3pm
I witnessed the prime minister making his latest sad excuse of a speech in the house of commons this lunchtime.
The skeleton parliament.
There cannot have been more than a couple of dozen members of parliament parked on their green cushioned bench areas at the time…
pathetic.
I listened and watched closely as the prime minister made his latest absurd declaration to the British people and the rest of the world. I actually feel pity for the prime minister. I don’t know why exactly, I probably shouldn’t.
My stomach was churning as he spoke. It was similar to a rabble of butterflies. But no, not butterflies. The feeling was not unlike an eclipse of moths. It was not a feeling of a new found love or the crippling fear of impending danger. I am currently unable to translate in words the fluttering that took place. It was not a good feeling.
During the last couple of nights at work it became apparent that the pasta and lavatory tissue enthusiasts of March were running low on supplies. I work in the ‘world food’ aisle. So my workload has increased considerably. I’m not complaining about that.
The powers that be, the supply chain, have not buckled under the strain just yet.
But I would not be surprised if lots of unmasked people are filling up their trolleys to the brim in the coming days. The ones who have done most of their shopping online to avoid the muzzled sheep in recent months.
I have got to keep my cool.
There is a good chance that much pressure will be applied to force myself and all of my (mainly Polish) free-minded colleagues to cover our faces whilst working. They cannot force us to wear them if we have an ‘excuse’, but many of the managers are not exactly saints, they are more than capable of holding a grudge.
Making overtime disappear.
I was going to write to my local MP. But I have decided against it. I’ve heard from a reliable source that her mail bag has bulged with disobedience last weekend.
My correspondence will not make a difference I fear.
I failed to register to vote before the last election. And my paranoia tells me if I end up writing my letter too well, it may attract a response and might cause me to have my background checked, and that I will be hanged for forgetting to put my name on the electoral register last November.
I am considering writing a letter to a senior member of parliament and asking him to forward my thoughts to my local MP.
I am going to have to make sure that every aspect of my job description is ‘done by the book’. The paranoia has well and truly begun. Much more intense than the paranoia leading up to July 24th. But it is manageable.
If I had a large readership, ha, or even a readership at all, I would encourage my friends and foes to write to X also, (I haven’t decided on the best MP or Lord to write to yet so, I’ll refer to him as X).
The idea would be to try and get as many people as possible to write to X and requesting he forward the message on to local MP and council representatives.
There must be at least one senior MP or Lord who would react well to bulging mail bags full of civil dissent to be forwarded on to the relevant people.
The paranoia has subsided for now.
It is not the sort of paranoia for me to be overly concerned about.
I do not think it is paranoia actually.
Whatever it may be, it is a side effect of that feeling below the surface of my belly that was not unlike an eclipse of moths.
I had ‘The Franchise Affair’ read to me at work last night. The last couple of chapters made me well-up. It is always a relief to find out my tear ducts are functioning properly.
I’m quite the bottle upperer.
Thankfully, writing helps me release enough of whatever is brewing. I believe it is one of the methods I use to prevent future insane episodes.
I might listen to Carole Boyd read the Franchise Affair again tonight at work. I enjoyed it that much! Carole Boyd read the book aloud tremendously well. https://www.audible.co.uk/pd/The-Franchise-Affair-Audiobook/B004ZGS5UW?source_code=M2M30DFT1BkSH11221601A7&&ipRedirectOverride=true
Is that the time! I should really be asleep.
