Zen and the art of being a sensible Big Mumma
So here I am in splendid isolation…thought I’d put on my rubber gloves and get on with the housework.
The black leotard is practical because it doesn’t show stains
– doing the oven is dirty business.
And the thigh-high boots are essential for protecting the legs from bleach burn while mopping the bog. OK, you’ve got me… this is really Paris Hilton under “home quarantine” in her Beverly Hills mansion. She seized the opportunity to do a promo shoot for a fashion brand. But, frankly, the resemblance is uncanny. Honestly… the yogi, got to keep her wee business going, the rest of us got the benefit of online zen and the “wind-relieving pose” passed without public humiliation (because the participants’ volume was on mute).
The “new sensible” means doing a quick shop when you need it, buying only what you require, keeping your distance from others while doing it and paying with contactless technology. It does not mean throwing stuff into trolleys like you’re in the final of Supermarket Sweep and pushing grannies out of the way to get at the last four-pack of Andrex or jar of Dolmio.
The “new sensible” means realising you’ve got enough to share with others.
After an upsetting trip to a post-apocalyptic Tesco yesterday, I was cheered to see the special food bank trolley full to overflowing with donations.
In my corner of Glasgow, concerned locals have already established a Covid-19 support group, with volunteers signed up to drop off groceries to those in need, run vital errands for those who can’t get out or just be a friendly voice on the end of a phone for anyone feeling isolated.
Here in the Big Mumma house, no one’s pretending the next few weeks (months?) are going to be easy.
But I’m trying to remember that we’re by no means the worst off. We’re stuck in a warm, safe, home with food and company.
We are not trapped in an air-raid shelter listening for bombs, because this is a health war, not a real one.
My brother has just popped by with an emergency ration of Morton’s Rolls and a box of biscuits for the cockapoo.
I’m plonked at the dining table with my laptop, the dug’s asleep at my feet and I’ve got a packet of Oreos to work through, which I might crack open to watch
Escape to the Country.
So the “new sensible” me chooses to be persuaded by the first rule of social distancing, sorry, social dancing: It’s never as bad as you think it’ll be.
Keep well, and keep going.