COVID-19 & THE SUBMISSIVE (Day 17)

COVID-19 & THE SUBMISSIVE -
Musing # 1348: Family Quarantine - Day 17

INTRODUCTION

“I’m not sure this is what they meant by concept social distancing, Angus,” I managed to say.

I understood. This COVID-19 madness was tiresome. Folk all over the Welsh countryside had hashtags like #MustBreakOut, #COVIDBlues, and #CanIStopPlayingw/MyKidsNow. My baby momma’s favourite online past time was Bethesda’s new video game, Escape Room: Pandemic, where you could play from different points in history, using the tools available to them at the time although you could use 21st-century knowledge to cheat your way through. Between marathon hours online negotiating trade deals of Welsh lamb for PPEs from Singapore through a local conglomerate, my husband Angus would enjoy the Fallout DSL, Corona Nights. (And yes, I was fully aware of the needed discussion about that situation I just casually passed over – the whole married-to-one-but-pregnant-with-another problem. Today however isn’t going to be that day.)  

The other adult members of our Glamorgan Progeny fell into their mutual odd hobbies and explorations, as expected by British landed gentry lucky and smart enough to have lasted until now. Mishiko and her husband, Whitfield spent their time conducting extensive research on the soil and water our group collected in Greenland during our last MI-6 mission (And yes, all huss, huss you know . . . another story for another day, uhm?).   I couldn’t tell how much time was spent researching and how much was spent investigating one another (Whitfield, is pregnant – nasty time at first, you know - morning sickness. Anyway, now that that’s gone, well, . . . you know!).  My sister Ciara, Morganwg Estate’s chief operations officer and the county’s large animal veterinarian, had roped my brother-in-law Tom into assisting her with the Cardiff food pantry program.  She headed the local synagogue’s efforts transporting food boxes to pensioners isolated in countryside farms by coordinating mail transfers through the National Rail System.  (And I KNOW there’s mischief going on over on that end of the estate. She complains about the three of us! You’d think we didn’t have private rooms)! The kids, our new ward, Aglakti, and my niece, Brandi both eight going on 49, decided it was their duty to teach the young ones, mostly servant’s children between one and three year’s old.  While my niece screamed ‘head shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes!’ she sounded like a master sergeant at 5:43 am, while poor Aglakti tried to soothe the hurt feelings of the crying toddlers.  Our one teen was doing a good job of sulking via her YouTube page for her 375,000 (and growing! She’ll remind you) followers – she’s . . . not getting a graduation party and well, you know, . . . “that just sucks when you were almost certain you were going to be prom queen to Kerr Rosfield’s prom king”, as it was described to me with fat tears falling from sincere red eyes. I get it, really!  When I grow up and finish graduate school, I want a bright, shiny uniform too.  I want to stand out in my white robe and beanie and be seen as what is right and pure in this world.  Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here in my new, authentically designed ivy tower with ivy imported from Cambridge (I wouldn’t have minded Welsh ivy but Angus is a bit OCD), thumbing through Talmud for a quote while participating in my last lecture prior to ordination – naked.  Right, you didn’t know you could be late for online class?

Huh? Didn’t you catch the title of this story? Yeah, it’s like that. You see this is a story about what can happen when a group of horny smart people get bored while isolated in wealth, opulence, and an overstuffed footlocker.   

Day 17 - the evening coming April 13th!