Dawn was preceded by the usual cacophony. The cockerel strangling out his morning wake-up call, still with his timepiece in the wrong timezone. The peacocks screaming at him to shut the f**k up. The swans screeching their morning vehemence, the frogs croaking their last, and the Indian Runners, erm, bonking.
Phil cracked open his eyelids. Blackdog Day again.
Crawling quietly out of bed, narrowly avoiding various carefully placed vases intent on giving away his escape, Phil slowly made his way to his first cup of espresso and his first of many daily chores. The same chores as yesterday. The same chores as tomorrow. Keeping the cycle going, keeping the black dog behind him.
His first chore, coffee in hand; to check what the heck is going on in the world outside. The same thing as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. Blackdog Day.
The curve. Always the same sickle-shaped curve. But wait, there are signs we are reaching the plateau! Did we say that yesterday? Or was it tomorrow? The number of pointless painful deaths may be higher but the most important sign is a good one; Boris is getting better.
Thousands dead, but Boris is getting better.
The Almighty-God-Ruler-of-All Trump is once more spending his time wisely, telling all his subjects of his supreme power and intellect. His immense ego feeds the black dog that hovers there, near us all.
And always that morsel of great news; the end is just around the corner.
The end is nigh.
Reading the same news every day, Phil finds himself unable to stop. He drowns himself into its mind-numbing relentless huge figures, endlessly dulling our concept of what a large number really is, eroded by politicians in joint competition to become world leaders in hypocrisy. Every one's a winner.
Finally, the pressure becomes too much, the Black Dog too close. Enough. Time to move on to the the bubble in which reality languishes. On to the next chore....
Every day, Phil takes time to understand those around him, not that there are many around him any more. He has chosen to live amongst those who speak a different language. This language must be learnt, its rules understood, its exceptions remembered, its tenses forced into a comprehensible shape, its conjugations knitted together. An hour a day with that despicable owl Duo is enough to drive any sane man into abject confusion. A chore that must be done to better understand the fineries of the French language. Like this...
Then: fetch the wood, light the fire and, as dawn finally arrives; the universal need. Sky needs a shit.
The morning walk is a discrete moment of calm thrown into the long day of... more calm.
This morning's walk is kept within the confines of the law and the confines of the garden. As it was yesterday. As it will be tomorrow. That it takes three quarters of an hour to finish this brisk morning stroll, interrupted only the occasional stop for nature's call (several of them, for both man and dog) gives some idea of the huge expanse that is the life blood to Phil's every day. His love, his hate. His chain, his freedom. His garden.
Then begins the first of many times allotted to his main purpose in life. The calls can be heard. "Feed me!"
Donning his protective gear, he enters the arena. First; the ducks and swans. He is welcomed with the usual caterwauling. The ducks flapping, quacking and bonking. The swans, well, the swans...
The mute swans are regal, if not actually mute. They emit grace. Their slow movements make them almost unflappable...
And then there are the black swans.
Two soft feathery killing machines. Their sole purpose in life to attack that peasant that comes every day to steal their eggs. You can't really blame them can you?
Tactics have slowly developed to avoid fatal injury to both parties. First a stick, then a broom, now a complex series of gates and fences, including a portable piece of fencing designed to separate the two warring parties.
None of which seems to stop those Indian Runners bonking. Only for them, bonking often ends in the death of the poor sod underneath. This seem a very poor evolutionary development. These three crazed sex maniacs have had to be put on an indecency order and confined to barracks. The occasional escape provides entertainment for all.
Leaving this den of madness, Phil then makes his way to the aviary, wherein lies tranquility, serenity and supreme vanity.
Once the evening's omelette has been retrieved from under the bums of various dinosaur descendants, it is time for a spot of daily exercise. A 2K swim every morning helps clear out the cobwebs of another Blackdog Day. Every day. Every yesterday. Every tomorrow. An hour swimming back and forth in a small pool may sound like the extreme end of boring, but the ability to listen to a book at the same time makes this experience a true escape from reality. A reality which has become somewhat strange and bizarre over this last few weeks. At least, it could be a few weeks. Who knows?
The hours are passing. Chores to be done. Get on with it. Escape the black dog.
That old list of 'things to do' that has laid buried in an inaccessible place for sooo long has been shown the light of day, no more excuses. Weeding and feeding, Repairing and varnishing. Cleaning and maintaining. Jobs that are ticked off one end of the list, just to magically reappear at the other. Today, like yesterday, like tomorrow. Blackdog Day.
All then focusses in on lunchtime. There is a houseful to feed. Time to see what's in the fridge. Time to get inventive.
Two meals a day to cook. We used to eat one main meal a day, but with the addition of an extra member of our family, all has changed,
Yes, Phil's household has increased by one. His story about the 'rescue' of his mother-in-law will not be repeated here. It was previously published on Facebook as a parody but, little known to him, some of the French side of his family saw an 'automatically translated into French' version. Parody does not translate well. Suffice to say that some of the family think that he really is a member of a Special Weapons and Tactics team (spelt in full here to avoid another translation farce) and thus his status in the family tree has been lowered by several branches so that he now nestles somewhere amongst the roots.
This, the Black Dog loves!
The afternoon slowly arrives, following a quick nap.
In these closing hours of the afternoon, Phil finds time to play his blues harp.
Having played the chromatic harmonica in his youth, (in an orchestra for christ's sake!) he has now decided to torture civilised society, or what's left of it, with the minuscule diatonic blues harp.
Bending notes was not something that you did in orchestras...
After which, it is once more time to torture the bird's children by whipping them up in a bowl and frying them. And Phil wonders why the swans are so angry with him.
And thus we see the extent of Phil's day, covering more hours than actually exist in any normal day. But these days are a new normal, on repeat, on repeat. And this is how the Black dog is kept at bay. It was kept at bay the same way yesterday. Tomorrow? When will he break through?
And what is all this for? Why does he do these laboriously enjoyable chores?
Because life is good. Savour it.
La vie est belle. Soit prudent.
Dawn was preceded by the usual cacophony...
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To avoid further confusion and/or depression: the Black Dog
Daily photos from the lockdown: month 1
