Making it through these days of coronavirus lockdown means taking joy in the smallest of things
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It is mid-morning on day whatever of this lockdown, and I’m doing what I need to do to be me. I am standing in front of the open fridge, surveying the contents, which sprawl across each other like donated shoes at a jumble sale. Plates of leftovers perch on top of each other, a function of catering each night as if, come the morning, an invading army will be pillaging the land. I spot a couple of cooked sausages, the cheap ones made with less loin, and more nostril, lip and nipple because one of my family members likes those and right now, we all get what we damn well like. I tear off a solid inch of cold, cheap fried sausage. I pop it into my mouth, slam the fridge door shut and move on. Nothing to see here. I delight in the way my teeth crack through the taut artificial skin to the heat-set, unnaturally pink, salty protein inside.
I have never met a tiny, crusty bit of indeterminate something on the bottom of a roast-chicken tin that I didn’t adore
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