'You know who's going to come out of this well?  Banks, Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre, life coaches like Val Nark and novelists.'
'What about Doctor Wilson.'
I was slumped in my favourite leather armchair, toasting my feet by a roaring driftwood fire as Geoffrey poured us both a hefty slug of Madeira.
'What about him?'
'Well, aren't medics the heroes of the hour?'
'Some might be.  Wilson certainly isn't.  Ghastly man.  He's a throwback to the era when barbers doubled as surgeons.  Only worse.  He doesn't know what he's doing, crawling about in the caves covered in seaweed (please see books for details, if you're interested) and forcing everyone to go on diets and stop drinking and smoking.'
'He hasn't forced us.'
'No but it isn't for the want of trying.  All the things that make life tolerable, and he wants to destroy them.'
'Drink, baccy...fatty foods...biscuits...'
'Yes, and worst of all - he wants to destroy the illusion that we're immortal.  He constantly undermines our inalienable right to the essential belief that we're immune to illness and death.  That we have Teflon innards that won't be affected by a high-fat diet, and livers that can tolerate as much alcohol as we fancy.  His constant doom-laden needling about how we've got to look after ourselves else we'll die, terrifies me.  I won't live under the medical cosh Geoffrey, I simply won't.  I can't.'
'You will take his advice to stay indoors to avoid the coronavirus won't you though.'
'I don't know that I will Geoffrey.  I think I'll go along to the Puff Inn and...'
'It's shut.'
'Oh.  Well, I'll nip over to Tupfinder Towers and see if Mrs T-G has allowed the T-G back in again...'
'You can't.  You're not allowed to visit friends.'
'Mrs T-G isn't a friend.'
'You're not allowed to visit anybody.'
'Alright, I'll go along to Val Nark's for an ear-candling session!'
'Social distancing rules that out as well Tuppy.  Val's working from home now.  The yurt's locked up and Val's doing life-coaching via Skype.  Ear candling won't be possible till after the lockdown.'
'Oh.'
'We're only allowed out for a daily walk.  For the good of our physical and mental healths.  There are drones circling the cliffs to ensure compliance.'
'What happens if you don't comply?'
'You get herded up by people in hazmat suits armed with cattle prods and put in a nasty dark place for a very long time.'
'What fun.'
'You are allowed out to fetch essential supplies though.'
'That's more like it Geoffrey!  Let's go down the Tunnels and fetch some more crisps, baccy and Madeira - nobody can tell me they aren't essential.  We'd better put on the camouflage gear and wait till nightfall, just to be on the safe side.'

Next time - Tuppence and his prog friends release a charity single, and Val Nark has some life coaching ideas to help everyone through troubled times.

Today's Conundrum. How Do I Become a Self-realised Soul?

Geoffrey's been attending Val Nark's Mindfulness and Self-realisation Training, every Monday at 7pm up at the new Community Centre.

Between that and his DebSoc and his Weekly Whingers Anonymous Group he's never in.  I keep forgetting that he's out. And then when he returns I forget that he's come back in, and I totter to the kitchen to put the kettle on.  I never put the kettle on!  For the past millenium I've always shouted through to Geoffrey to do it, quick as he likes.  I've even made my own tea, on occasion, due to this ghastly, new-fangled and disruptive routine.

It's not only that.  When he returns - and for days after - he insists on telling me All About It.  A blow-by-blow account of who brought the best biscuits,  who said what,  and endless theories about why they might have done so.

I don't mind the debating and the whingeing but mindfulness sounds like the biggest pile of - 

'Tuppy!'

'What?'

'I asked you to ping the finger cymbals after twenty minutes.'

'It's only been five, Geoffrey.'

'Oh.  It must just feel like twenty I suppose.' 

He's learning to meditate.  

Me,   I prefer to stare blankly out of the living-room window,  and smoke my pipe.  Preferably after a fry-up, four opium tabloids,  and two schooners of best Madeira.

Geoffrey used to do the same,  but he's fallen under the spell of Val Nark and her organic vegan lifestyle.

I doubt it will last.

Next Saturday at DebSoc, by the way, Val is debating naturopathy with the Ghastly Wilson.  Geoffrey's going along, of course, and he's so keen to impress his new so-called friends that he's baking his own biscuits and manning the 'Jackson' tea urn.  

More about that,  later....

Whatever Boils Your Kettle - Strivers and Scroungers

"I know which one I'd rather do,"  I muttered as I thrust a "pamphlet" shrieking "ARE U A STRIVER OR A SCROUNGER?"  which some deranged nutter had rammed through our letterbox - or *hole* - on the fire, along with another screaming "DEATH TO SCROUNGERS"  and yet another yelling "GO AWAY ANYONE WHO'S NOT FROM ROUND HERE BEFORE WE KILL YOUSE ALL".
Yes, it's come to this.  Politix.  Politix has arrived, finally, on our draughty doorstep, via Mrs Tupfinder General's niece-by-marriage, Melaena Shovelbum-Steele.
Melaena is what we call an "incomer".
She's not "normal", like us.
She comes from "Overthere".
I don't think I need say more.
"I'm too old to strive," I said firmly, as she parked herself in Geoffrey's usual armchair,"And that seat's taken by the way.  Geoffrey's not here but I need it for putting my feet on."
"You're never to old to strive, Tuppy.  People - creatures like yourself, even - are living till ninety plus, thanks to the help of health boffins such as Drs Kwak and Wilson (see e-books, and paperbacks) and why on earth shouldn't you continue to contribute and do your bit for society, right up until your final breath? "He Strived Until He Dropped". Wouldn't you like to have that inscribed on your gravestone?"
"No.  Now sod off Melaena.  I've got a kettle to boil."
Melaena stood up, smoothing her Tupwatch Tartan trews over her well-toned thighs.  How did I know they were well-toned?  Because the Tupfinder General recently informed me with a heavy sigh that Melaena has installed a gym in the dungeon of Tupfinder Towers, complete with Stairmaster.
"I thought she was involved in the occult when she started banging on about The Stairmaster," he said, aghast," But no - it's worse.  She's a Parliamentary Candidate - and she's into body-pumping, and personal development - and what's worse still, she wants us ALL to do it...we've to have a fast day once a week and there's no smoking and no drinking and no bacon and no sausage rolls and we're not allowed to complain about anything because we've all to cultivate a positive mental attitude - Mrs T-G is NOT impressed...and my life is now officially HELL.  Hell Hell Hell.  And what's put the tin hat on it is, my home is a wreck - again (see e-books for details of previous debacle)"
Apparently, the gym was originally installed in the uppermost floor of the uppermost turret of Tupfinder Towers - just above the Secret Room, with the Vitrine (see e-books, and paperbacks) - however, due to the weight of the equipment, the entire room came loose from the ancient stone walls, and crashed holus bolus down through the turret and the banquet hall and the drawing-room and the kitchens and the pantry and the still-room, right into the bowels of the dungeon, where it rightly belongs.

Something Will Have To Be Done............................