I'm tired.
I'm tired of being in lockdown.
I'm tired of people supporting the lockdown.
I'm tired of people not supporting the lockdown.
I'm tired of people railing about "the situation" before they've read all the facts.
I'm tired of the mixed messages from our leaders - local and international.
I'm tired of listening to learned people telling us that they're learning that they don't know what they don't know. Every day.
I'm tired of hearing the numbers. Every day. They are awful.
I'm tired of people dying. All over the world. All day. Every day. So far, none of my near (or far) dear people have died. But I'm hearing of people whose dear ones are ill and might die.
I'm tired of this virus. It has developed a vibrant life of its own that has taken over mine. I'm not ill, but it's making me sick. It's the last thing I think about as I go to sleep. It's the first thing I think about when I wake up.
I'm tired of spending every day - and I mean every day - and a signficant portion of it - in front of the laptop. I'm trawling the interweb for work, bearing my soul listing my skills for all and sundry. Because my business has gone down the tubes. Just when things were looking up. Every gig has come to an end.
I'm tired of having to reinvent myself. Again.
I'm tired of stretching each penny as far as it possibly can.
I'm tired.
One in 58 million
I'm only one in 58 million in this country.
There are many in that 58 million for whom I feel and, today, one in particular. Last evening, following a week of clamouring, the President addressed the nation.
Did he impress me?
No. Not this time.
I did learn, though, that the level of preparedness has improved.
I appreciate the acknowledgement and apology that the government has potentially overreached and contradicted itself.
I hear that things are under review and that the country could be moved to level 3 at the end of May.
It's not enough. I've said I don't agree with everything he's done. Yes, I think he's missed a few things and is lead astray often overruled by pedants.
Think about this: we've been locked down for 49 days. It's 70 since the first case was diagnosed. That's more than two months. He and that team, responsible for 58 million souls, have probably had no days off.
And they're dealing with a moving morphing target.
Would I like the job?
When I watched the president last night, I saw something else: I saw a man who is exhausted. He's worried. He stumbled over the numbers. I would have. He stumbled over that big word, death. I would have. Palbable sighs punctuated parts of his speech.
I also saw another side of the man: when he mentioned masks, he involuntarily smiled. Really smiled. With his eyes. Remembering the last time he addressed the nation and donned the now mandatory mask. You have to admire that.
So, no, I'd not like his job.
Today, we should cut him some slack. At 8.30 pm, last night, he should have had his feet up catching up with his wife, or having Facetime with his grand children.
I'm tired
I'm tired of being in lockdown.
Today is day 49. Theoretically We're in level 4. That means nothing if one has no work or that the work one did prior to lockdown was in and/or associated with hospitality and tourism. Or domestic construction. Or cleaning someone's home or caring for their garden.
I'm tired being one of the missing middle unable to apply for government support.
Who knows when we'll get to level 2, let alone level zero when associate with as many people as we please, and travel freely. Locally and internationally.
I'm tired of the new normal.
Not the 9 o'clock news
I've stopped listening to the news. Except mornings and evenings with the odd article from reliable sources during the day. I do need to stay informed and up to date.
I have to stop this "Corona crud" from making me sick. I do worry how it will all end up: for the people and our democracy.
I have to get on with things and do what I can. Reinvention of Fiona: version 500.
I'm tired, but I have to take these lemons, sour as they may be, and turn them into lemonade, marmalade, lemon curd, pickle and pie.
I just have to.
Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Post Script
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