A long Covid, or Over the Wall — Sunday 23rd August 2020
By: Who Is Andrew Beattie
Tags: Diary, Journaling, Lockdown 2020, Journal, Lockdown Diary

It was lovely to be back at Anfield yesterday. A good performance from the team and a good result. But mostly, it was just nice to walk through Stanley Park to the ground with my Dad, to sit amongst the crowd, see the faces, sing the songs and let the experience wash over me.

It’s been over 500 days since Liverpool last played there in front of a full house — 17 months or so. A long time. Some of the players in that matchday squad had never played to a full house at Anfield for Liverpool before. I bet it felt great for them.

Anna and I have just said goodnight — it’s almost 11:30 here now — on a Sunday evening. Before we did, we talked about how long it’s been since we last saw one another in person. That’d be longer than the time between yesterday and the last time Liverpool played in front of a full house at Anfield. Longer by three months.

Yesterday, it felt great to be back at Anfield. As I sat there, it was hard to imagine that it’d been so long since I’d last been in that same seat, seeing that team, hearing those songs. I bet it’ll be like that when Anna and I are next together — we’ll pick up right where we left off. I can’t wait.

The kittens are asleep next to me on the couch. It’s time for me to close my laptop and head to bed.

But before I do, here’s a picture I took yesterday at Anfield, and below that is an entry from my diary written this time last year.

Justice for the 97

Sunday 23rd August 2020

The ice cream van is eight minutes early. It played a short tune just before it parked, presumably to let the neighbours know that he was outside — in fact, that is definitely why it plays the music. But they never came. It’s been raining today and so who could blame the neighbours for not responding? It definitely doesn’t feel like ice cream weather.

It rained all morning as I and 10 others walked around the Rezzy with litter pickers. My Dad got stuck straight into clearing the path and by the end of the two hours there were 10 bags of rubbish and green waste to collect. And a mostly clean path. When we arrived at 9:30 there was a big dog poo in the middle of the path and I hope that when the dog and its owner returns to the Rezzy next time they see the clean path and decide to let the dog poo elsewhere — or clean it up. A long shot, I know.

I’ve often wondered if there is a way to encourage all dog owners to pick up dog poo after them. On most mornings, as Max and I walk up City Road to Sabina’s, we dodge dog poo as we go. There have been days where there has been dog poo every 100 yards up the road. That’s about 10 pets worth of poo, on a single morning, that we need to navigate.

I had a little day dream recently as I walked back from dropping Max off that I was a vigilante and would patrol the streets in the early morning with a high pressure power washer and would leap out and spray unclaimed dog poo over the owner of the dog. It isn’t the first time I’ve had that day dream, either, and I wonder if it’s a premonition of things to come. Maybe one day I will step in dog poo and have a similar moment to Bruce Wayne when he fell in the cave full of bats, or Super Ray from the TV series Bored to Death who fell onto an electrified train track with his crotch and got a giant super penis, and in that moment my transformation into a vigilante, or even superhero, will begin.

I’m not sure what type of uniform that I’d have but I’d resist anything with an emoji poo symbol on my cape. I’m not sure I’d even want a cape as in my line of vigilante business the risk of getting dog poo spray on it is fairly high. Maybe I could just wear brown. A brown corduroy suit and comfortable and practical, but stylish, boots. I could have a cane so that people thought I was just a refined gentleman, but at the first sign of someone neglecting to pick up their dogs shite, it’d turn into the nozzle of my high powered pressure washer and I’d hose the fucker down. When the police came, the dog would be sat happily enjoying a branded dog treat (brand and superhero identity TBC) and having just had the time of its life playing in the water spray, and the culprit would be sat against a wall, covered in their dog's poo, dazed and with a note on their chest explaining the situation. As they had technically collected the dog poo by wearing it, they would avoid the £100 fine, which doesn’t seem to be an effective deterrent anyway, but would have to spread the word to the authorities about my heroism.

It wouldn’t be long before I could hang up my corduroy and retire as word would quickly spread and there would be no more dog poo for me to contend with. I could then go back to my regular civilian life and live happily being the only one aware of my great public service.

It’s now almost 20 minutes past nine and Max is almost asleep. I’m going to watch the start of one of the latest Star Wars films with Anna this evening before I head to bed and on to the new week.

It’s a short week ahead. I have Friday off work and a four day bank holiday and after a week of deadlines, plus an ultrasound scan on my left ball and a driving lesson.

Maybe this week will be the week that I find a new house, too. That’d be nice.

This is part of a series of diary entries I wrote from April 2020 to April 2021. I’m posting them a year out from when I first wrote them. You can read the other ones I’ve posted here