Before the Chinese unleashed their virus upon the world I would at this time on a Sunday
be on my way to East Ham and by early
evening to Chingford where I would pick up three passengers and take them to a pub in Walthamstow where a quiz was scheduled for 8 p.m.
I’ve not been to it since 8th March and I suspect I never will again. It is small and
the seating area is not unlike a corridor running parallel with the bar.
There is no room to serve food. I suspect Tier 2 will be its kiss of death.
More recently the four quiz team members have been meeting in Chingford, sitting
well apart and watching a film. Now we can’t do that either due to the panic
over you know what. Two of us are retired and live alone, another is a veterinary
surgeon who does investigations for a pet insurance company and works from home
with her nine cats for company and the fourth works in a back office at a private
boarding school which has escaped the dreaded bug. So three of us see no one all week and
the fourth very few and Sunday evening is the highlight of our lives. Bloody Boris has killed that too.
Maybe that is a trifle harsh;
Dopey Danny Thorpe has done his best to ruin the
experience by creating gridlock between Woolwich and Charlton too. So instead I
am stuck on this computer modifying old blog pages and digging out old photos
and breaking the monotony with looking up pandemic stats. It is near impossible to find any which
convince me that Boris Johnson is not a total nutter long since deprived of his
marbles or if I feel charitable, fed bad information by holders of half a
million quid’s worth of pharmaceutical shares.
The lockdown had no long term effect in three months so let’s do something
similar but less severe to see if that works second time around. Crazy!
Restrictions on off on off more often than Bozo’s trousers and once again
the rules are full of loopholes. Every couple of weeks or so I meet up with some
mates in Bexley. Now we can’t do that
except than one of us lives in Kent. Real Kent not a Kent postal district like
nearly all of us in Bexley. So we can meet after all. What sense does that make?
None, although being good upright citizens we have called our next meeting off.
I don’t believe Albert Einstein actually said this and I don’t think it is even true.
I have made three big apple tarts from a surfeit of apples in the last couple
of weeks and they have not turned out anything like the same. Fortunately number
three is better than number two.
While spending too much time on the computer one of the browsers, I forget
which, brought up a warning that Bonkers is full of Cookies. Six of them it
said. There are no Cookies in Bonkers at all, not even for Google analytics to
tell me how many visitors it gets. I don’t care about that, the blog continues
only because it gives me something to do when Bloody Bozo has banned me from
doing something slightly more exciting.
Note: For those who are tempted to look at the code I accept that there is a
hook in the appropriate place which could be made to refer to Google’s analytics
system, just in case I feel the need to use it one day, but there is nothing
on the hook at present, so there are no blooming Cookies; or apple tarts for that matter.