Quarantine Blog - Day 4

 

Hey Gavin St Pier…

“Chris J - Did we just become best friends?!”
Gav St Pier - Yup.
Chris J - Do you want to do Karate in Garage?
Gav St Pier - Yup.” 

No we are not step brothers. Think of our blossoming relationship more like a Rush Hour 1, 2 and 3 kind of camaraderie. He’s the Jackie Chan to my Chris Tucker. We’re a couple of upstart 90’s detectives. Me in my outlandish crocodile skin suit, him just going around just round-house kicking microscopic viral cells, while trying to ignore me after taking the slightest interest in my life.

“Chris J - My daddy once saved five crackheads from a burnin' building, by himself.
Gav St Pier - My daddy once caught a bullet with his bare hand.
Chris J - My daddy'll kick your daddy's ass all the way from here to Cobo, Sark, wherever the hell you from and all up that #GuernseyTogether Tree of Joy too.
Gav St Pier - Hey, don't talk about my father.
Chris J - Don't talk about my daddy.”

So the notorious GSP not only tweeted my first blog post, but he also hoped our self-isolation proceeded without any hiccups either! Oh Gavla, stop it you tease. 

Also kudos to you Gav for sharing a post with a few expletives in it. If I’d have known the likes of yourself would be reading I may have used more delicate language. But anti-maskers can still go f**k themselves. (Do asterisks soften the blow?)

For those UK residents who haven’t the faintest who Gavin the Saint Pier is, he’s recently risen to cult celebrity status in Guernsey over the last year for spearheading, along with Dr Nicola Brink, the successful Covid response down here in Neverland. Think of Gavin as being Guernsey’s very own Barack Obama. A charismatic, level headed, mr long-legged mack daddy. He even took the time out of his busy schedule to like my twitter response, which has me fangirling over him even more. So Gav, I love you too.

I also received my Covid test results yesterday. Unfortunately there was a slight error in the travel tracker linking my test to my phone number. Essentially when you do your test at the airport, you scan the barcode on your secure test vial, which links it to your personal travel tracker. When public health work their magic, it’ll automatically send a text to the phone linked with that specific vial, if it’s negative of course. If it’s positive you get a phone call. I spoke to public health the day before to say I’ve received neither yet while my housemates all got theirs one after the other. They sorted the problem and told me I’d get a text in the morning. I didn’t get a text, I got a call. Uh oh….it’s is fair to say it got the heart racing somewhat. But fortunately it was to tell me it has come back Negative. Either this was some kind of sick joke, which if it was kudos to you public health, or they just loved the way I talk. Probably the latter. So now we just have to wait until our 13th day of self-isolation until we can take our 2nd test, then if that comes back negative, we can all leave on the 14th day. I’ll feel a bit like the resurrection of Jesus coming out of his cave, and I’ll be doing just fine, gotta, gotta be down because I want it all, It started out with a test, how did it end up like this? It was only a test, it was only a test.

Other than the result, nothing out of the ordinary happened in the Earlswood Household. I spent most my day playing Sid Meier’s Civilisation VI, which thankfully is a real time killer. The household must have been very confused and concerned of my mental health when I would shout things like:

“No Mahatma Ghandi! I don’t want your horses in exchange for 3 gold per turn for 30 turns! You Theorcratic pirate!”
“Oooo, colonialism, don’t mind if I diddily do.”
“Get you red coats away from my borders, Queen Victoria, before I unleash my Greek forces upon Newcastle.”

I thought I would give the household a treat to get them over their Monday work blues, by cooking the dinner for the evening. My girlfriend does shift work which means very rarely am I cooking for more than 1 person, so cooking for 5 would take all my portion control magic. I spent most my time trying to find certain utensils in the kitchen. It seems like whenever you go into somebody else’s kitchen, be it a family member, a friend or an Air BnB, the kitchen’s s organisation set up is completely different to how you would have it. Where I’d put the glasses, somebody else would put their potatoes. Where I’d put the plates, somebody else would put their ironing board. Where I’d put the knives and forks, somebody else would put their underwear. But I am pleased to tell you the Butternut Squash and Sweet Potato Oven Tray Bake with Melted Mozzarella, Red Onion, Smoked Bacon Lardons, seasoned with Rosemary, Parsley, Salt and Pepper went down a huge success. Or they were being polite and secretly thought that I could have just handed them a bowl of cereal each and it would have been a more desirable dish.

When it’s time for bed, I forget how incredibly dark this island gets at night. I must have bumped into a hundred things trying to find my way to the bedroom. Whenever you live anywhere remotely near London, you just have that constant city glow in the distance that illuminates the horizon. So much so, I’ve actually stopped taking my torch out with me on my dog walks at night, and I live over an hour’s drive from that wretched place. The silence of the life outside is also maddening, I live on a main road in Horsham that has constant traffic flow 24 hours a day, which has the same effect on my ear drums as rocking a baby to sleep probably does. Last I checked it was 2 am before I could get to sleep because of it. Either that or my brothers occasional sleep growl kept me laughing myself awake.