I talk to myself

Just a few days into quarantine and I’m talking to myself.

I’ve been told that that’s not a good sign. Next you become the street-person, pushing a cart, mumbling to yourself – Ohh! Not a good sign indeed.

My vocabulary is limited to “Bonjour” – that I slur with an American accent. My greeting to the clerk of the local snack-shop. I stop there each morning for an expresso from their machine and a croissant.

Actually, that snack shop is a blessing. Just down the elevator – out the front door – ten steps away. Limited selection, much like a tiny 7-11. But I’ll live. After all they do have TimTam’s.

I select a few items, get my coffee, smile at the clerk – Merci. Wow, I’m learning French!!

Now if I could just read the instruction on the oven – French seem to have a different word for Everything!!

Soon I need to venture a bit further. Fill out my Security pass. Head to the Supermarket. Maybe tomomow. For now I have food.

What I really need to do is begin a calisthenic workout routine. Not my favorite method of exercise; but now my only choice.

At-least I can count aloud while doing repeats, and it wouldn’t be considered dementia.

Now I just need an excuse for all the other times I catch myself talking….to no-one.

Where’s ‘Les Mills’ when you need him? - or is Les a girl – not sure.

Maybe I can buy a Volleyball? Wilson can be my friend.

Time for a nap. All this talking to myself is tiring.