The Fat Stratfordian
Yesterday, cunningly disguised as ‘The Fat Stratfordian’ (I wish). I got to escape what I have come to call my sheltered accommodation for an appointment with my local surgery’s Diabetic Nurse.
The mission was to discover why I had turned from a Greek God to a large and it has to be said, rotund gentleman, seemingly overnight. Or, to put it another way, why I could easily be mistaken for ‘The creature from Planet Lard’.
With my excuses in hand and well-rehearsed, ‘Honest it was the lockdown what done it’ I prepared for battle with the no-holds-barred Nurse C.
The Verdict. (She won).
The straight-talking Nurse C went for the jugular.
Basically, if I didn’t lose at least 2 stone by March I would become a died- (see what I did there?) in-the-wool Diabetic and on the pill forever.
Even, if the truth were told, this did not come as a great shock I still had to have a sit-down. So I got myself a coffee… (I do like the fact that a number of shops are selling coffee from literally their front doors. Long, (unlike the virus, may it last), and deposited myself on a backless (what’s that all about?) by the swan fountain thingy on the Bancroft, to do something I hadn’t been able to do for a long while, people watch.
I’m sure I’m not the only one to mention this but Town feels wrong. Everybody drifting along as though in a dream.
No-one appeared in the hurry you usually associate with Town centres (even Stratford upon Avon Town centre). In fact speaking as an expert on how people pace themselves in Town Centres, the rhythm was what I would call zombie-like. Very strange. Odd in fact. Although I have to admit that it has been so long since I have been around more than four people, it could have been me.
Anyway, from where I sat it was obvious that there were one or two illegal visitors. (Easily spotted because of their need for fish and chips and the way that they just didn’t fit). I was surprised not only by their presence but by the fact that they nearly all appeared to be in the most at-risk group, older people. Perhaps I wondered shockingly, they had given up and this was the most pleasant way of suicide they could think of. Death by sight-seeing.
The other thing that baffled me was the number of shops that were open. I was under the impression that only essential shops were allowed to do business. W H Smiths…. essential? I’ve was obviously missed something here. Possibly something about Toblerone being a necessity.
Anyway, curiosity sated and boredom creeping in, I began my long drudge home to Trinity Mead carrying extra weight and contemplating life as a one potato a day man.
The fat Stratfordian.