Lockdown Diaries day:= f(y) + integral sin x dx.

The limits of the integration are between 0 and the day before yesterday and the y is the basic existential question. Jerry, my new black current child is doing ok. Actually I was briefly concerned I may have committed bigamy with a black current bush but I guess I’m only fostering Jerry so that’s.. oh and my religion states I can marry one of any species so it would have been ok anyway. And the worms are still worming so that’s ok too. Did you know you can cut and bore through granite with a copper mandrill connected to a vibrator? (true-Youtube it) Obviously not a ladies one, a more industrial type. Some think the shepherd’s crook object oft seen in Egyptian hieroglyphs is a vibrating stick for such a purpose. Apparently DeWalt are working on a plumbing fitting strapped to a boombox playing Black Sabbath, but that hasn’t been confirmed. And the reason Cusco, that’s Cusco not Costco, rocks fit so well together is they found some organic sediment that softens rocks, so whack ‘em together and in fifty years they fit like a glove. And of course, the pyramids were built under water. When the floods came they floated in the foundations and as the waters rose they added the next layer and the next till at high tide they topped it off with polygon. You learn a lot on Youtube. (actually it’s a polyhedron, but ‘polygon’ seemed funnier) Anyway I’ve now realised the government’s policy for Corvid-19. It’s like a Y9 disrupting a class. “Right that’s enough! Go and stand outside the door. It’s not useful and it’s not funny!” And when that happens in 2035 they’ll all be asking, how come your parents called you Corvid Johnson?

Lockdown Diaries day 8 or 9.

I have a new friend. After digging out 50 cubic feet of a plant you could weave a suspension bridge out of I found a black current plantling about 50cm tall with roots and a few green shoots. In fact it’s more than a friend, it’s my child. I dug a hole and nacellid its roots into, as it were, its cot, patted down its duvet  and watered it, and told it its mum will look after it as she’s only a meter away. That was yesterday and its shoots are still a healthy green. In fact I’m talking to things much more in general. The cats obviously and my bike, Rosa, but also the 50 cubic foot plant for not being at all cooperative. With a hundred 2.5mm green strands per handful, each one able to trip me up, immobilise my spade or garrotte me, I had to give it some rather bad language, which I’m not proud of. I’ve apologised to the shed for not giving it a coat of preservative, thanked some plastic sheet I got from Toolstation, which now sports a bouncer and a trestle table to click-and-collect from by the way, and worms. Everything I move has worms under it so it’s, ”Sorry worm, but here’s an exciting new thing called air travel, which you’re unlikely to have experienced before, into one of the raised beds. Oh and I cooked another banana loaf, this time with more modern ingredients. It all went well till I forgot about it. But it’s surprisingly lovely considering it got 90 minutes instead of 30. So, to finish, thankyou keyboard. Considering all the crap that must have fallen in all your little gaps you’re doing surprisingly well. Good job, but don’t let your Backspace key stick ever again or you’re out the window.

Lockdown day? Your donkey can't count.

I have a book called, ‘A Mind of its Own.’ It’s a while since I read it but in these crazy times it might be worth revisiting. One’s brain is after all in the ultimate lockdown, in a pitch-black soundless skull relying only on incoming signals from the senses. From these it has to decide what to do, and it’s so busy doing that it only contacts your consciousness with its decisions after it’s done. And you thought you were in charge. Nope. Only when your conscious receives the result does it then go to work inventing a reason for it. ‘I’m afraid- I hit out- why did I do that? – oh because you’re being stupid’, or ‘I see black flakes falling past the window- no information- why? – must be building work.’ No, the building was on fire. This post rationalisation gets us into all kinds of trouble, especially when we’re prone to believing every word we say. After three weeks of intensive therapy training my most useful conclusion was, “I have a donkey head!” and I must use my limited conscious intelligence to interrogate the donkey’s braying rather than swallow everything it’s telling me. I mustn’t ignore it because it’s my donkey but, well you know what donkeys are like. So therapy can suggest ways of perceiving one’s donkey’s bad habits and training it out of them. A simple way is to ask, “Why the fuck is my donkey telling me that?” But be kind to it, donkeys have many ways of not cooperating. Be kind but firm. Gently explain that the last time, and all the other times, it told me that another drink would be a good idea didn’t end well did they? After our current crisis when the old donkey habit of wanting more and more starts up again it’s worth explaining that we’ve been the most profligate generation in human history and should be deeply ashamed. And it’s all down to our donkey’s inability to count. Sure our consciousness ‘knows’ about numbers but an untrained donkey just thinks, “Have I finished my last meal? Right then, must be time for my next.” It, I, you, we can’t really conceive of counting. That must sound ridiculous, surely we’re surrounded by numbers. True but we basically conceive of numbers in a ‘more’ or ‘less’ fashion. Take £3 or £4, which would you rather have? The decision is easy. Then take £275,442 or £275,443. The decision feels immaterial because neither is sufficiently more or less than the other. Whatever your worth from £100 to a £100 million a change of 50% is highly significant, 20% is significant and 1% is insignificant. That’s the rule not the amount. Only when we realise our donkey can’t count, only compare, can we lose our profligate ways. In fact I’ve come to the conclusion our brain organ functions totally on comparison. Our synapses create dot-to-dot meta pictures where only a change in the ambient marks the difference between happiness or misery. Basically our brain only developed in the first place as an aid to finding our next meal. So be aware of your donkey but for god sake don’t believe what it’s telling you.

Lock Down Diaries. Day 6.

Sainsburys was not crowded and had everything on my list. I was the only one with a Snood for protection, even the staff had no masks. You know if I was a teacher, on the first day at school I’d ask all the fresh young faces, “Why have you come?” I’m pretty sure the closest I’d get to an answer would be, ‘mum sent me’ or ‘We gota come ain’t we.’ Thenceforth up to being a forty-year-old supermarket floor manager thoughts wouldn’t stray far from, ‘Well they ain’t said nofink about this’, or ‘they did say sumink but I forgot it and anyway they ain’t around are they’. So if school is a primer for not thinking what hope is there we can outwit a virus? Then the school picks on the befuddled Latin teacher, Boris Cuthbert Johnson whose classes start with thirty and drift down to seven after forty-five minutes, to make the important announcements. No, without a grasp on your own intelligent, informed thoughts you’re doomed. You’ll either think your super impermeability will provide immunity or be so overcome with fear your immune system will be on its knees before you even catch a cold. (fear and anxiety do impair your immune system) So when this is all over at least teach our kids how to think! Failing that get them to watch at least an hour of The Simpsons every day. Just watch Homer and learn. It was good advice two thousand years ago and it’s good advice now.

Lock Down Diaries. Day 5.

Dear Dave, Britney, Betty and Ruby, 

      Should the worst happen you will all need to take over, so here are some suggestions. Dave, as the only male you’ll need to ward off immigrants, particularly Cocky Black cat, Pretty cat, the Siamese one and that dark ginger one that looks a nasty piece of work. Britney you do the brainy work. You already know how to open the cat food bags and sachets with a claw, where the milk is in the fridge and where the central heating pipes run under the floor. You can give Ruby some milk but not a lot, she’s already too plump for her age. There’s another fridge in the cellar but you’ll need both paws to open it, and there’s a cat food shop halfway up Meadow head on the right, but watch the dog, he’s a bit odd. By the way Brit, the Ale House is closed now due to the virus. Sorry to say it but the central heating will likely go off if you can’t arrange a standing order, which to be honest even for you is unlikely. I know it’s a blow but desperate times. Also the birds won’t come round unless you can manage to get into their food tub and scatter some seeds on the ground. It’s just outside the kitchen door. Betty, you’re the best mouser and you’ll all need the extra nutrition when the fridge runs out. I know sharing doesn’t come naturally but try your best and don’t let Dave eat it all. And for god sake strap a pair one. It’s a good ten years since I tried to get you in the cat carrier. I was not and never have harboured thoughts of murdering you. Ruby, you’re the youngest but old enough to help out. Life’s not just drinking milk and playing on the cat-nip mat. Lastly if you get bored the remote’s pretty easy use and there’s a piano in the attic. Try Twitter, there’s loads of cat vids on there.

Lock Down Diaries. Day 4.

OK desperate times call for desperate measures; I decided to bake a cake. Having two brownish bananas I look up Banana Loaf on the BBC good food site. Mouthermouse assured me we had all the ingredients so out with the electric scales, which I mastered on my New Man course some years ago. Butter, softened, fresh from fridge mixed with sugar to a ‘fluffy’ consistency: How the hell can a mix of butter and sugar get ‘fluffy’? Did best anyway. Mix in two eggs, good, and a little flour, fine, but I was a little concerned about the colour. It wasn’t quite as white as I remember it, but in for a penny in for 140gms of self raising and it all looked perfectly cake mixy with a little stirring. Add some baking powder and the two bananas into a pre greased tin for thirty minutes and asked Alexa for an alarm call. Then began putting up the solar outside light from Toolstation, which I heartily recommend. It also gave me time to look on the packet of self-raising flour. It turned out the grey colour was the result of its sell by date being Aug 15 as in 2015. This prompted me to look at the tub of baking powder, Dec 2011. Anyway out of the oven it looked lovely so I iced it with icing suger dated Oct 2015. I’ve have had a little but I’m not sure; don’t want to be the only family in lock down that died of food poisoning. And I don’t believe Mothermouse’s excuse that, “they must have been out of stock at Sainsburys due to the hoarders.”

Lock Down Diaries. Day 3.

Someone’s nicked our milk, the bastards! OAPs in lockdown and I’m going to have to jeopardise Mothermouse’s life to go get some more if the hoarders haven’t cleaned out Sainsburys already. But it’s prompted a topic on my mind yesterday. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to shame all those who act against our common good and applaud good sorts that act for it. Sorts like Garry Neville and Ryan Giggs, and unlike Richard Branson who’s just donated three pairs of used underpants to the NHS in appreciation of several multimillion pound contracts, or Jacob, the filth, Rees Mogg who’s already frantically buying up all the shares in crematoriums he can. We need to create a roster of sorts, from true heroes to filthy scum, from acclaim to the sort of shame that any amount of anti-viral hand jell will never get rid of. This calls for a national database. Anyone can enter a name and then anyone can look him/her up and enter a score. Nothing to do with wealth, looks, position or anything like that, just are they, in your personal opinion, a good or bad person. It could range from Heroic (+100) to Totally Despicable (-100) It’s the wisdom of crowds put to good use. One’s individual total divided by the number of entries will level out scores so Michael Gove doesn’t blow the internet. It’s the ultimate in group therapy. Everyone will know their own score and know that everyone else knows it too. They won’t be able to say ‘my face doesn’t fit’ or ‘he/she’s always picking on me’ or ‘it’s because I’m wealthy’ or ‘because I’m in public life’. No, if your score is over -80 it’s because you’re a total shit. End of. Get over it. Do something. Be proud of improving your score. Be nice, and return our milk!

Lock Down Diaries. Day 2.

Linda Sell’s sitting up! Phew. I don’t listen much to the Archers but I couldn’t live without that voice in the world. Oh but now my coffee’s got no sugar in it! It’s like all I’m doing is sitting around waiting for the Corvid to get me. Aren’t crows Corvids? Something’s changed. It’s day 2 and.. I mean why is up until two days ago I would happily mong around the house for days, even weeks quite happily mending a spatula or straightening a fork and now? Well it’s all pointless. What good is a straightened fork against.. I mean you can’t prong them like peas, the little bastards. I’m thinking we should cast the net of death tables a good bit wider than the daily virus scores. And don’t forget the little bastards are cynically taking all the credit for all the ‘underlying health problems’ too. Mark my words, two months on the wider death tables will be:- Corvid-180, suicide-105(underlying mental problems), starvation-673(underlying shopping problems), household accidents-448(underlying electrical faults) and domestic violence-1,003(underlying marital problems) We must not let the little bastards take all the credit for everything. And if I go down when our electric show falls into my bath I will insist, last dying breath, “it’s nowt to do wi’t that bloody virus, it was mi own stupid fault.” That’ll teach it. To be honest my low mood is because it’s raining, and that’s always been the case. I told Mothermouse my best chance was to get it early before the NHS is in lockdown to which she, always quick with a helpful suggestion, said, “Good idea. Why don’t you go out and lick a railing.”

Lock Down Diaries. Day 1.

Keep Discos Open. OK I’m giving away my age but seems to me fit young people have a duty to society to get Coronavirus ASAP to build up our immune cohort. Likewise OAPs while the NHS still has slots free on its seven ventilators. Likewise the Conservative Party must not appear in public until at least September: We must think about the public good. For the sake of our economy all institutions that just rake in money like tax collectors, landlords, insurance companies, and finance must immediately self-isolate and cease monetary transactions. Personal transport must be seen as extensions to the home provided they are solely used by the occupiers. The elderly need to see lambs in a field at least once a week. It is also imperative individuals take stock of their lives and cease any form of deception. Now is a good time to realise what lies, half lies and expedient untruths one uses for commercial gain. They will only worsen the effects of the pandemic. Conversely it’s also a good time to be joyful, to use one’s time in learning and creative pursuits; stand-up comedy for example, in the long weeks of isolation. Don’t be brought down by the irritating habit of your loved ones, rise above it. Just a quick slap and laugh about it afterwards. It’s also a good time to reflect on the short comings of our human society that can be so easily brought to its knees is a few short weeks, and that if we can’t outwit a virus the size of something very small with all our technology we can’t actually be very bright can we?

Coronavirus at Bedtime.

Fans of Dr Who will immediately recognise Coronavirus is an alien invasion. Its intergalactic advantage is that none of us can remember what we did in the last two weeks except of course if you were on a cruise. But there’s no doubt about it, Coronavirus is out to infect all of us given the chance. It’s strange to realise that such a dumb life form can have the malicious intent of a Bond villain but basically, it’s us or them. They can’t survive without us and, as they see it, a few humans deceasing prematurely is a small price to pay. So it’s our capacity to organise ourselves against their capacity to sneak across handshakes and sneezes that immediately disappear into the fog of history. And we mix and move like never before. I mean if we were all required to walk for a month things would be a lot simpler, and, in the vein of more helpful suggestions, if we were all issued with a forehead patch that changed colour when we were the least bit feverish. Identified carriers could hand in their phone to show where they’d been. But as we’re told simple things like not shaking hands, sneezing into tissues etc are the best ways of stopping transmission; if only we would think about it at the time, not the next time we watch the news! And why oh why doesn’t the government post a precise case by case map of the UK posted daily showing new ones dark blue and fading out to older ones? This ‘at a glance’ information will galvanise people at real risk to take precautions. With 4 in the whole of Wales and 51 in London it’s obvious who needs to wash hands most. And when a new one appears at 52 Tally Bont Street, Aberystwyth, who’s visited there from, say London? With the public mind informed it can organise itself but our government, seeing us as children, only placates us, assumes it knows better and keeps us in the dark assuming we’ll throw a tantrum like a two-year-old. As with all our other problems our PM’s advice to cabinet has been, “Tell them a bedtime story.”

The Prophet in Pakistan.

The case against blasphemy. The crowd was inflamed by the robed High Cleric, and calling for the young girl accused of blasphemy to be beheaded. Then a voice was heard from the crowd, “Is not the Prophet the highest, most wise and powerful amongst us?” The crowd cheered. “Am I by comparison an insignificant mortal human?” The crowd cheered again. “Am I not fit to touch the hem of his garments?” The crowd didn’t know this man but he must surely also be a cleric to debase himself so at the feet of his Prophet. Sensing the crowd was behind him the High cleric offered the man the microphone. Both men smiled and the man continued. “Who amongst us would commit blasphemy?” The crowd moaned negatively. “Who amongst us would not fight to defend the most wise and powerful?” He waited for the renewed cheers to die down. “And yet what might the Prophet think of our actions”, he paused, “when he is far wiser than us and far more powerful? Does it not dishonour him for us to consider he needs our paltry weak and ignorant help to succeed? Which one of us would truly feel the need of support from a paltry, infirmed beggar to achieve his success? And if that beggar took great pride in his insignificant actions to claim our success for himself would we not feel greatly aggrieved?” The crowd fell silent unsure where this was going. “We are followers of a great prophet who achieved great things and are we here like that beggar to claim his successes for ourselves; that without our defence the wise and most powerful would fail? Surely Allah is greatly aggrieved by such insolence.” The crowd became restless. This was not what they wanted to hear. The High cleric grabbed the mic back. “But the prophet is dead and we now are the living body of Islam. We alone can defend his name.” The man answered, “True. As you say you are defending his name. But what is that? Is what you believe in simply a name? If you honoured me would you defend my name or my way of being, my wisdom, joy and humility? Am I nothing because you don’t know my name? And if you knew it would that be most important? Would Allah in his wisdom be threatened by the words of a child and demand she be put to death? Would his wisdom countenance such a vicious retaliation believing his feelings were hurt? It is you who forget his greatness and in that forgetting are defaming the honour of our prophet, usurping it to the uses of your own ego’s paltry honour.” The crow murmured. “And are you not now offended by what I say and, in your mind, trying to invent some reason to dismiss me and consider me also blasphemous?” The crowd fell silent. “Brothers we must live by the wisdom of our prophet, his kindness, understanding, charity and love not commit sins of vengeance, brutality and hate in his name.” The man sat down. He was never seen again.