Grump Hump

This lockdown has turned me into a grumpy middle-aged woman. By the time I have returned from the early morning dog walk, I could be easily mistaken for someone with Tourette’s with a mood to match Victor Meldrew ( I do hope none of you need to Google that one ). Between having to manoeuvre 5 dogs around joggers and pavement cyclists who obviously go to fast for the virus to catch them and oblivious dog owners who can’t see why they need to keep their poodleoodle away from a crazy lady with more than her bodyweight of canine frustration on lead ( One of us is following the park guidelines ahem ), my internal temperature gauge regularly hits the red zone. See, I’m grumping already just thinking about it. To add to my dour disposition, the recent warm weather has brought out thumping bass and bbq’s from the houses to the side of the garden which I’m pretty sure didn’t have that many 20 somethings living in them last week. Naturally I keep these thoughts to myself, there’s nothing worse than a nosey old widow living next door.

Truth is, I’m bored. The daily allocated jobs I give myself in terms of packing the house up have become tedious especially when the light at the end of the tunnel seems to be getting further and further away at present. The idea I had that having time to concentrate on relaxing my workaholic self has been replaced with a frustrated energy. I need to get back to work. Apart from the stress of worrying about where the next pennies are going to come from, something I know is shared with many of my self-employed compatriots, I don’t think us humans cope well without working. Yes, one can learn a language, do endless jigsaw puzzles and online brain games but they don’t give you the same sense of mental satisfaction as work does. At least not for me. Because the house is sold, there is a little point in me attempting interior make-overs or spending any money on the gardens so I am living in a sort of day-to-day limbo. The Government reminder about being socially responsible this Bank Holiday weekend brought much hilarity amongst friends, most of us can’t remember what day it is let alone the date.

I am also well aware that next weekend will be the second anniversary of Tony’s death and even after all this time there isn’t a day that goes past that I don’t think of him. It would have been so much easier to get through this if I had had him here. Someone to hug when I feel low, someone to vent my morning frustrations out on and well, someone who knows how to keep me on the straight and narrow. The poor woofers, they really are getting all of the above whether they want it or not. Thankfully I can’t read their minds as easily as I could read Tony’s, I dread to think what they think of the grumpy middle-aged woman on the end of their leads….

“I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.” (Rita Rudner)