I love that shop workers have now become the most important people on the planet. They should strike for TD salaries.

Any resemblance here to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental:

I didn’t sleep much last night. I’ve started having vividly tame dreams as I drift off to leaba land. I could be snoozing on the couch, but in the dream I’m awake smoking a fag or I might be in my bed dreaming I’m sleeping on the couch. They’re ultra-realistic and not in any way surreal like your standard dream. I have no idea why my subconscious needs me to dream I’m sitting on the bog? Maybe astral projection is locked down too? The alerter and I thought I was in the sitting room so I put on my shoes and walked out of the upstairs bedroom window (in his dream – ed).

Nothing serious, thankfully. An expensive car needed flipping back onto its wheels.
Gardai were on scene and it would have looked suspicious not to talk to one,
“How’s the lockdown?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s fine, people are respecting it, what’s yer name again?”
Bugger! I knew it was a mistake: “er Harry,” I said, completely incriminating myself in the process. I was certainly guilty of something.
O, Jesus, am I going to be arrested at the scene? I prayed for the car to explode but my Higher Power ignored me as usual.
“Canny,” I squeaked.
“That’s right I remember.”
What did he mean he remembered? I knew it was a mistake to be friendly. “Is there a warrant for me?” I laughed unconvincingly, pretending I was joking (but knowing there was in fact a warrant out for me).
“What have you done?” he laughed back.
I changed the subject: “What’s the story with the NCT’s, mine’s in for tomorrow.”
“Drive it till the wheels fall off,” he replied, obviously repeating the national directive word for word.

It was a good bit of luck for me. The egg and mackerel dog vomit on the back seat is starting to mutate an exquisite, aromatic musk. I’m not sure if a car can fail the NCT for bad smells but an inspector dying from odour inhalation wouldn’t help. Benji 1 – Covid 0.

COVID could score a swift comeback though. Social isolation has become a very blurred concept in my apartment block. When stepping out the front door exposes you to the expelled carbon dioxide of sixteen other people you might as well give up. The lads upstairs have begun making a herb garden in response to the sunny days. At least when food supplies crash we’ll have some communal parsley to nibble on in the days before we starve.

Two of us are what are deemed essential workers, which sorta sucks when the dole is €350. I love that shop workers have now become the most important people on the planet. They should strike for TD salaries. Of course, the checkout girl upstairs is certain to catch the virus amongst the maelstrom of panicked shoppers hoovering up history’s last ever commercial crop of garlic. Then all the lads living with her will catch it. Then their dog will catch it and pass it on to my dog who will vomit explosively all over me.