Counting tartan sheep
Today has been a slow
day, hours spent on a telephone conference where hysteria promoted an issue to
the highest priority when reality revealed it was hardly so. The problem,
nebulous as it is has acquired a workaround that is being set in motion.
Looking outside my
window a man in a yellow and blue tartan jacket and pair of trousers with a flat
cap of the same material provides some amusement and he might well have the
occupation of a clown, though there is no circus in sight. It is only the
second day.
Someone to blame
My Brian has finally
returned home to Bulawayo and we would soon be back to video messages on
WhatsApp, text messages and video calls before we go to bed. We need to fix
this thing.
I think I will cope well
with this self-isolation malarkey, I did well with it most of last year, it
should get better even though it is an imposition of inconvenience. I might
just start with cooking something. On that too, I stepped on the scales and the
numbers showing are not that encouraging. Only one person is to blame for this,
he knows himself.
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