The end of Week 2 in my new job drew to a close exactly as my first two days started: working from my dining table. It seems the daily grind is nothing like it used to be.
If you can believe it, Victoria is now in Lockdown 6. We enjoyed a snap opening, where children went back to school and participated in sport, shops and businesses traded their goods and services, and people caught up with friends. In those glorious nine days, we managed to have the interior of our home painted. So we have a gorgeous pale grey on our walls, and bright white on picture rails, ceilings, doors and frames. It’s lovely—just as well, really, because it’s all we’re looking at for seven days. Probably longer.
I’m so sick of this bloody virus, the lockdowns. And I’m not the only one. On the radio, listeners phoned in to speak of their anger. Yesterday, Hubster and I went to Coles for a few necessary items: the car park was busy, the supermarket itself was pumping, too. Later in the day, I took T1 to a park to kick a soccer ball around with friends (not strictly permissible in lockdown, but hey, I’m happy for him to get exercise, fresh air and moments with his friends) and when I went back to pick him up at 5.30pm, I drove past a larger, well-lit park with multiple ovals and walking tracks, where there were loads of people walking their dogs.
I know there are no simple answers to dealing with this, but surely our politicians and health advisers have to find a better way. Our children are living a half-life: kept indoors, forced onto screens—when research screams for parents to minimise screen-time—and excluded from normal social activities. It’s not fair for them. In the halls of parliament, where bureaucratic puffballs foam at the mouth over their own importance, there is a stunning divide between us and them. And too little an understanding of the common people and the way lives ought to be lived. And that has to change, or I suspect Andrews may have a revolt on his hands.