or so each day, although since the study – where the desktop PC and the scanner are located – has become Val’s domain, and is now the major focus of her reorganisation regime, I have to synchronise my scanning with the time that she spends in the lounge with her laptop linked up to the TV, participating in online exercise classes. Generally, I think that Val has adapted rather better to this period of confinement than I have.

I’ve barely been out for a week. I went to the local pharmacy to pick up a prescription the other day; that entailed queuing outside as only three customers at a time were allowed inside, and a similar arrangement was in place when I walked up to my local Co-op supermarket the other morning. Limited stock available, with very little fresh fruit or vegetables, and of course no toilet rolls.

I really ought to go out for a walk – practicing social distancing of course – but again, I simply don’t have the enthusiasm.

At some point in the next couple of days I’m going to have to venture to a supermarket as our supplies of vegetables, fruit, bread and milk are running down, but having seen the images of the queues to get in, I’m not filled with any great desire to stand with my trolley, even at a safe distance from other shoppers, to try and replenish our stocks.

I feel extremely sorry for people who still have to travel to work, especially since public transport has been cut back, making social distancing for commuters quite difficult, to say the least. And of course, my admiration for the doctors, nurses, carers, and other health care workers who continue to do such a marvellous job in very trying circumstances knows no bounds. There are however, plenty of people still travelling whose work could not be described as vital, and there are other people who seem to be treating the restrictions put in place by government as optional, or not applicable to them. Scenes of people flocking to the coast last weekend, and congregating in parks, or taking trips to the countryside for walks cement the impression that for many, coronavirus is something that only happens to other people.

At present, I’m finding it difficult to look forward to anything, even my birthday, which is coming up soon. My family will confirm that I am not an easy person to get presents for (even I would struggle to get inspiration to buy me one), and this year I care even less than usual. There is something I’d like, however. As the late, great, Ian Dury once said, "All I want for my birthday is another birthday."