In a week when my searing anger was hard to cover, I found solace in two things: my mask, and thinking of The Vicar of Dibley.
By now, I think Australians have realised ScoMo's crack team are close to useless in a crisis. They had one job: to lead.
Unfortunately, our nation's leader was too busy accepting kudos for some incredible gains achieved by us while he was faffing about here and overseas in his Australian flag mask.
When the pandemic hit, us little Aussie battlers decided to get the job done. We stayed home, washed our hands, kept our distance, wore masks, and got tested.
We knew what we had to do and did it.
Apart from a perverse aberration involving toilet paper, Australians carried out the job asked of them. Consequently, the nation got a gold star from the world. Morrison's mask came off just long enough to grin like a lottery winner and give the thumbs-up.
Then the pesky virus found a chink in the armour. It seems there were a few chinks. Our armour appeared increasingly flimsy in the face of a new strain as other countries started to turn a corner. Maybe their strength came from their leaders realising that they needed to get a reliable vaccine supply in order to protect as many of their people as possible?
Millions of people dying from the virus globally was enough of an incentive for them to class the task as urgent.
This week, it has become depressingly apparent that Australia, thanks to poor leadership, has gone from hero to zero. Added to the vaccine debacle is the bargain-basement quarantine solutions and political squabbling with the states about who should be leading.
With the rest of NSW, I dug out my face mask. I went to the supermarket with the news ringing in my ears that COVID cases were rising. Channelling Annastacia Palaszczuk, I was livid as I stepped out in public. Livid with our leaders for failing us again. The other people in the shop could have been just as cranky, but you never know what was going on behind the masks. I'd suggest though there has been much mouthing off.
Taking my barely covered objectionable mouth out for a run proved therapeutic. All was well, until I switched on the nightly news to see the Prime Minister sending another mixed message about age limits and AstraZeneca.
The advice was so alarmingly unclear that it was like watching a clueless barman mixing a free-form cocktail, setting it alight for good measure, then handing it over before running away.
The following day there was a re-run of vaguely familiar, yet different, advice from the Prime Minister.
Suddenly I was in the village of Dibley, listening to Jim Trott answer a simple question.
Journalist: "Can AstraZeneca now be requested by anyone under 40?"
PM Trott: No, no, no, no, no ... yes"
I swear I have a raging temperature and no, no, no, it's not COVID.
