Quarantine Stories Part 1

Week 6. Last night saw A and I in a half hour giggle fit, for no particular reason, just before midnight. I think we may have finally cracked. I don't even know what was funny, but it really was.

And that is a prime example of a quarantine story. I mean, do they get any more interesting than that? If you don't have kids, I mean. Obviously, those of you with little or big tikes, must have all sorts of strange and hilarious anecdotes to tell, but for us, it's things like:

I've been looking for that all day, and I thought it was there, but when I looked before I couldn't find it, and now look, there it is, exactly where I thought it was all along.

Bam. Shortlisted for a literary prize. Surely.

Here's another example:

'Oh, it's gone dark, but the weather app said it wasn't going to rain.'
'Well I'm telling you, that cloud is definitely going to rain.'
'Not according to the app.'

Then lo and behold, we have a rain storm which becomes a hail storm. I beat the weather app.

Bam. Retraining as a Meteorologist.

And here's a debate we had the other day about what constitutes a Fruit Salad:

A: 'I'll get us some blueberries and yoghurt, with the last of the cake.'
Me: 'Okay. But don't we have to use up those kiwi fruits?'
A: 'Oh yeah, well I'll make you a fruit salad.'
Me: 'A fruit salad with 2 fruits?'
A: 'Yeah, you can make a fruit salad with 1 fruit.'
Me, again, more outraged and confused this time: 'You can't make a fruit salad with 1 fruit, that's just a fruit cut up.'
A: 'Exactly, any fruit that's cut up is a fruit salad.'

Say what? Sounds like bullshit to me. A fruit salad is loads of fruits, at least 5, cut up in your mum's lovely big glass bowl, that is only used for fruit salad, with orange juice to keep the fruit from going brown. Am I right, or am I right?

And finally, on this first edition of Quarantine Stories, I pose the question: Who really gives a crap about lunch?

As a self employed, and to be honest, barely employed person, for the last 6 months or so, I ate a lot of lunches at home during the week. I made a sandwich or ate soup, or occasionally had the joy of leftovers from the night before. But A is all Mr Gourmet, and everything has to be heated up, and slapped with olive oil and blah, blah, blah. And I'm like, what's wrong with wazzing a piece of chicken, or cheese, or ham, on a piece of bread and calling it a sandwich? Lunch should be made in 5 minutes, not 20.

Thoughts?

As I write this, we are in the middle of a massive hailstorm that has been raging for about 10 minutes and doesn't seem likely to stop for a while, and guess what A said this morning? Yes, you got it, he said it wasn't going to rain.

That was just an extra treat for you, to add to these already legendary quarantine stories I've jotted down for you. I would love to hear some of yours. The more mundane the better.

Now, I will leave you with a phrase we utter every day, as we draw the bolt lock on the door, at various points in the day, but most days in could be uttered at 8am and would be true:

'In fort night?' (Which translated from Wiganese is: are we in for the night?)

Keep sane.
Rants out.