Writing

Self-isolation

My symptoms are now unavoidable.  A continuous and growing sense of feverish fury.  A persistent cough of incredulity. A desperate  anxiety of realisation that this is the team that must lead us out of the nightmare.  The hapless waffle and blather cyphers. Only part human. I recognise my despairing, rasping groan on hearing another fatuous, evasive burst of verbal flatulence and flubbery resulting in an almost overwhelming need to throw something at the telly, or the radio, or to hurl the laptop across the room come coronavirus Number 10 update. Every day.  A cloned calvacade of the talentless and incompetent set before us to play opaque transparency. Playschool graphs, following the science, all in our prayers, world beating expertise, international comparisons are unhelpful,  together we can beat it.  Hollow and stupid they lead nothing, are responsible for nothing, do nothing, and always too late and too little.  60,000 and counting. Or rather, not.

I am officially isolating myself from this toxic virus of a government and the “news” it vomits. I will emerge when the time to change them arrives.  Oh happy day.