Here we are almost 6 months on (that's 26 weeks). We all thought this would be over, sort of, by June. We were all prepared to do our bit, stay at home. But the Tories thought better and decided that as long as we did what they asked, they could do whatever they liked. Medical trips with infected family to castles; like a terrible zombie movie. Jockey club jaunts and gatherings; fiddling with Nome burns.
20 weeks in and my head is starting to float. Things are becoming surreal. The same old environment is both expansive, as my brain swims, and yet limiting. I haven't left this village in four months. At some point I'm going to meet Patrick McGoohan. It'll all make sense in the end, though probably not. At least I can fuck off to a public space and eat a free meal. What on earth kind of solution is that. Like offering a cigarette to the guy on death row.
In two days time it's my first Work Focused Interview Corona-style! Lucky me. I obsesses over these things. I was notified three weeks ago. You might think they could, in this difficult period, be a bit more forthcoming about the nature of this particular episode. Just to put my (and others) mind at rest. Of course not. That's not how this system operates: it relies on obfuscation and fear. That's how they can keep us in line. I have no idea what the adviser is going to want to discuss, more importantly I have no idea what can be discussed. What can they expect from me? Well that uncertainty is the question and the problem. By virtue of operating in this manner I rule out any possibility of them ever being truly helpful - compassionate and understanding (including in a trained capacity, not just in the vague sense of the word) - to the people they call.
Where will I be in another six months? These things are biannual. Presumably they, or whatever remains of the DWP after the Brexit food riots and the fallout from the Trump (he has renamed the USA and turned it into a giant golf course) - China Nuclear War. Will I receive the call direct to my Brainbug, beeping electronically inside my head. Will I be awakened by the chemical alert that that hour of foraging is at hand? Will my jailers grant me time to speak to the adviser? Perhaps. Maybe they will reconsider when the Leader remotely broadcasts at the Hour of Neo-Prayer. When his holographic avatar, replacing the disease ridden form now kept alive by Russian finance and chlorinated chicken, broadcasts the latest employment forecast. Applause is compulsory. Failure to comply docks you a weeks Wetherspoons privileges.
Maybe I dreamed that.
I don't sleep well at the moment. I wake up feeling pretty tired at some ludicrously early time. This can happen during summer. In winter it will shift and I'll wake up feeling pretty tired, only later. Dreams are more intense during this period. Like a fever of meaning desperate to be decoded thrown up by the subconscious trying to make sense of our stupid government's stupid handling of this stupid crisis. Contradictory guidelines all written to enable the country to get pissed - albeit responsibly enough that the government can blame you if you behave foolishly. According to rules they don't follow themselves.
You can see why my subconscious is having a hard time. Is yours?
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