Scooby-Don’t?

Early last night, when the circus had departed and I finally had some peace, I became aware that what I needed most was to be anywhere but here. For various reasons, none of which I feel inclined to share, I needed a change of scenery. Not that I had any great expectation that my mood would lighten, but more that it might quieten the noise, so to speak. So I called my partner, explained things to her and she was only too willing to collect me on Friday and return me back here on Monday.

This, I must confess, was like pushing at an open door. Most weekends I spend at hers, and she has been mindful of my mental health during this lockdown, that it doesn’t go mental, being aware that she might have to dash across London to get me if it seems likely. It’s been a few weeks now and she’s quite impressed that I haven’t asked her to come and get me. I know she would do because she has done so, many times and at all hours.

Feeling immediately better, knowing that a safety valve had been hastily attached to the pipeline, the peace and quiet of the garden seemed more relaxing. The last of the early evening sun seemed warmer and the chill that had been in the air seemed to have been replaced by pleasant nothingness. I knew it couldn’t last and true enough, it didn’t.

Later that evening, having had time to soberly consider the matter, my partner called me with bad news. I had already guessed it was going to be bad news, as I had already provoked the God of Naws to make the call happen. Having tried twice to call her, I reasoned that if I started drinking the cup of tea Marge had just bought into my room, then the God of Naws would intervene, and naws me right up by having her call midway through.

Quite correctly, as it turned out.

Anyway, the upshot was that she thought me coming to hers was, on reflection, not the best idea, leastways not yet. She outlined them, but the main one, ensuring the health of her 89-year-old mother was irrefutable. Yes, I was disappointed, but this disappointment was compounded by the fact that I knew I couldn’t get angry, or rail against the injustice of it. Knew that I couldn’t feel wronged in any way or claim that a monstrous outrage had been unfairly visited upon me, for the annoying reason that she was right.

And what’s worse is, she knew I’d think it the right thing to do, because one of my favourite sayings is ‘Anyone can be wise after the event, the trick is to be wise before the event.’ I felt like the light-house keeper in ‘Scooby-Do , right after he’s revealed to be the evil mastermind trying to find the hidden treasure who says ‘If it wasn’t for those pesky meddling kids…’, except it’d be me saying ‘If it was for that blasted logic, that confounded sensibleness, if..’

Just because I’d be the one adversely impacted by this was neither here nor there. The right thing to do is still the right thing to do, and to try and argue otherwise would reduce me to the self-serving thinking of people whose hoop earrings have a larger radius than their I.Q.

She has promised to make it up to me with a visit on Friday, when she’ll hopefully be bearing an edible gift, a rich, thick, tomato, onion and garlic stew with chorizo. It seems I am one of the few people in this lockdown to have lost weight. I’ve already lost a stone and there wasn’t much of me to start with. What was the name of that award winning pie company who now deliver?