Now that our social lives are a Venn diagram that only mathematicians can understand I am officially becoming a recluse.
I’ve been getting to this point for years, but since the latest Covid rules mean that what we can and can’t do until ‘vaccine freedom day’ can only be understood if you have a head for shaded charts, I am resigning from polite society, in so far as I was ever in it.
Boris may as well have announced 375 tiers and a rule saying anyone who wants to celebrate Christmas needs to sit inside an actual bubble and roll themselves along the floor. I have no idea what the government is on about any more. I couldn’t care about what I can and can’t do even if I wanted to because there is no way to understand it if, like me, you have dyscalculia — why should I say I’m rubbish at maths when these days I can have a disability?
Before that was an option, I earned notoriety at school for being rubbish at maths. Either way, I cannot work out who to have for Christmas dinner now it involves charts.
My mum rang me to ask what to do. ‘I don’t know, Mum,’ I said. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
On the one hand, we can be in a bubble: Mum, Dad, the builder boyfriend and I. Or is that a double bubble? On the other hand, we are in different tiers. They’re in tier 99, or whatever, on account of having a postcode linked to a Midlands city with a claim to being the epicentre of the Covid storm, even though they’re miles outside it.
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