During lockdown, I wrote a series of fictional monologues from the perspective of an older gentleman. It was an idea that popped into my head with very little warning or context. Naturally, I decided to put aside other projects and make significant progress with this. Something a bit different.
Each of the monologues that I’ll be sharing as part of this series is a continuation of the others. Like our thoughts, they have a tendency to go here and there, without making much logical sense — and yet we still glean meaning from them. With that in mind, I hope you stick around for the upcoming instalments.
Enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think.
I had thought about breaking apart the two pigeons canoodling on top of the wooden trellis with an extendable litter picker, because they obviously don't understand the meaning of Social Distancing. But the idea was quickly thwarted by the ominous thought of having to soak it in bleach all day, afterwards. (Ordinarily, I would use some Vinegar Spray, but nothing else seems to have the same calming effect, especially not these days). I would then have had to scrub the whole bathroom. Just in case. You can't be too careful. My pride wants me to tell you I'll eventually wash out that gravy stain, but if I do, I don't want to be responsible for losing the national economy 6.4% of it's Gross Profit; should the Food Industry collapse.
Perhaps I'm just becoming a bit OCD. Or being OTT. It's getting hard to tell the difference. Which is a shame, really, because I saw - just the other day - that Tesco's were running low in their Home Cleaning aisle. Don't they know we are in the middle of a pandemic? Empty the shelves were - honestly, they were - even of toilet roll. I'm almost certainly assuming it was given to the people with faces so moulded to societies expectations, that they're not faces at all. The people standing - strutting - as bold as brass. Oh, sorry, I'm forgetting my manners. You are what? The Future Generation? My brain doesn't work like it used to; it takes a while to adjust - especially after a shock. I didn't realise you were so much more important, you'll have to excuse me.
Even the Squirrel seemed to notice something was up. (Says something about them-at-Tesco's, don't you think?) He came by in his courteous manner, raising his top-hat in his usual greeting, but his eyes were ablaze with potent suspicion. His middle seemed to tense, subconsciously turning away. As if I was some sort of freakish disease, can you believe?
It may surprise you to know, them-at-Tesco's, that those of us over seventy-odd (yes, we are still here - nice to see you too!) might find these things hard to come by. My body isn't what it used to be, you know. Not that I expect the youth to understand; what with their partying and drinking like there's no tomorrow. It wasn't like that in my day. We understood consequences, you see. (My brain isn't what it was, so I have consequently forgotten them. You seem to have it all in hand, nonetheless.) We knew what was going on. We knew the difference between being asked to watch mindless television, and bombs dropping on our heads. We did our part. All that's changed, of course. A little grey marks the day you are isolated from sensible society. You party to your heart's content. Perhaps you'll see just how immune to the Virus you are. I suppose we're being left to it, anyway. As long as I get what I need, I find I don't mind so much.
One last thing. Why 'seventy-odd' - why not 'seventy-even'? I think I'd rather be seventy-four than seventy-five, wouldn't you?
I think I'll go now. Wouldn't want to keep your very important lives waiting. Anyway, I have to keep up with the tally on the wall. It keeps me sane.
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