Since Friday 28 March we’ve been living in a Bond Movie. ACT ONE:

DAY 1: Huge breakfast. Bacon, fried eggs… a cholesterol feast. There goes our survival budget. So what. If you want to do it, do it properly. No such thing as a half-hearted heart attack. No work today. As per order right from the Top. I’m doing this for my country. For my fellow man. I’m saving the world. Someone should give me a flippin medal. We’re living the dream. The dream of the super lazy. Day One ends with a spectacular sunset. I can do this. Thank you, Mr President.

DAY 2: I don’t see the sunrise, because I’m lying in. Because I can. I don’t have to get up before lunch… Hell, I don’t have to get up at all. But a woman has to eat. As I hunt for non-slimming snacks, I spot a vaguely familiar shape on the couch. It’s that guy I married 28-odd years ago. We may even get to know each other. Not now though, the sounds emanating from him are rather scary. An impressive impersonation of a lawnmower. Aaw, my One and Only.

DAY 3: Not missing traffic. Not missing people either. Kinda liking this. Even my hubby. Time to connect. With each other. Our feelings. With the earth. Wow, I feel like a sixties hippy. My husband’s beginning to look like one – hasn’t shaved. Me neither. (I’m not talking upper lip, sweetheart. My legs.) The lawnmower hasn’t shown much interest in my sexy bod. Not yet anyway. I‘m bored. I check out Facebook. No, I don’t want to see your vetkoek. Or read about Oom Piet moaning about dog pooh. Status quo: We are still a country of Fatties and Moanies.

DAY 4: I can wear whatever I like. My favourite gown for three days straight. I decide to wear my sexy lingerie. Let’s start the lawnmower’s engine. As I seductively enter the room, he promptly has a fit. Coughing and wheezing. What..? He’s fighting a laughing fit! He’s banished to the couch. Until lockdown ends. Of course without the remote. I’m taking up knitting. Good for hand-eye coordination. And my morale. And it prevents me from stabbing him with said knitting needle.

DAY 5: My animals are depressed. And fat. A bit like their mom. I’ve gained 3 kg. The scale is going into lockdown. My dog looks at me; where the hell is everyone? Can I go chase a hadida, pleeease? I know Bheki said no walking your dog, but are dogs allowed to take themselves for a walk? What the hell, I surreptitiously open the gate for her. I am a bad, bad person. But dogs can’t carry the virus. So she’s going to pooh on the path. (Sorry, Oom Piet.) No people allowed out, so will it bother anyone? We’re locked in. The dogs run free. Someone has a sense of humour.

DAY 6: Language, violence, sex. No man, not us. The movie we’re watching. I had to give in. (He is the better cook.) No sport. No sense of humour. You can only watch so many re-runs. Why do crowds sing ‘Sweet Caroline’ at sporting events? Why is there more dog food than veggies in the pantry? Why am I asking trivial questions? Because I have nothing better to do! Pull yourself together. Sort out a drawer… Stuff that. It’s not as if the Household Police are coming by.

DAY 7: I’m going to get scurvy. Haven’t seen anything green in days. As we head for the second ACT, let’s slow down to a mild panic. As long as we stay at home everything’s gonna be okay. Right? Remember, laughter boosts the immune system. We got this.

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