Reality, shmeality: Day 3 of self-isolation

I suppose after a while, you get used to anything, and certainly today has not been as difficult as the first two days. I’ve been helped in this by a couple of salutary lessons: one, there is always something to do, not least as Benedict Cumberbatch might say, exploring the treasure house of my mind; two, if you do all your whining now, what will be left if I actually get sick?; three, there are people who are significantly worse off.
 
Today’s blip is of the view from my basement window. It might be considerably better if Mrs. Ottawacker didn’t do her usual stellar parking job (yes, you dear, if you are reading this) JUST IN FRONT OF THE ONLY WINDOW IN THE ROOM; then, who knows, I might be able to spend an hour with my nose to the window, dislodging the cobwebs and watching the squirrels fight each other on the roof opposite.
 
There I go again. I am Victor Meldrew.
 
I woke up at around 4 this morning with a bit of a cough. I’ve had a bit of a cough, on and off, since December, so it didn’t at first alarm me much. But it persisted, so I got up. And then went back to bed again, as – let’s face it – who needs an early start at self-isolation? It seems to have passed, so it may just have been an allergy kicking in (to dust). I suppose I could, you know, actually dust while I am down here; I think I’ll add that to my list of fun things to look forward to.
 
At around noon, I carried on with the Ottawacker Little Theatre production of Lord of the Rings for Ottawacker Jr. From my position in the orchestra pit, I could see he was a little unconvinced at how slowly the mise en scène of Chapter 1 was unfolding, so I was contemplating suggesting a new story. But fair play to the little hobbit, he was up for it, and enjoyed Chapter 2 (or the 40 pages I read of it) much more actively. I’d perhaps played down the brooding menace of the first couple of days’ reading – so I went at it full Orson Welles style today. He loved it – and I was the one that had to stop. He was fully alert, lying on his sofa cushions on the kitchen floor, asking questions at relevant points – what does ‘strangle’ mean? What – Sméagol killed his friend for a ring? Why? – and demurring each time I suggested stopping. “No, just a bit more.”
 
Having thought about it, I should probably have gone into something a little gentler – the CS Lewis heptalogy, for example, or even Harry Potter & the Philosopher’s Stone. The big thing I have been banging on to him about since he was four or five is that every book gives you access to a brand new world, somewhere you can explore and enjoy on your own – a world that is never the same for any two people, as you imagine what things look like and what people look like, and how their voices sound. So I am keen to make a big impression (I am a real ham when I narrate, with a full range of accents that can easily convince a seven-year-old) and show him that the shelves of books in almost every room of the house are exciting, are magical, and are to be treasured. Obviously, it is a work in progress, but I think he is quite keen for the time being, & it is also quality father-son time away from a soccer ball or a bollocking because he has decorated the walls of the hall with permanent marker.
 
Anyway, no doubt about it, that has been the highlight of my time as a cave troll so far.
 
And it struck me, actually, that is a lie, it was pointed out to me, that there are people who are really sick and for whom self-isolation is a precursor to something more serious than a fortnight of boredom and being given an opportunity to do what I want in a two-star hotel with a crappy view. Point taken. But I can still whine, can’t I? Can’t I?