There’s moss growing on my car. I noticed it when I yomped past my little runaround during my state-endorsed one-hour exercise. Moss.
Shouldn’t be that surprising. Gertie’s not turned a wheel since the days of Brexit being a thing.
By the time we get out of this, I could be driving a naturally camouflaged car. I’m not the only one. The car parked opposite has grass growing through the bonnet. When this lockdown ends, traffic jams are going to resemble those WW2 post-D-Day tank columns cloaked in branches and boughs when convoys of Mondeos and Volvo covered in entire buddleia bushes rumble along Ferry Road heading to Morrisons.
When the lockdown ends, I shall lead the advance force that hits the hairdressers. My roots are something shocking, but the fringe is unbelievable. When I stagger to the bathroom in the morning I look like a demented Shetland pony.
I’m still not used to wearing glasses constantly, so when I forgetfully stick my specs on over a face full of fringe, I’m a dead ringer for Cousin Itt from the Adams Family.
The make-up police
Normal life can catch you out. Whilst bored and spotty, I thought I’d put on a facepack. I only had one in the house. I could have gone along to Superdrug and bought another one from the super friendly staff, but who wants to be pulled over by the local constabulary to check your retail choices?
It’s not the fear of “Facepack, madam? Is this essential shopping?” Its more the terror of Police Scotland pointing out that I’ve bought a skin-firming pack when I really would have been better with a calming and de-tox option.
Don’t you tell me they wouldn’t. They’re taking on so many powers these days that I fully expect them to take up station in the make-up department of John Lewis, taking women away whilst barking into their radio, “Yeah, Sarge, she wouldn’t listen. Still trying to score that Base Face Number 3. Seriously, she needs two shades lighter.”
The only pack in the house was one I’d bought ages ago and it turns out it was aimed at the hen do/girls weekend away option. It contains glitter. Why? Who needs reflective blackheads, because you’re not telling me it’ll all wash off.
Of course, the doorbell rings
Anyway, needs must. I slapped it on. It was purple. And glittery. I looked like the child of Al Jolson and the Fairy Queen.
The doorbell rang. Of course it did. I should have remembered from pre-Covid days. Whether you wanted plumber or parcel to arrive, what did you do? Put on a facepack or start waxing your legs, either would do. The minute you were at potential peak-pure riddy, somebody would be at the door.
There I was, a purple-faced glitter-ridden mess of a deranged Wookie and someone wanted to speak to me.
It was a parcel, delivered by a woman who needed to take my photo to prove delivery. She managed to keep a straight face. I didn’t. Dried-up glittery facepack went everywhere.
Looked like someone tried to murder Tinkerbell in the hall.