Going out in the time of Covid is weird. Normally one of the joys of summer socialising is the informality, the ability to bump into friends at the beach then go on for dinner, or the ‘more the merrier’ BBQs where numbers are only dictated by the number of burgers you can be bothered to cook.
This summer has been different. Covid has killed flexibility, making hosts chase down confirmations, calculating who will turn up so they don’t end up with too many, or too few guests.
And then there’s the group Whatsapps, making it easier for hosts to ‘manage’ an event, issuing reminders, and making sure everyone is committed.
Normally one of the pleasures of going to a party is not knowing exactly who you will see there. Even in the Islands, where you know you’re likely to know at least half the people, there’s still the possibility of meeting someone new.
Now when you go out there have been so many messages you feel like you’ve already said ‘hello’ to everyone before you even get there.
Anyway, if I’m sounding a bit curmudgeonly it’s probably the result of too much wine last night with T and the remnants of a hangover, something we may now call ‘long hangover’. This is the sort of hangover where you don’t feel sick, or even have a thumping headache. You just feel sub-par all day.
I can now understand why some folks take a snifter of brandy or champagne as a ‘hair of the dog’. It’s like everything today is in slow motion and I need something to gee me up.
T suggested sex but really, I just can’t be bothered. I’m not sure he can either, he was probably just suggesting it in a nostalgic way, thinking fondly of the days not so long ago in our early 30s when we had enough mojo for that sort of thing.
In some ways, getting older is nothing to do with grey hair or wrinkles. It’s about the ebb of desire; the reduction in wanting. The intensity of our 20s could be a century ago, not just a couple of decades.
I can still remember wanting T so much that not being able to have sex with him sometimes felt like the worst thing in the world. Now there is neither passion, nor pain. It’s still loving, lovely, love. But it’s also sometimes a bit ‘meh’.
Maybe I do need some champagne. And perhaps some Viagra. It works for women too, I believe. Or maybe I should just go see one of those private hormone specialists Francine raves about. I read an article recently about how some women take Testosterone to give them some oomph. There seems to be a fine balance between wanting to get off your butt, and getting a hairy butt, though.
Scrap hormones. Going over to London to see some specialist, who is probably just a Dr Voodoo who takes Amex sounds far too risky … and too much effort. No, what I need is something local, lower key. Maybe a facial would do the trick.
Until then, I have pugs. And a party to go to.
The pugs know I’m going out because they are lined up, beside the bath sulking. You would be surprised that pugs can sulk, considering how difficult it is for them to breathe, let alone pout.
But these pugs can sulk. Betty is the chief sulker. She came first, rescued from somewhere that sadly gave her genuine things to sulk about. Bolly came next. Not so much a rescue as a rehoming. He began life as Billy, purchased by a local family from some unscrupulous breeder as the proverbial ‘puppy present’.
We celebrated his arrival with a bottle of Bollinger, hence his moniker. Quite naturally for any dog who was born on a puppy farm he has expensive health issues so it’s no wonder his first family struggled. If people thinking about getting a pet were to consider that vet bills over the lifetime of a pet are likely to be at least 10 times whatever they paid for their pet, demand might go down.
Anyway, Bolly is a sweetie, and we’re happy to look after him. I might need to hike some of my pricing soon though. T is getting increasingly worried about his job now fewer people are flying. Businesses can only burn through cash for so long before they have to throw something more substantial onto the fire.
Join us soon for the next episode of the Secret diary of island wives.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or actual events is purely coincidental.