I discovered a new isolation peril this evening. When we moved from WA to Tasmania twenty years ago, a shipping container was deployed to handle the difference between a large WA house and a typical Tasmanian house. Over the years the contents have waned and ebbed but I've never been able to fully unpack the library. Typically, every few years, we empty some shelves and replenish from the reserve.
This evening, I realised I'd run out of anything to read. On a whim, I decided to re-visit James Lovelock. I figured he'd last been on the shelves about three years back and I had a fair idea where to look. Armed with a torch I sallied forth.
Over time, the lack of organisation and general entrophy have made the container an interesting place to be. A slight lack of level makes the door close and so it was that after climbing over and through various piles I found myself 5m in when a minor shift of cartons dislodged myself and the torch. The torch resented this treatment and turned off.
I found myself on my bum, in pitch black, underneath a carton of what turned out to be Rubert Bear annuals.
I eventually sorted myself, found a metal wall for orientation and climbed out. Had I not, would I have been a COVID-19 statistic, perished in isolation whilst, in the main house, the family watched a recorded James Bond?