Notes on a (Cordon) Sanitaire

Last weekend, I read a gorgeous collection of diary entries a director had written whilst filming one of my favourite films, (not Jurassic Park – but sidenote; what I wouldn’t give to get my paws on Stephen Spielberg’s most intimate thoughts of Sam Neil…not in a sexual way you understand; I would just quite like to know whether he agrees in that he overdid the whole bandana thing). 

It made me think; whilst I am not on set of a sci-fi masterpiece and perhaps- to some unimaginative eyes am merely safely closeted away with my own thoughts and Amazon Prime subscription, there are in fact many captivating and thought-provoking moments which would otherwise go missed had we not been forced to spend so much time with ourselves (for example – did you know I have something of a thing for blanched nuts? Turns out I’m quite the slut for skinless almonds).

I digress. I thought it might be quite fun to document a small snapshot of what observations I find particularly poignant across seven days- for no other reason than to give my future self something to cringe over once I’ve come to my senses. 


I’ve discovered that I am one of those painfully irritating people who has to tell every person I encounter that I’ve already been for a run today – “Yes! On a Sunday! Yes, no day of rest for me, ho ho ho,” (I loathe myself).

This is actually a counter-balancing activity as most of my days currently are spent wearing attire which mimics that of a 45-year-old divorceé, whose hobbies include smoking and drinking sauvignon blanc before noon. I’ve called her Joan, in case you wondered. 


Attempted a headstand to try and broaden my yoga-range and now fear I will never be able to look over my right shoulder with ease again. 


 I have reached the very particular stage of my menstrual cycle, (perhaps TMI?) Where how I will react to something is a total finger in the air. For example, earlier I cried because I saw a duck walking alone and now I am watching (read: not doing) a yoga video on how to successfully complete a headstand whilst reading ‘Deeply Comforting Potato Dishes To Make Now’ simultaneously.


Accidentally mistook the meaning of the word “tryst” and used it in a very serious work meeting. My future is uncertain.


Noticed a beautiful girl staring with her mouth open as I descended on the Aldi outside Stretford Mall. Took me the length of the car park to realise it is one of my best friends Ashlea. 

We communicate our excitement to see each other at a safe 6m distance which, to give you a visual – looks very much like the kind of interpretive dance you see birds doing in the wild to attract a bored and uninterested female.

The gentleman manning the entrance of Aldi eyes us suspiciously as I tell him this wasn’t a planned rendezvous which I realise is exactly what someone who would have planned a rendezvous would have said. 

He lets me leave without telling me I have left my greek yoghurt on the side packing station – I fantasise that this will be a vendetta which will span years. 


My housemates and I found a badminton set in the shed – we play over the washing line. We don’t play for points but our p.b for keepy-uppy is 40. We stop when we lose both shuttlecocks to the ivy which is taking over the garden. I drunkenly purchase a set of shuttlecocks for £15.99 on Amazon which will arrive in June.

I stop drinking at 10pm because I am fairly sloshed and demand Sammy make me a toastie without telling me what she is putting in it so I can try and guess; I forget what we call this jovial activity. The filling is cheddar and ham. 


I went for my government-approved walk this morning and found that my injured foot is definitely on the mend. I call my pops and we shoot the breeze for approximately 4km; I love to hear what pie he’ll be treating himself to that evening and his cliff notes on the football book he’s reading to which I can offer no intellectual contribution to.

When I get home, I make a glam coffee (term stolen from my friend Seamus who assures me any coffee that isn’t instant is glamorous), and enjoy it on the stoop of the garden whilst listening to Van Morrison. I am a wanker. 

3 thoughts on “Notes on a (Cordon) Sanitaire

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