Monday
Hunters of old, as Robert Baden-Powell once noted, pursued the white stag – “the miraculous stag” – not because they expected to kill it but because “it led them in the joy of the chase to new and fresh adventures, and so to capture happiness”.
But East Merseyside police are modern hunters and so when they encountered a white stag roaming the streets of Bootle and all efforts to sedate, capture and relocate it failed, they shot it. It was a threat to motorists and public safety, they said.
This is a very narrow interpretation of public safety. What about the jeopardy in which they have possibly placed an entire nation by killing the very beast most intimately associated with the only man who is promised to save us, King Arthur. Due to come again at the time of Britain’s greatest need – uh, HELLO – the sudden appearance of a white stag, symbol of mankind’s pursuit of spiritual succour and sign that any available knight should ready himself for a quest instanter, in bloody Bootle should basically have caused the nation to kneel as one and in gasping gratitude ready itself for salvation. Possibly while side-eying Dev Patel, Gawain in the recently released cinematic retelling of the legend of the Green Knight, and wondering if he knew what he was readying us for.
Instead … we took a different path. I imagine somewhere along the porous border between Avalon and us, between the Matter of Britain and the dead matter of deer being scooped into an SUV, between hope and despair, Arthur has thrown up his hands in frustration and decided to leave us all to it. I would.
Tuesday
As I’m almost sure some legend must warn – bring down a white stag, expect a plague of toilet rats in return. In almost certain proof of such abandonment by Camelot, news breaks today of an infestation of – well, you’re probably ahead of me. Literally, if you’ve any sense – down the road, into a car, screaming all the way.
It apparently works like this. During lockdown – truly the gift that keeps on giving – there were fewer easy garbage-pickings around for Rattus rattus so they started invading abandoned offices in search of food, often using the u-bend of toilets from which the water had evaporated after so long as access points. Now they are applying this useful new strategy to our homes.
I feel like the last single remaining place of peace and refuge has been taken from me. Where do I – in every sense of the word – go now?
Wednesday
Boris is battling to save Christmas, apparently, and save us from the effects of labour shortages, broken supply chains, dwindling petrol supplies and assorted other effects of profoundly mismanaging a country. What a hero. In the same sense that an arsonist squeezing a plant mister near a tyre warehouse fire that he started is.
No matter. Across the country – or at least the north plus my treacherous self in the south-east – Mangan women and their ilk are rising. They are rising to reach up to the tops of wardrobes and bring down what lies thereon. Then they are adjusting their bras and setting to work. The hour of the Present Box has arrived.
This is the box in which emergency presents of wide appeal and broad application are hoarded against the day. Lovely mugs. Beautiful soaps and scented candles. Really nice socks. Jigsaws for all ages. A nice purse or two. Attractive bowls. Pretty boxes that can be filled from a supermarket tin of Roses and become eminently desirable. Miscellaneous trinkets. All things that will do as gifts in a pinch. Usually they do service when an extra guest turns up or you’ve had a complete brainfart and forgotten that you have three, not two, sisters as you stand in the post office queue on the last Christmas posting day.
But now they will save Christmas for all. It gives me no pride or pleasure to declare the average middle-aged woman better prepared for disaster than our current prime minister and his cabinet – in fact it gives me colic, which I really do not want in the age of the toilet rat – but we are where we are. Hit me up if you don’t have access to a box, or a middle-aged woman, of your own. There are a lot of socks in here.
Thursday
I went to visit my shielding (it’s still a thing!) parents today and heard the following anecdote from my dad’s days as a stage manager at the National Theatre.
In those days, the NT’s canteen was run by Rose, the cook, and Nelly, who did all the washing up – an endless stream of pots, pans, crockery and cutlery. Rose was a cheerful, garrulous, red-faced Londoner, sweaty from the heat of the stove and producing ridiculously delicious food in the cramped circumstances five days a week. All the actors and crew queueing for it ever really saw of Nelly was her back, or the occasional pressed-lipped quarter-profile as she scrubbed and rinsed amid the steam.
One day Maggie Smith was standing in line awaiting her lunch. A fellow actor, his identity now lost to time, leant over to her and said: “Isn’t Rose wonderful?” “Yes,” said Maggie Smith after a pause. “But Nelly’s the better part.”
Friday
The new Bond is out and people are flocking to it. Bake Off is back and opinions on Jurgen et al are flooding Twitter’s timelines. Everyone is addicted to Squid Game as well as bingewatching prestige TV missed at the time, re-watching Succession to prepare for season three, having read all book prize long- and shortlists, listened to the latest podcasts, grasped the latest developments in UK-EU relations, US politic and all Covid statistics – all on top of what seems generally to be full-time jobs, the averagely crippling dose of family responsibilities and the need to perform basic functions like sleep.
How? I am busy all day every day and I cover no more than the absolute basics. My evening checklist goes – are the child and cat fed? Did I meet today’s work deadlines or am I sacked? Can I make this house any less of a shithole before I drag myself to bed? Not – have I done all that an adult human needs to do plus maintained an informed position on every social, cultural and economic issue of the day, via an array of modern media, and then gently unwound with some quality entertainment?
I am doing something wrong but I have no time to figure out what.
