Lockdown Bingo

My card is nearly full. Omitting all the relationship items for privacy reasons (and all the awesome things other people did, they can list them in their own blogs), I learned to knit and finished three scarves. I trimmed my own moustache. I established a workout routine and stick to it, mostly. I walk a great deal – in fact, of all commuters to Vienna who use the walking app I use, I walk the furthest (or the second-furthest, someone named Inga is tough competition. The app ranks you overall and by district, and includes a “district” for out-of-town commuters). My first attempt at rye bread was perfect. How perfect was it? When I talk about my excellent scones, everyone says, “you really must bake rye bread again. The crust was perfect.”

    (The secret to very excellent scones is to grate frozen butter into the flour mixture and cut it in, rather than just cutting in cold butter. I don’t know why, but these turned out with a nice crisp surface. I think the secret to the rye bread crust is to bake it hot the first 20 minutes, 250C, then reduce that to 200 for the last 40 minutes, or whatever. As always, don’t take my word for it, consult a cookbook.)

I cooked a lot in general. I cooked General Tso’s Chicken for my birthday. I made rhubarb jam, and lemon marmalade, and two different kinds of elder flower jelly.
I learned that inactivity makes you depressed, but it’s a depression preferable to that caused by working and commuting.
I planted the raised beds (not, however, to my lasting dismay and even more to her lasting dismay, in the layout planned by my wife). I pulled a lot of weeds and mowed the lawn a lot. About all I have left on my list is something creative I had originally planned to spend all my extra time doing – like photography or writing – and a pull up, for which I currently lack the upper body strength and the pull up bar. I could go to a playground or the local park and try to work my way up to a pull up there on the lower children’s bars, but I imagine I would make nannies uneasy and I don’t want to be the one people are talking about when they tell their therapists twenty years from now, “I don’t know if it’s a real memory or somehow implanted but I remember a man with a bushy white beard and white hair up in a scraggly bun, wearing a business suit (the man, not the hair) hanging at a 45-degree angle beneath the children’s pull up bar in the park. That bun haunts my dreams yet.”

Fantasy

Her: … so your turn, what’s your fantasy?
Him: Erm.
Him: Instead of Covid-19 it’s Corvid-19 and spread by crows and everyone is afraid of crows.
Him: All but one hairy old guy.
Him: Who they call the Crowmaster.
Him: But he’s not a master of crows. He’s more like a pal.
Him: That’s how it looks from his side. Who knows what a crow thinks.
Him: Could be they just like his dogfood.
Him: But when dozens of squawking crows swirl around him in the park on a windy day, he can understand where the Crowmaster comes from.
Him: And because everyone else is shunning crows, his flock in the park gets bigger and bigger.
Him: And the weather gets windier and windier.
Him: And people get more and more scared. Of him too.
Him: And crows everywhere, hanging in the wind, squawking in all the tree branches.
Him: On the windiest day, so many crows are flying around you can’t see him anymore.
Him: He disappears from view.
Him: The wind dies down and the crows disperse.
Him: And the guy is no where to be seen.
Him: Then maybe it snows a little bit, before the sun comes out.
Her:
Her: Ok.