Lockdown life has meant little change for me, to be honest. I cannot drive that far, so I am unable to visit relatives and friends. I didn’t do that much before lockdowns, so it’s not a huge wrench.

But with lockdown comes a psychological impact. Something I hadn’t really thought about.

I might die of Covid-19. That’s a real possibility. Especially when you are almost 69 years old.

The general reaction of others to this fact has mostly been positive. Oldies like me are staying healthy, keeping fit, and even getting fitter than they were before.

My reaction has been the opposite, I’m sorry to admit. Yes, I might die. That’s okay. I am old, and have had a good life, with no serious complaints.

So I can have that cream cake on a Saturday, maybe even a doughnut on a Wednesday. Why the hell not?

And wine makes me forget the possibility of an imminent, perhaps painful death. So two more bottles over the course of a week cannot hurt, surely?

I have embraced excess, without really realising it until now. My clothes still fit, and I feel alright in general. My walks with Ollie seem harder, but that’s easily explained by the constant rains turning our dog-walking areas into quagmires that I have to trudge through in difficult conditions. Or is it that?

Commonsense tells me that I have to stop all this. I have lived through the worst of the pandemic so far, and might survive. Then it would be ironic if a medical condition caused by my route down the road of excess killed me off instead of the virus.

But still, it has been quite enjoyable. So no regrets. 🙂