DAY FOUR. SATURDAY

HONEST REPORTS, DAY BY DAY FROM QUARANTINE HOTEL, HOLIDAY INN HEATHROW (to see day 3)

OR UNWASHED AND NOW THE BAILIFFS. AT LEAST I HAVE MY CARD NUMBER NOW SO I CAN ORDER DRINKS

After a rough night I get the call. My neighbour has checked my post and hoooooray my card has arrived. After taking the details scrupulously, as recently I have noticed some dyslexia creeping in, Niall says there’s another envelope that looks important it’s handwritten on the outside. He opens it and it’s a bailiffs letter for non payment of council tax. Now I had written them an email before leaving but I suppose they had decided to get mean and probably had been sending many nasty emails to my defunct email address. It went wrong about three months back and it was again my lovely Niall who informed me. I tried to fix it once but my password wasn’t working on the actual server for some reason and I just forgot about it. Well these things come back to haunt you. So now I had to speak to D. Furlonger of the threatening letter. I contacted the thug immediately and explained my situation and he grudgingly gave me an extra twelve days before stealing my goods and chattel. I know a lot about bailiffs, and they generally are very unsavoury characters such as ex policemen and criminals, they in fact must be wallowing in this brutish new and barbaric society. They now just blend in with the new normal. Anyway this done I opened a tab and now at least can order from room service.

The mornings are not so bad. The internet seems to work better and realization only sets in when you start hearing the walkie talkie buzzing away on the lift security desk on your level.

So I have the council tax to deal with, rent, my cut off gas (for I will be going home to cold showers and no oven top cooking or heating) This I can eagerly anticipate as my special bonus after prison hotel. This is supposing that my second PCR test is negative on day 8 otherwise I just have to start the process all over again. In theory I could be stuck here for the rest of my life.

When speaking to the medic team they are so patronising and irritating and consistently pass the buck that I just can barely tolerate speaking to them. Telling me to speak to their mental health team or 111 just makes me shudder. Do I even know these peoples credentials? The huge ‘Welcome’ pack includes admonishment for drinking while depressed in this shithole ‘you can contact AA and the Samaritans too’ Oh fuck off dear and learn how to speak to your elders with respect. From this equation I remove Camillo . He was a fabulous chap but I am reserving a page for good people.

Incidentally if a loved one wants to join you to help you through it all they can do so at EXACTLY THE SAME PRICE! What a fucking bargain. No BOGOFS here thankyou very much. I can imagine any of my lot going completely fucking spare in this environment never to be described as a loved one thereafter. It’s the sniggering behind hands of the tyrants who flout any rules they make that sickens me to my core.

So the day trolled on with constant cutting off and buffering on ye olde interneto, I became more grim and my only comfort was that I still had shell sand in my hair when I scratched my grubby scalp and resumed another crying fit.

Writing is very hard because it stirs me up again and starts a weeping jag. To record all this is a constant irritation to a wound that won’t heal. The sweeping under the carpet of all this indignity, cruelty and complete removal of your liberty is such a bitter pill to swallow that regurgitating it whilst recording this is almost more foul than the first time round.

Record it I must though for this is now a part of the lowest points in this countries history. This my friends will be part of my book, not exactly a footnote but my deep search into the final trip to archaeological sites and museums of anthropology and archaeology in Mexico and how it ended in more barbaric practices than the Mayan sacrifices themselves.

Call front desk, wait for guard to escort me to the lift desk, report my room number and name go downstairs repeat at desk by lifts on ground floor, cry be escorted to door, be shouted at by some newbies about ‘where’s your mask, where’s your mask?’ snap back ‘EXEMPT’ go past troups of Indian guards to the smoking area, cry a bit more look at the the green bit decide it’s too cold in my flip flops. Repeat everything in reverse. When in room cry more, order a glass of wine to go with my already cold curried chops and rice.

Try to find a spot in the room to watch some shit, revert back to my many times visited old shit on external hard drive. YouTube archaeology which seems to work better in my black hole of Calcutta room where signals find it difficult to penetrate. Take meds and last half of Nytol and fidget with what audiobook is best to get me off to sleep.

I have a fine collection and know my restless minds needs and different moods at bedtime. I have ‘War and Peace’ and Anna Karenina, these are for the slow melodic readers voice and the content chosen for the calmer bits. Then I have ‘Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine’ again for the great narrator and the tragi-comedic story. Everything by Neil Gaiman preferably narrated by himself (I love his ‘Norse Mythology’). If I’m in the mood I have a selection of post apocalypse tales normally read by gravelly voiced Americans. Fantasy stuff is also good. On the whole it’s the narrator that matters most, they must be on an even and calm level no shouty bits or too much excitement for being a good strategy for dozing off. Interestingly, much like as a child I often wake up as they fade out after the timer slowly reduces the volume to finish, and petulantly I put it on for another half hour. It has worked well most of the time but now I am less easily tricked into slumber. I’m uneasy and restless dreading the next day.

In the middle of this dystopian hell, Brutus, the family dog got seriously sick. More on that fresh hell later x

see next day, day 5

OVER AND OUT FROM A DESPAIRING OLD BIRD.

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