First week in lockdown. My house is full of pot plants. Refugees from my once shared office, now abandoned.
The thought crossed my mind this morning, I should name these tiny trees, my new green leafed colleagues. Give them individual identities. Keep me company.
But then I remembered how bad I am with names. What if I forget them? How uncomfortable, to be in the ‘office’ every day, avoiding using proper nouns, for fear of embarrassment. “There s/he is!” “Hey, you!” “I wouldn’t be able to borrow a business card would I?” “Have you met my friend?”
The social anxiety may get too much. I’d have to make excuses for not coming in. Just stay in bed. Under the covers. I think they’re talking about me. I hear their leaves rustling. No, surely not. I’m being paranoid. They don’t care. Nobody talks to me anyway. So impersonal. They don’t even know my name.
Why does the media triple ply us with the terror of shelves wiped free of TP, only furthering the run of a shitty situation? Sure I’m poo pooing this, but you know urinal lot of trouble people are literally tearing at each other in the aisles because they can’t get their hands on some soft cushiony toilet paper. I know our butts are on the line, but this is breaking families apart – as they go to different aisles to get around the ‘one carton per transaction’ rule.
My colleague is a genius
You may well make light of this, and I don’t want to alarm anyone (apologies for being cagey) but we have secured two high-level flashers. (Orange you glad you red that?)
Found this sitting at a train station. Someone just turfed it out.
Must be forlorn.
(*For lawn… you get it. You like puns. Don’t pretend otherwse. Don’t grass me up).