Hello!  Hello!  I’m back again!’  Only those – and such as those – will understand that opening.  Does take me back, though, and I, actually, had the single – yes, that, too, dates me!  For someone who endeavours to remain anonymous – well, to those who don’t know me! – frequent references to the seventies are far from cryptic clues as to my age!  Perhaps, one exclamation mark too many already but who is counting?

Such a weird time.  Understatement of the century!  Writing this – I suppose it’s a journal of sorts – is a means of connecting and I love to know that I am reaching someone.  I have loyal friends – and some, not so (you know who you are; or, perhaps not, as you choose not to read the inner thoughts and opinions of your friend!).  Suffice to say, today is a day for a ‘shout out’ (hate that phrase but …) to those who encourage me by reading my ramblings, regardless: Manny (I pay him!), Becca (obviously, not enough!), Shona, ‘Boz’, Emily, Tanys, Jane, Floss, Eleanor, Anne Marie, John, Steve (of course!), Jamie, Janet, Yvonne – and all those who support me under the radar.  Thank you.  It really does makes it all worthwhile.

Dinner interrupted my flow and then I ended up being drawn into The Real Michael Jackson on BBC 2.  Yet another posthumous documentary, including interviews with Donny, its conclusion is obvious – although not stated in so many words.  Justice costs! (I should know.)  The Michael Jackson machine was like that of the Mafia in the ‘50s, ensuring his innocence – on paper – for all time.  His guilt, however, is written in the stars from which there is no escape.  I have written about him many times before and, always, I find it so sad.  A childhood star with whom I grew up, he, seemingly, had it all but turns out it was all a lie.  Yes, he was a musical genius but he was abused, bullied and, ultimately, scarred by his father.  He mourned the childhood cruelly stolen from him and, ironically, likened himself – physically and, in life – to J M Barrie’s imaginary character, Peter Pan; or The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up.  Perfect cover for the star who, successfully, lured ‘parents’/’mothers’ with his fame; at least, those prepared to put a price tag on their child.  As if that weren’t enough, at the time of his death on 25th June, 2009, Michael Jackson was up to his neck in debt.  Fast forward to 2018 and his estate made in excess of $1million per week.  The foresight of those who forsook justice for money has reaped its reward – on earth!

I can’t believe how much Michael Jackson still makes me squirm.  I think it’s because I, too, was taken in by him.  Listen to his song, Childhood, and I defy anyone not to feel the great sadness in the lyrics.  Genuinely damaged, nevertheless, he went on to rob his victims of the very thing he mourned – and longed for most.

I had no intention of re-visiting Michael Jackson again.  I have no idea why such a documentary found light of day at this time.  Money, I suppose.  Keeping his legacy alive – regardless of whether it be Black or White; or, more specifically, Bad!

So, the will to get out of one’s jammies is decreasing.  The hair is becoming increasingly unruly and the attention to one’s appearance is becoming a lost cause.  The waistline is expanding and the brain is slowing as one fights to dull the imagination which, unleashed, may know no bounds.  How long will it take to adjust to this lockdown?  The withdrawal of one’s freedom?  One’s home – one’s sanctuary – now a virtual cage.  Yes, one has to venture out for food and household supplies but that, in itself, is scary!  Instilled in us is the belief that life beyond one’s own door is potentially life-threatening; any other human being could be a carrier.  One finds oneself, automatically, taking a wide berth of anyone who appears in one’s path.  We have been brainwashed and the consistency of the brainwashing has ensured its efficacy.  Yes, there are sensible measures to which we should all adhere but, let’s face it, one person in most households has to enter the contaminated environment of the supermarket if only for toilet roll!  No such luck, today – as ever – on that front but I couldn’t help feeling that I had stepped onto the set of High Noon!  (Pop loved that classic western).  The streets were, eerily, deserted, something I would be inclined to savour were it not so strange.  I had to visit the bank and was, duly, told to wait outside as only three customers were permitted at one time.  Fair enough, but the blast of warm air emanating from the air conditioning did nothing to assuage my fears of infection.  Nor did the fact that I could do nothing to avoid putting my card in the machine and keying in my pin!  Seriously!  Yes, I have anti-bacterial wipes but I have got so tangled up in what I have touched and what I haven’t – my cards, my phone, the car door, the steering wheel, blah, blah, blah … I give up!!  Karma.  That’s what I am counting on.

Past Midnight, now, I have spoken at length – on the phone – to two old friends today.  One is ‘always prepared’ and coping fine.  The other?  She craves order and routine and a life moving forward, unrestricted.  She is struggling and I feel for her.  Me?  As she knows, eight years on, I have trained myself to cherish the past but live in the present.  My future, I thought, was a given.  Turns out I was wrong.  Now, tomorrow is my future and beyond that, who knows … ?

The future belongs to those who believe the beauty of their dreams.’   Eleanor Roosevelt

This is Trish, signing off.

(Unchecked – fingers crossed!)