Or lockdown level 4 as we call it here in South Africa.
Unlike the old Pop Will Eat Itself classic referenced in the title of this post I can’t even scoot off to the drive through and order Big Mac and Fries to go, although theoretically I could probably arrange it via WhatsApp or some other medium to eventually arrive in a lukewarm box of misery.
“Have kids,” they said.
“It’ll change your life,” they said.
After another evening where my drought-stricken reserves of joy were sucked clean out of my dessicated marrow I can confirm they were right.
Yes, yes before you start piling in with wisdom I know there are elements of having children that are amazing and wonderful and rewarding. Like those days when you come from work and they’re not at home because your wife has taken them somewhere.
Don’t get me wrong – I do love the little shits otherwise not all of us would still be alive – but after approaching six years of what can best be described as the bath-supper-bed triad of misery I could do with some time off.
A decade or so should suffice.