Yesterday, mooching up the High Street in The Village, I suddenly realised that masks aren’t so bad after all! Because there I was, pootling to the Post Office when I realised that I was talking to myself. Again.
I talk to myself a lot, actually. Often in accents (the favourite at the moment being a Melbourne one, Kath & Kim style). Little Seymour Number Two tells me off. Boy Seymour notices as well, and gives me funny looks, then shrugs, and thinks about something else. Mini Seymour talks to herself too, but in a Disney singing voice. And to Little Seymour Number One, I am simply The Mad Woman anyway, so there’s nothing new to report.
But it was yesterday, when wearing my mask whilst having a full-on personal monologue, I actually felt relief that my mouth was covered. I don’t think the man I passed could tell what I was doing… but what was I like before? Before The Covid? Before I was forced to hide my insane chattering mandibles behind their own personal modesty curtain?
I guess people just thought I was demented.
Oh well. They’re not wrong.
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