Big jobs Friday

Oh hi there—

we are Peter & Caroline

They say if you go in search of paradise it can’t be found. Paradise is not a place it cannot exist because if it did—everyone would be there. Well I contest. Not everybody shares the same opinion on what paradise is. For each of us, paradise is as unique as the prints we all bear on our fingers. To me paradise is more than a place, it is a state of being. It is the people I surround myself with, it is spending time with my family, it is my mum’s home-made halloumi and chilli bean potato, my step-mum’s Thai green curry. It can be found within the notes of a song, it is the way one feels inside, it is at the very core of our being. I believe we are all on a journey to find paradise. It is the reason for why each of us are here. Some of us will find it early on, some of us will be 70 before we even catch a glimpse and for many paradise will stay lost, long after our bodies have stopped working and our souls vacated. For those who find it, not all of them will keep it. For those who lose it, few will re-discover it once again. 

I am currently on my own journey to discover it. And my journey starts here in the Drake Shopping Centre, Plymouth. Peter and I have been up since 8am, it is Friday 8th July 2022 and on Sunday we leave for Spain. I have affectionately called this day—big jobs Friday. We have a lot to achieve. Over the last couple of years the world has been turned upside down by a new word beginning with C, and travel is not what it used to be. Big warning signs adorn our ferry ticket—before we can step foot on board we must first get a test to prove we are without aforementioned C-word. And so here we are at Boots waiting to be swabbed in more orifices than we care to imagine—at a mere £79—each. No wonder those pharmaceutical companies have done so well over the last 2 years. 

For once I am surprised by an English shop assistance’ willingness to avoid us paying more than we needed to. On Thursday I had spent a good portion of the morning (and I’m afraid to say, into the afternoon) fretting over which test to take. Brittany Ferry advises that passengers must carry documentation certifying that they have undertaken a COVID-19 nucleic acid amplification (NAAT) test (e.g. PCR, TMA, LAMP or NEAR) within the previous 72 hours of departure to Spain, or a rapid antigen test (RAT) taken within the previous 24 hours of departure, and tested negative (I know right—muito confuso). After multiple sums, and the working out of when these tests would be available and the time we would need to take them I had come to the conclusion that the PCR test was the only way forward (that and to say that I had absolutely no idea what a TMA, LAMP or NEAR actually was). Unfortunately this would make us open to being prodded up the nose and down the throat, both to our disarray. So we were both relieved when the pharmacist let us know that we had an option to take a RAT on Sunday morning. Less swabbing action required. 

We thank her, book another test for the day of our leave and quickly get out. It’s one of those ‘hottest days since records began’. Now it was undeniably hot, but 25 degrees in July is not unheard of in England. Still the media were having a frenzy, the heat and the cost of living crisis, Boris Johnson forcefully quitting as PM, it’s been a busy week for politics. And not just in England, in Sri Lanka the president’s residence had been stormed, in Japan the former PM had been assassinated, it’s been funnily quiet in Ukraine over the past few days but I’m sure things will pick back up again next week. We left the shopping centre and ventured out into the high-street. For me, there is nothing more depressing than the typical British high-street. I have never been a fan of shopping, especially when the shops contain regurgitated versions of the same old stuff, made by the hands of the same modern-day slaves who work in the same sweat shops for pennies funded by the same arse-holes. And the people keep on listening to whatever they’ve been told, what’s fashionable, what’s in, what’s hot and what’s not, the sellers keep selling, the buyers keep buying and the world keeps spinning.

We wandered towards the harbour but after a while I look around and feel an unbearable urge to walk away—from the man who had just spilt a tin-can of tomato purée in front of me, narrowly escaping my step and splattering across my leg, from the couple arguing over where he had been the night before, from the kids stuffing their faces with McDonald’s cheeseburgers and washing it down with their super-sized cups of sugary sweet Coca-Cola. I was ready to walk away—from the high street, from Plymouth, from the south west, from England entirely, and thankfully, we have the ticket—we just need to pass the test.