Where are we? We are here.

 So where are we then? 

Northern Ireland is going into a demi-semi-lock-down tomorrow. We're the worst of the regions for infections per capita despite, I would imagine, being the most rural. So much for those lonely old men on farms we read about. I blame jive dancing and tractor pulls. A good funeral usual brings them in for a gawp too. 

Susan and I don't currently have Covid having become practically institutionalised. I haven't been into Belfast city centre in six months. I haven't been on a bus or a train and I haven't spoken - face to face - with anyone except Susan and the bloke in the Co Op. Even the postman keeps his distance now. I'm not as bad as the people up the road who gaffa taped over their letterbox and placed a sign on the door advising people to stay away in concise, clear language. Though I wish I'd thought of it. 

I'm going to miss my mum's 80th birthday. I rang her today and she sounded quite relieved that I wasn't coming. She's been in and out of hospital enough not to have any nonsense with the Covid. She hates the idea of me travelling on buses, trains and planes either, only to have to hang around in the doorwat six feet from her. I agree with her - I  have profound trust issues with dirty, smelly, feral humanity. But its all very sad. It's a big deal - who makes 80? That's some stubborn stuff right there. It's my 50th next year. "We're getting there, John," she said, "We're getting there." She's right. I have no idea what to get her. The gift was suppose to be me as I am a well known ornament to any room. What do you buy for the 80 year old who has everything? Or everything she wants as she just reads now. Books then.  

Where are we? We are in the grip of lunatics who have used the pandemic crisis to spatter their friends in money and who have failed the country they were elected to lead at every turn. Their  ineptitude is spun, ignored or trumpeted, in turn and apparently on a whim. There are dangerous and unfit people in charge of our lives and the Tories can't bring themselves to slip their programming: they earn money for the already rich and they blame the poor. They dictate behaviour (usually about a month too late) but are not obliged to follow the rules themselves. When they get caught they don't resign - they spin some bullshit and snigger at us. Priti Patel can't even hide her contempt for the people she represents. Boris Johnson's performance at Prime Minister's Question Time is like a tired bear with ball-ache. When Labour toothlessly attack his continued dereliction of duty all he has in his depleted arsenal is bellowing about their lack of patriotism and calling them wishy-washy flip-floppers. And for some reason Keir Starmer just sits there and takes it looking like a corn beef Clark Kent.    

Where Am I? Spent the morning on the phone to my credit card provider yesterday morning. They are cancelling the card that I haven't used in 12 years. Somehow I still owe them money despite paying them enormous sums for over a decade. I'm going to have to work out some sort of payment plan because even they seem embarrassed by the amount of money I've haemorrhaged into their Tena-lady lined pockets. I feel like Mrs Doyle clutching a tray full of dollar sandwiches and imploring them: "Ah, go on - you will, you will, you will."

I have no financial ability. I have whatever the opposite of aptitude is. I looked it up and its "inaptitude", which checks out whatever spell-check thinks. I am the sort of man who, in a fairy story, heads out to market with a fine brown cow and returns wearing only a barrel, having been tricked out of his worldly goods by a smooth talking cat and fox combo. 

Where am I? I'm writing a film about vampires. It might be good. I have written a film about faeries. It is good. I'm re-editing my novel and I'm seriously thinking of doubling its length. Except its already quite long and its not some Fantasy brick. It's hard to know what to call it. Its a romance that misses. A comedy of manners about ageing and loneliness and the arbitrariness of love. It needs a hard, brutal edit. But it has some really good bits in it. There is a really good book in there. 

Not sure what's happening with the Podcast. There was some interest but it's been like negotiating with a cloud. And as usual I'm my own, navigating without map or compass, wondering how savvy people actually do this. I think I might be doing a bit of theatre now. But I don't know. It seems so likely. I'm still doing Zoomlanders, the satirical animation with fangs of marshmallow. So there is some consistency in my life. 

Another month in the house. Outside everyone is losing their job, pubs and theatres, cafes and restaurants are crashing and burning. By the time I get out again there will be nothing left that I once knew. 

All there will be left is Amazon. Just Amazon and empty student accommodation and boutique hotels, all narrated by Dexter Fletcher over an Ed Sheeran track that I don't know. All television will look like a Channel 5 afternoon movie: a skeleton in a blond wig and a vocal fry who has it all: a job that doesn't impose on her time, an apartment the size of Spain, a fat/ black. fat black friend to share boxed Chinese food and half a glass of wine with. She will meet a man in a gilet. There will be a bloodless murder. There will be pizzicato violins. There will be a romantic conclusion. Then it will be Christmas. Holidays are comin', holidays are comin'. That is the future of humanity. That and True Crime. 

I wonder why I write anything at all. No one else wonders. They don't give a shit. 

I listen to M C Solaar. 

Alexa only has a live version of "Caroline". 

Sake.