Judith Watkins's Blog
December 3, 2021
The Grammy Awards
I am in post-ceremony mood. The feelings of elation have died down to be replaced by a sense of disbelief and a slight nervousness. Am I really worthy of this honour? Will I live up to the high standards expected of my fellow nominees? I’ve never received such an accolade before. I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance… Then a few weeks ago, Little Angel made her first stage appearance and I became a Grammy - an award-winning Grandmother. But do I deserve it?
This role is new to me and takes a bit of getting used to. Day 1 and I’m high on adrenaline and dopamine. Day 2 and the cortisol kicks in. There are unfortunate setbacks, a prolonged hospital stay and the realisation that I now have an extra person in the world to panic about! Thankfully, by the end of week 2, I finally get to meet my granddaughter. But, oh my goodness, she’s so tiny! And despite the fact I’ve had three children of my own, who’ve somehow survived to adulthood, I’ve totally forgotten all knowledge of babies. Even Grunting Teen, who is ‘well proud’ to be an uncle, seems more adept than me at handling this squawking creature with its wobbly head and thrashing limbs.
The Nearly-Beloved remembers his limitations and keeps a secure distance, under the pretence of taking photos. He’ll save his cuddles and come into his own once a ball is involved and kicking practice is called for. The paternity leave of the modern father is a mystery to him. But Super Son-in-law appears sad to be returning to work. And Darling Daughter, who’s been full of happy hormones, suddenly morphs into a blubbering mess at the news she will be home alone.
All eyes are on me, the one with the flexible job that can be fitted round general dogs-bodying and teenage taxi duties. Surely a bit of baby-sitting is not beyond me? But am I up to it? I fear not.
‘I can always ask my mother to help out…’ suggests my now Not-so-super Son-in-law, playing his trump card. Well yes, of course, Nemesis Nana would be the ideal solution - she’s already on grandchild number three. Calm, competent, cool in a crisis - she can read a story whilst supervising craft work and simultaneously cooking up a nutritious meal. I’d better tear up that acceptance speech right away...
‘No, your mum will be happy to come round,’ volunteers the Nearly-Beloved on my behalf. I smile sweetly back and vow to make him suffer.
But at 7am the next day I’m certainly not smiling. Nor is Darling Daughter who looks in need of a blood transfusion. ‘I’m just so tired,’ she sobs, thrusting a sleeping bundle at me followed by a list of instructions and a hasty exit. I sit, straight backed and rigid with Little Angel in my arms, hoping that if I don’t move, she will be none the wiser. But the moment her mother leaves the room, the abandoned one’s eyes flash open. I feel like howling back. But in the recess of my mind, I remember that liquid refreshment is the answer. Unfortunately, there is no gin in the cupboard. There is however, an all-singing-dancing baby espresso machine that froths up a bottle of milk in no time. And magically the howling stops to be replaced by contented sucking.
It’s all starting to come back to me. Cradle in a semi-upright position. Support the head. Even I can manage that. And yes, there’s a bit of a burping blip. And yes, the nappy changing could’ve been smoother. And yes, I may have to work on dressing skills. Still, I think Little Angel has forgiven me for sticking her feet in her sleeves and mis-popping her vest. For now, she’s snuggled up safely, all pinky-cheeked and rose-bud-mouthed. So, whilst I may not yet have reached Nemesis-Nana’s high standards, I think I could get used to being a Grammy…
This role is new to me and takes a bit of getting used to. Day 1 and I’m high on adrenaline and dopamine. Day 2 and the cortisol kicks in. There are unfortunate setbacks, a prolonged hospital stay and the realisation that I now have an extra person in the world to panic about! Thankfully, by the end of week 2, I finally get to meet my granddaughter. But, oh my goodness, she’s so tiny! And despite the fact I’ve had three children of my own, who’ve somehow survived to adulthood, I’ve totally forgotten all knowledge of babies. Even Grunting Teen, who is ‘well proud’ to be an uncle, seems more adept than me at handling this squawking creature with its wobbly head and thrashing limbs.
The Nearly-Beloved remembers his limitations and keeps a secure distance, under the pretence of taking photos. He’ll save his cuddles and come into his own once a ball is involved and kicking practice is called for. The paternity leave of the modern father is a mystery to him. But Super Son-in-law appears sad to be returning to work. And Darling Daughter, who’s been full of happy hormones, suddenly morphs into a blubbering mess at the news she will be home alone.
All eyes are on me, the one with the flexible job that can be fitted round general dogs-bodying and teenage taxi duties. Surely a bit of baby-sitting is not beyond me? But am I up to it? I fear not.
‘I can always ask my mother to help out…’ suggests my now Not-so-super Son-in-law, playing his trump card. Well yes, of course, Nemesis Nana would be the ideal solution - she’s already on grandchild number three. Calm, competent, cool in a crisis - she can read a story whilst supervising craft work and simultaneously cooking up a nutritious meal. I’d better tear up that acceptance speech right away...
‘No, your mum will be happy to come round,’ volunteers the Nearly-Beloved on my behalf. I smile sweetly back and vow to make him suffer.
But at 7am the next day I’m certainly not smiling. Nor is Darling Daughter who looks in need of a blood transfusion. ‘I’m just so tired,’ she sobs, thrusting a sleeping bundle at me followed by a list of instructions and a hasty exit. I sit, straight backed and rigid with Little Angel in my arms, hoping that if I don’t move, she will be none the wiser. But the moment her mother leaves the room, the abandoned one’s eyes flash open. I feel like howling back. But in the recess of my mind, I remember that liquid refreshment is the answer. Unfortunately, there is no gin in the cupboard. There is however, an all-singing-dancing baby espresso machine that froths up a bottle of milk in no time. And magically the howling stops to be replaced by contented sucking.
It’s all starting to come back to me. Cradle in a semi-upright position. Support the head. Even I can manage that. And yes, there’s a bit of a burping blip. And yes, the nappy changing could’ve been smoother. And yes, I may have to work on dressing skills. Still, I think Little Angel has forgiven me for sticking her feet in her sleeves and mis-popping her vest. For now, she’s snuggled up safely, all pinky-cheeked and rose-bud-mouthed. So, whilst I may not yet have reached Nemesis-Nana’s high standards, I think I could get used to being a Grammy…
November 19, 2021
Garden wars
I am on gardening duties, following the Nearly-Beloved’s instructions.
Or to be more precise, I am not.
‘I said dead-head not destroy! Into a pile not spread round the lawn. And why have you dug up those bulbs I planted last week?’
Before long I’m banished to the wasteland behind the apple tree to deal with the nettles and brambles as punishment.
You see, the Nearly-Beloved’s idea of a great garden is a neatly manicured lawn, fringed by a choreography of colourful foliage and flowers in a weed-free area. I, on the other hand, am a fan of overgrown wilderness mixed with a hint of anarchy and a splash of eccentricity. But marriage - that union of two different sides - involves compromise. And, over the years, the Garden Gestapo has taken over, chaining up my free spirit by banishing my bird boxes and silencing my wind-chimes.
I dig on until the spade hits a memory from the past - of care-free times, young children and laughter.
‘Look at this,’ I exclaim in delight, ‘that stone frog the kids used to play with. It’s lost all its colour but still got its sweet smile. Ah - happy times.’
The Nearly-Beloved does not have the same recall.
‘Bloody garden ornaments littering my lawn! Throw it away.’
But the bin seems too final for such a faithful friend. Waiting until the Joy-killer’s gaze is distracted I find Little Frog a safe hiding spot at the side of the shed.
Continuing to dig, I realise that I’ve stumbled across a safe haven for ornamental undesirables. For there, cowering behind the brambles is Timid Mole and not far away - a chipped, moss-covered shadow of her former self - lies White Cat. And, oh my goodness, could that earless lump lying on its side, once have been our proud Lady Siamese?
Checking that all is clear, I stage another rescue, before returning innocently to my digging.
‘You’ve not come across any more of those atrocities, have you?’
I smile the smile of the oppressed who’ve suddenly been thrown a life-line.
‘No, that was the only one…’
But I know now that more rebels will seek sanctuary and before long Bouncy Bunny, who’s sacrificed his tail to the struggle, hops out of hiding and leads me to the greatest find of all - Old Brock. War-damaged, his hero stripes are no longer recognisable, but he’s all in one piece and ready to lead his battalion again.
And over the next few days, I tend to their wounds, washing off the mud and sanding them down. But how can I restore them to their former glory? It’s not safe to go out and buy paint - that would arouse too much suspicion. Instead, I make do with underground materials salvaged from the cellar. A tin of white gloss, a pot of black enamel and some long-discarded bottles of child’s poster-paint help repair the damage.
‘Sorry - it’s the best I could do,’ I apologise to Lady Siamese, whose fur is now more purple than grey and whose eyes are not the blue she was once famed for. But Little Frog is charming in green, with black spots cunningly disguising his chipped skin. White Cat and Bouncy Bunny, it has to be confessed, are a little too shiny, and Timid Mole’s features are impossible to distinguish. But Old Brock is a triumph - a call to arms!
And so, under cover of darkness, the animals take up position once more in the garden. Lady Siamese disappears under the holly bush. White Cat and Bouncy Bunny patrol behind the shed. Little Frog stands guard, unnoticed beneath the ferns, whilst Timid Mole and Old Brock are ninja shadows between the tree trunks.
Yes, they may have to wait and bide their time patiently. But it’s only a matter of when not if. For they are ready, cute and therefore unstoppable, to stage a coup when the grandchildren of the future arrive to rescue them.
Or to be more precise, I am not.
‘I said dead-head not destroy! Into a pile not spread round the lawn. And why have you dug up those bulbs I planted last week?’
Before long I’m banished to the wasteland behind the apple tree to deal with the nettles and brambles as punishment.
You see, the Nearly-Beloved’s idea of a great garden is a neatly manicured lawn, fringed by a choreography of colourful foliage and flowers in a weed-free area. I, on the other hand, am a fan of overgrown wilderness mixed with a hint of anarchy and a splash of eccentricity. But marriage - that union of two different sides - involves compromise. And, over the years, the Garden Gestapo has taken over, chaining up my free spirit by banishing my bird boxes and silencing my wind-chimes.
I dig on until the spade hits a memory from the past - of care-free times, young children and laughter.
‘Look at this,’ I exclaim in delight, ‘that stone frog the kids used to play with. It’s lost all its colour but still got its sweet smile. Ah - happy times.’
The Nearly-Beloved does not have the same recall.
‘Bloody garden ornaments littering my lawn! Throw it away.’
But the bin seems too final for such a faithful friend. Waiting until the Joy-killer’s gaze is distracted I find Little Frog a safe hiding spot at the side of the shed.
Continuing to dig, I realise that I’ve stumbled across a safe haven for ornamental undesirables. For there, cowering behind the brambles is Timid Mole and not far away - a chipped, moss-covered shadow of her former self - lies White Cat. And, oh my goodness, could that earless lump lying on its side, once have been our proud Lady Siamese?
Checking that all is clear, I stage another rescue, before returning innocently to my digging.
‘You’ve not come across any more of those atrocities, have you?’
I smile the smile of the oppressed who’ve suddenly been thrown a life-line.
‘No, that was the only one…’
But I know now that more rebels will seek sanctuary and before long Bouncy Bunny, who’s sacrificed his tail to the struggle, hops out of hiding and leads me to the greatest find of all - Old Brock. War-damaged, his hero stripes are no longer recognisable, but he’s all in one piece and ready to lead his battalion again.
And over the next few days, I tend to their wounds, washing off the mud and sanding them down. But how can I restore them to their former glory? It’s not safe to go out and buy paint - that would arouse too much suspicion. Instead, I make do with underground materials salvaged from the cellar. A tin of white gloss, a pot of black enamel and some long-discarded bottles of child’s poster-paint help repair the damage.
‘Sorry - it’s the best I could do,’ I apologise to Lady Siamese, whose fur is now more purple than grey and whose eyes are not the blue she was once famed for. But Little Frog is charming in green, with black spots cunningly disguising his chipped skin. White Cat and Bouncy Bunny, it has to be confessed, are a little too shiny, and Timid Mole’s features are impossible to distinguish. But Old Brock is a triumph - a call to arms!
And so, under cover of darkness, the animals take up position once more in the garden. Lady Siamese disappears under the holly bush. White Cat and Bouncy Bunny patrol behind the shed. Little Frog stands guard, unnoticed beneath the ferns, whilst Timid Mole and Old Brock are ninja shadows between the tree trunks.
Yes, they may have to wait and bide their time patiently. But it’s only a matter of when not if. For they are ready, cute and therefore unstoppable, to stage a coup when the grandchildren of the future arrive to rescue them.
November 12, 2021
Car blindness
My next-door neighbour smiles bemusedly at me as I pretend to be searching for something on the pavement in front of her house. ‘Thought I’d dropped some money’, I mutter in explanation, as I retreat back up the road and get into my Nissan Micra. The truth is much more worrying. I have once again narrowly missed being caught trying to break into her Citroen! This is no indication of criminal tendencies, I hasten to add, but rather a severe case of ‘car blindness’. I have no notion of the different makes of car. In my eyes, a Mini and a Maserati merge in their ‘maroonness’, a Lada and a Lotus are lookalikes in lemon, and a Beetle and a Bentley blend together in blue. My brain registers the colour - red, the size - small, and the position - on the street outside my house, and concludes that the car must, therefore, belong to me.
My lack of automobile awareness is incomprehensible to the Nearly Beloved. When he asks me where my friend bought their new Qashqai, it takes a while to register he means a car rather than a cardigan. And then I can only recall that the colour, which was previously white, is now black.
It’s not that I’m disinterested in cars, it’s just that to me, their prime function is to get from A to B without breaking down. This lesson was taught me by my very first purchase (metallic, small, terrified of hills), with its dodgy handbrake. It had multiple health problems and often needed emergency care. If only I had concentrated on prevention, rather than cure! Looking after the lights, testing the tyres and organising the oil all seemed too strict a regime to follow until one day little ‘Goldie’ went into cardiac arrest on the motorway, with steam billowing from her bonnet. The AA paramedics arrived, gave her a Castrol transfusion, and then towed her away, warning me I would need to drastically improve my nursing skills. But instead, I outsourced Engine NHS to my more mechanically minded other-half.
Delightful Daughter despairs of me, complaining, ‘You’re hardly an advert for Girl Power, are you mum?’ She, in contrast, is a competent modern woman, known for jump-starting batteries, replacing windscreen wipers and keeping an eye on her treads. She’s a serial motoring monogamist, treating her rides with respect so they stick with her for the long haul.
I, however, am always parting company with my fickle means of transport. With Goldie in the morgue, I headed to the Motor Maternity Unit and returned with ‘Girl Racer’ (sporty, go-faster stripes, always up for a burn out). She was a party animal but fell in with a bad crowd. Late one night she ran off with a gang of joy-riders and was found head-first in a wall.
‘Hand-me-down’, my father’s old car (blue, solid, good in tight spots) replaced her. But whilst dependable, he couldn’t cope with the demands of a growing family and was forced out by ‘Family Beast’ (black, 7-seater ‘don’t mess with me’ giant). I have to admit, I shed a tear when he was lost at sea in a freak flash flood.
The compensation received stretched only as far as ‘Mr Make-do’ (dull, grey, uninspiring). There was no love lost between us. He never forgave me for allowing the children to treat him as a waste paper bin, reversing him into a skip, or scraping his sides in the multi-storey car park. In revenge, his electrics blew up and I spent a chilly winter with my windows never fully closing, before I finally traded him in for ‘Mum’s Taxi’ (red, reliable, easier to spot). She’s served me well through three adolescences as a moving, metal confessional where secrets inadvertently get spilled.
So far Grunting Teen has kept his lips tightly sealed. He doesn’t give much away on our car journeys, just gripping the door handle and occasionally slamming his right foot down in the door well. But he appreciates the lifts so refuses to join his father in laughing at me when I swear ‘car blindness’ is a ‘disability’ not something I have made up.
In the end, I resort to taking photos of where I last parked so I can distinguish ‘Mum’s Taxi’ from all the Doppelgangers on the street. It’s only when the next-door neighbour knocks into me that I realise I’m not the only one suffering from this problem. ‘Can I just get past you to my car?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replies standing up red-faced. ‘Thought I’d dropped some money, that’s all.’
My lack of automobile awareness is incomprehensible to the Nearly Beloved. When he asks me where my friend bought their new Qashqai, it takes a while to register he means a car rather than a cardigan. And then I can only recall that the colour, which was previously white, is now black.
It’s not that I’m disinterested in cars, it’s just that to me, their prime function is to get from A to B without breaking down. This lesson was taught me by my very first purchase (metallic, small, terrified of hills), with its dodgy handbrake. It had multiple health problems and often needed emergency care. If only I had concentrated on prevention, rather than cure! Looking after the lights, testing the tyres and organising the oil all seemed too strict a regime to follow until one day little ‘Goldie’ went into cardiac arrest on the motorway, with steam billowing from her bonnet. The AA paramedics arrived, gave her a Castrol transfusion, and then towed her away, warning me I would need to drastically improve my nursing skills. But instead, I outsourced Engine NHS to my more mechanically minded other-half.
Delightful Daughter despairs of me, complaining, ‘You’re hardly an advert for Girl Power, are you mum?’ She, in contrast, is a competent modern woman, known for jump-starting batteries, replacing windscreen wipers and keeping an eye on her treads. She’s a serial motoring monogamist, treating her rides with respect so they stick with her for the long haul.
I, however, am always parting company with my fickle means of transport. With Goldie in the morgue, I headed to the Motor Maternity Unit and returned with ‘Girl Racer’ (sporty, go-faster stripes, always up for a burn out). She was a party animal but fell in with a bad crowd. Late one night she ran off with a gang of joy-riders and was found head-first in a wall.
‘Hand-me-down’, my father’s old car (blue, solid, good in tight spots) replaced her. But whilst dependable, he couldn’t cope with the demands of a growing family and was forced out by ‘Family Beast’ (black, 7-seater ‘don’t mess with me’ giant). I have to admit, I shed a tear when he was lost at sea in a freak flash flood.
The compensation received stretched only as far as ‘Mr Make-do’ (dull, grey, uninspiring). There was no love lost between us. He never forgave me for allowing the children to treat him as a waste paper bin, reversing him into a skip, or scraping his sides in the multi-storey car park. In revenge, his electrics blew up and I spent a chilly winter with my windows never fully closing, before I finally traded him in for ‘Mum’s Taxi’ (red, reliable, easier to spot). She’s served me well through three adolescences as a moving, metal confessional where secrets inadvertently get spilled.
So far Grunting Teen has kept his lips tightly sealed. He doesn’t give much away on our car journeys, just gripping the door handle and occasionally slamming his right foot down in the door well. But he appreciates the lifts so refuses to join his father in laughing at me when I swear ‘car blindness’ is a ‘disability’ not something I have made up.
In the end, I resort to taking photos of where I last parked so I can distinguish ‘Mum’s Taxi’ from all the Doppelgangers on the street. It’s only when the next-door neighbour knocks into me that I realise I’m not the only one suffering from this problem. ‘Can I just get past you to my car?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replies standing up red-faced. ‘Thought I’d dropped some money, that’s all.’
Car blindness
My next-door neighbour smiles bemusedly at me as I pretend to be searching for something on the pavement in front of her house. ‘Thought I’d dropped some money’, I mutter in explanation, as I retreat back up the road and get into my Nissan Micra. The truth is much more worrying. I have once again narrowly missed being caught trying to break into her Citroen! This is no indication of criminal tendencies, I hasten to add, but rather a severe case of ‘car blindness’. I have no notion of the different makes of car. In my eyes, a Mini and a Maserati merge in their ‘maroonness’, a Lada and a Lotus are lookalikes in lemon, and a Beetle and a Bentley blend together in blue. My brain registers the colour - red, the size - small, and the position - on the street outside my house, and concludes that the car must, therefore, belong to me.
My lack of automobile awareness is incomprehensible to the Nearly Beloved. When he asks me where my friend bought their new Qashqai, it takes a while to register he means a car rather than a cardigan. And then I can only recall that the colour, which was previously white, is now black.
It’s not that I’m disinterested in cars, it’s just that to me, their prime function is to get from A to B without breaking down. This lesson was taught me by my very first purchase (metallic, small, terrified of hills), with its dodgy handbrake. It had multiple health problems and often needed emergency care. If only I had concentrated on prevention, rather than cure! Looking after the lights, testing the tyres and organising the oil all seemed too strict a regime to follow until one day little ‘Goldie’ went into cardiac arrest on the motorway, with steam billowing from her bonnet. The AA paramedics arrived, gave her a Castrol transfusion, and then towed her away, warning me I would need to drastically improve my nursing skills. But instead, I outsourced Engine NHS to my more mechanically minded other-half.
Delightful Daughter despairs of me, complaining, ‘You’re hardly an advert for Girl Power, are you mum?’ She, in contrast, is a competent modern woman, known for jump-starting batteries, replacing windscreen wipers and keeping an eye on her treads. She’s a serial motoring monogamist, treating her rides with respect so they stick with her for the long haul.
I, however, am always parting company with my fickle means of transport. With Goldie in the morgue, I headed to the Motor Maternity Unit and returned with ‘Girl Racer’ (sporty, go-faster stripes, always up for a burn out). She was a party animal but fell in with a bad crowd. Late one night she ran off with a gang of joy-riders and was found head-first in a wall.
‘Hand-me-down’, my father’s old car (blue, solid, good in tight spots) replaced her. But whilst dependable, he couldn’t cope with the demands of a growing family and was forced out by ‘Family Beast’ (black, 7-seater ‘don’t mess with me’ giant). I have to admit, I shed a tear when he was lost at sea in a freak flash flood.
The compensation received stretched only as far as ‘Mr Make-do’ (dull, grey, uninspiring). There was no love lost between us. He never forgave me for allowing the children to treat him as a waste paper bin, reversing him into a skip, or scraping his sides in the multi-storey car park. In revenge, his electrics blew up and I spent a chilly winter with my windows never fully closing, before I finally traded him in for ‘Mum’s Taxi’ (red, reliable, easier to spot). She’s served me well through three adolescences as a moving, metal confessional where secrets inadvertently get spilled.
So far Grunting Teen has kept his lips tightly sealed. He doesn’t give much away on our car journeys, just gripping the door handle and occasionally slamming his right foot down in the door well. But he appreciates the lifts so refuses to join his father in laughing at me when I swear ‘car blindness’ is a ‘disability’ not something I have made up.
In the end, I resort to taking photos of where I last parked so I can distinguish ‘Mum’s Taxi’ from all the Doppelgangers on the street. It’s only when the next-door neighbour knocks into me that I realise I’m not the only one suffering from this problem. ‘Can I just get past you to my car?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replies standing up red-faced. ‘Thought I’d dropped some money, that’s all.’
My lack of automobile awareness is incomprehensible to the Nearly Beloved. When he asks me where my friend bought their new Qashqai, it takes a while to register he means a car rather than a cardigan. And then I can only recall that the colour, which was previously white, is now black.
It’s not that I’m disinterested in cars, it’s just that to me, their prime function is to get from A to B without breaking down. This lesson was taught me by my very first purchase (metallic, small, terrified of hills), with its dodgy handbrake. It had multiple health problems and often needed emergency care. If only I had concentrated on prevention, rather than cure! Looking after the lights, testing the tyres and organising the oil all seemed too strict a regime to follow until one day little ‘Goldie’ went into cardiac arrest on the motorway, with steam billowing from her bonnet. The AA paramedics arrived, gave her a Castrol transfusion, and then towed her away, warning me I would need to drastically improve my nursing skills. But instead, I outsourced Engine NHS to my more mechanically minded other-half.
Delightful Daughter despairs of me, complaining, ‘You’re hardly an advert for Girl Power, are you mum?’ She, in contrast, is a competent modern woman, known for jump-starting batteries, replacing windscreen wipers and keeping an eye on her treads. She’s a serial motoring monogamist, treating her rides with respect so they stick with her for the long haul.
I, however, am always parting company with my fickle means of transport. With Goldie in the morgue, I headed to the Motor Maternity Unit and returned with ‘Girl Racer’ (sporty, go-faster stripes, always up for a burn out). She was a party animal but fell in with a bad crowd. Late one night she ran off with a gang of joy-riders and was found head-first in a wall.
‘Hand-me-down’, my father’s old car (blue, solid, good in tight spots) replaced her. But whilst dependable, he couldn’t cope with the demands of a growing family and was forced out by ‘Family Beast’ (black, 7-seater ‘don’t mess with me’ giant). I have to admit, I shed a tear when he was lost at sea in a freak flash flood.
The compensation received stretched only as far as ‘Mr Make-do’ (dull, grey, uninspiring). There was no love lost between us. He never forgave me for allowing the children to treat him as a waste paper bin, reversing him into a skip, or scraping his sides in the multi-storey car park. In revenge, his electrics blew up and I spent a chilly winter with my windows never fully closing, before I finally traded him in for ‘Mum’s Taxi’ (red, reliable, easier to spot). She’s served me well through three adolescences as a moving, metal confessional where secrets inadvertently get spilled.
So far Grunting Teen has kept his lips tightly sealed. He doesn’t give much away on our car journeys, just gripping the door handle and occasionally slamming his right foot down in the door well. But he appreciates the lifts so refuses to join his father in laughing at me when I swear ‘car blindness’ is a ‘disability’ not something I have made up.
In the end, I resort to taking photos of where I last parked so I can distinguish ‘Mum’s Taxi’ from all the Doppelgangers on the street. It’s only when the next-door neighbour knocks into me that I realise I’m not the only one suffering from this problem. ‘Can I just get past you to my car?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replies standing up red-faced. ‘Thought I’d dropped some money, that’s all.’
November 5, 2020
Finding the sunshine
This week my inner toddler has a full-blown tantrum at the Tier 3 restrictions and has to be sent to the naughty step to calm down. The trouble is she doesn’t like these strange, new rules and she certainly doesn’t like the word ‘no’ or ‘can’t’.
I mean why can’t she play with her friends anymore? After all, the grown-ups around her get to hang out with theirs. The Nearly-Beloved goes to his Covid-proof office every day where he enjoys civilised conversations with colleagues. And even the teenager gets to exchange daily grunts with fellow adolescence-sufferers. But Toddler-Me is home alone tapping on the computer in the internet-ether with not even a zoom call to break up her routine. It’s got so lonely she’s gone and found herself an imaginary playmate to chat to during her coffee breaks.
By the time the boys come home, she’s desperate for some spoken interaction. But ‘When’s tea?’ and ‘Can I have a snack then?’ is the most that Grunting Teen offers before he disappears to his fetid cave. And for some reason, the Nearly Beloved seems more interested in his FB feed than recounting his day.
He zones out at tales of a solitary trip to the supermarket and the fascinating discussion instigated with the cashier about the political correctness of avocados. Such a pity a queue was forming…
And complaints that mental health is suffering due to lack of human contact are not taken seriously enough. The Nearly-Beloved points out, ‘You can still meet up outside,’ ignoring the fact that today’s forecast is 9C with freezing rain.
But there’s only so much rolling around on the floor and weeping a girl can do so I’ve had to give the toddler a talking to. ‘Time to focus on what you can do instead of what you can’t,’ says the Zen-enlightened version of me from that inner place of wisdom I rarely visit.
‘You can still get a takeaway with household members,’ she reminds us. Inner toddler rolls her eyes. What? With those two witty conversationalists? Zen-Me smiles serenely. ‘At least you won’t have to cook.’ This is very true. A chef-prepared dinner would definitely cheer us up. ‘And then you can donate some of your stockpile of tins to a foodbank,’ she continues. What a great idea. No more corned beef surprises for a while. Everyone will thank us for that.
The toddler wipes away her tears and nods hesitantly. Zen-me is on a roll now. ‘You don’t even have to move from the sofa. After all, it’s the time of year to snuggle up with a hot toddy in front of Strictly and Bake Off. Then you can organise a friends’ zoom get-together to discuss the contestants. Far more interesting than avocados.’
The toddler’s coming out of her paddy. Yes, there are things that she can do. But, wait a minute, On-line meet-ups just aren’t the same as face-to-face. Her lip starts trembling again. Luckily Zen-me has it all figured out. ‘Look, after all those substantial takeaways, and evenings snacking, you’ll be more than happy to go for companionable walks.’
The toddler needs more convincing. It might be warm and sunny in Zen-land. But this is Sheffield. In November. However, the road to enlightenment is layered with thermal underwear, thick sweaters and waterproof trousers. It turns out there’s no such thing as bad weather, just unsuitable clothing. And where there’s a will there’s always a way.
My inner toddler has finally calmed down and is busy drawing. With newly-found Buddha serenity, she reveals her picture of a wonky orange circle to remind us - if you can’t find the sun, then be the sun.
And when Grunting Teen and the Nearly Beloved appear, with stoic stomachs, for their evening meal, there’s no corned beef in their surprise. ‘I’ve donated all the tins,’ I tell them, ‘We’re getting a takeaway tonight.’ And the beams of delight on their faces light up our Corona darkness.
I mean why can’t she play with her friends anymore? After all, the grown-ups around her get to hang out with theirs. The Nearly-Beloved goes to his Covid-proof office every day where he enjoys civilised conversations with colleagues. And even the teenager gets to exchange daily grunts with fellow adolescence-sufferers. But Toddler-Me is home alone tapping on the computer in the internet-ether with not even a zoom call to break up her routine. It’s got so lonely she’s gone and found herself an imaginary playmate to chat to during her coffee breaks.
By the time the boys come home, she’s desperate for some spoken interaction. But ‘When’s tea?’ and ‘Can I have a snack then?’ is the most that Grunting Teen offers before he disappears to his fetid cave. And for some reason, the Nearly Beloved seems more interested in his FB feed than recounting his day.
He zones out at tales of a solitary trip to the supermarket and the fascinating discussion instigated with the cashier about the political correctness of avocados. Such a pity a queue was forming…
And complaints that mental health is suffering due to lack of human contact are not taken seriously enough. The Nearly-Beloved points out, ‘You can still meet up outside,’ ignoring the fact that today’s forecast is 9C with freezing rain.
But there’s only so much rolling around on the floor and weeping a girl can do so I’ve had to give the toddler a talking to. ‘Time to focus on what you can do instead of what you can’t,’ says the Zen-enlightened version of me from that inner place of wisdom I rarely visit.
‘You can still get a takeaway with household members,’ she reminds us. Inner toddler rolls her eyes. What? With those two witty conversationalists? Zen-Me smiles serenely. ‘At least you won’t have to cook.’ This is very true. A chef-prepared dinner would definitely cheer us up. ‘And then you can donate some of your stockpile of tins to a foodbank,’ she continues. What a great idea. No more corned beef surprises for a while. Everyone will thank us for that.
The toddler wipes away her tears and nods hesitantly. Zen-me is on a roll now. ‘You don’t even have to move from the sofa. After all, it’s the time of year to snuggle up with a hot toddy in front of Strictly and Bake Off. Then you can organise a friends’ zoom get-together to discuss the contestants. Far more interesting than avocados.’
The toddler’s coming out of her paddy. Yes, there are things that she can do. But, wait a minute, On-line meet-ups just aren’t the same as face-to-face. Her lip starts trembling again. Luckily Zen-me has it all figured out. ‘Look, after all those substantial takeaways, and evenings snacking, you’ll be more than happy to go for companionable walks.’
The toddler needs more convincing. It might be warm and sunny in Zen-land. But this is Sheffield. In November. However, the road to enlightenment is layered with thermal underwear, thick sweaters and waterproof trousers. It turns out there’s no such thing as bad weather, just unsuitable clothing. And where there’s a will there’s always a way.
My inner toddler has finally calmed down and is busy drawing. With newly-found Buddha serenity, she reveals her picture of a wonky orange circle to remind us - if you can’t find the sun, then be the sun.
And when Grunting Teen and the Nearly Beloved appear, with stoic stomachs, for their evening meal, there’s no corned beef in their surprise. ‘I’ve donated all the tins,’ I tell them, ‘We’re getting a takeaway tonight.’ And the beams of delight on their faces light up our Corona darkness.
October 29, 2020
A husky get-away
This weekend finds us on a long-delayed, Corona-cancelled birthday ‘experience’ for the Nearly Beloved. It’s a welcome chance to escape the city whilst we still can, even if ‘sledding with huskies’ isn’t my ideal break.
But I mustn’t complain, unlike the Nearly Beloved, who wasn’t at all happy with last year’s gift of a ride in a microlite. Thankfully it was a solo trip in what turned out to be a dodgy, flying lawnmower. And we didn’t want a repeat of the dislocated shoulder from indoor skydiving, the paint-balling incident that ended in tears, or the life-flashing-in-front-of-my-eyes moment on the river jeep-safari. I mean I’m not a big fan of animal adventures, unlike my fear-free other half, but life in lockdown needs some spicing up. And what could possibly go wrong?
I wasn’t counting on the great UK segregation system. The night before we leave, South Yorkshire slides into tighter restrictions, meaning household bubbles can no longer mix indoors and more importantly, Grunting Teen can no longer stop over with his big sister. He’s officially too old to need child-care provision but is he old enough to be left on his own?
The boy himself thinks so. But the Nearly-Beloved isn’t convinced. ‘You’ve babied that lad. What’s he going to survive on? He can’t even make toast without setting off the smoke alarm. So, I’m certainly not trusting him with the cooker.’ Grunting Teen rolls his eyes. ‘I’ll have a couple of Pot Noodles,’ he says, ‘and there’s always the biscuit cupboard…’
So, it’s all decided and, whilst Darling Daughter breathes a sigh of relief that she’ll no longer be eaten out of house and home, I stock up the shelves with non-government-dietary-advice goodies.
There’s just time for one more drill on operating the central heating and locking the front door safely before I send the Home Alone child off to school and drag my fellow husky-sledder into the car. ‘He’s got to learn independence,’ I say. ‘and he’s old enough to cope now, isn’t he?’
As we journey on, passing colourful woodlands, the roads are Covidly quiet and the attractions en-route are bereft of tourists. There’s a sense of both autumnal beauty and sadness. But this break is a welcome distraction from the doom and gloom of lockdown life.
Arriving at our destination loud barking greets us. There are eighteen rescue huskies in all. That’s eighteen too many for my liking. But the Nearly-Beloved is in his element, bending down to pat them and get his face licked, whilst I stand trembling, at a virus-friendly distance.
Thankfully, the trainer is both competent and aware and soon puts us at ease. She’s well-informed and conveys her message clearly and concisely. What a refreshing change! By the time she’s finished there is no confusion whatsoever about what we’re expected to do. There’s no ‘mush!’ to get the dogs started. This is just misinformation. Instead the command we need is ‘hike!’ And if we want to slow things down, then it’s just a little squeeze on the brakes and a gentle call of ‘steady,’ whilst an emergency stop calls for a loud ‘whoah!’ and full on pressure.
‘The huskies don’t appreciate it if the instructions aren’t clear,’ the trainer warns us, ‘and if they lose trust in the sledder, it’s hard to win it back. They just do their own thing.’
‘Sounds like my wife’, mutters the Nearly-Beloved, whilst I find myself warming to these intelligent creatures.
She tells us that, like humans, huskies are sociable animals who enjoy company and pine away if left on their own too long. They’re different from other dogs in that they’re creatures of cooperation who will follow orders if they can see the benefits yet are too smart for blind obedience. And usually the lead husky is a female because the whole pack does well when they’re in charge.
I’m starting to like these dogs a lot.
And now it’s time to turn ‘musher’. The Nearly-Beloved, of course, is ‘a natural’ and heads off like a pro into the sunset. He makes it look easy. I reckon I can do this too.
But once the power of the huskies is unleashed, they surprise me with their breakneck speed. I completely forget to steer and find myself careering towards a ditch. In my panic, those oven-ready commands fly out of my head and I shout out an illogical ‘steady-woah-hike-woah-steady’ order that ends in chaos and a near head-dive over the handle-bars.
It seems that being in charge isn’t always as easy as it looks.
And maybe this experience hasn’t been the best for me but there is an end to it and my reward comes later with a relaxing evening in a country hotel.
Returning home, the next day, we find the door unlocked, the central heating on the blink and a smell of burnt toast in the kitchen. We eventually track Grunting Teen down, headphones on, in front of the PS4. The room is littered with discarded biscuit wrappers and coke tins. But, like us, he’s alive and well.
We’ve all survived the experience.
But I mustn’t complain, unlike the Nearly Beloved, who wasn’t at all happy with last year’s gift of a ride in a microlite. Thankfully it was a solo trip in what turned out to be a dodgy, flying lawnmower. And we didn’t want a repeat of the dislocated shoulder from indoor skydiving, the paint-balling incident that ended in tears, or the life-flashing-in-front-of-my-eyes moment on the river jeep-safari. I mean I’m not a big fan of animal adventures, unlike my fear-free other half, but life in lockdown needs some spicing up. And what could possibly go wrong?
I wasn’t counting on the great UK segregation system. The night before we leave, South Yorkshire slides into tighter restrictions, meaning household bubbles can no longer mix indoors and more importantly, Grunting Teen can no longer stop over with his big sister. He’s officially too old to need child-care provision but is he old enough to be left on his own?
The boy himself thinks so. But the Nearly-Beloved isn’t convinced. ‘You’ve babied that lad. What’s he going to survive on? He can’t even make toast without setting off the smoke alarm. So, I’m certainly not trusting him with the cooker.’ Grunting Teen rolls his eyes. ‘I’ll have a couple of Pot Noodles,’ he says, ‘and there’s always the biscuit cupboard…’
So, it’s all decided and, whilst Darling Daughter breathes a sigh of relief that she’ll no longer be eaten out of house and home, I stock up the shelves with non-government-dietary-advice goodies.
There’s just time for one more drill on operating the central heating and locking the front door safely before I send the Home Alone child off to school and drag my fellow husky-sledder into the car. ‘He’s got to learn independence,’ I say. ‘and he’s old enough to cope now, isn’t he?’
As we journey on, passing colourful woodlands, the roads are Covidly quiet and the attractions en-route are bereft of tourists. There’s a sense of both autumnal beauty and sadness. But this break is a welcome distraction from the doom and gloom of lockdown life.
Arriving at our destination loud barking greets us. There are eighteen rescue huskies in all. That’s eighteen too many for my liking. But the Nearly-Beloved is in his element, bending down to pat them and get his face licked, whilst I stand trembling, at a virus-friendly distance.
Thankfully, the trainer is both competent and aware and soon puts us at ease. She’s well-informed and conveys her message clearly and concisely. What a refreshing change! By the time she’s finished there is no confusion whatsoever about what we’re expected to do. There’s no ‘mush!’ to get the dogs started. This is just misinformation. Instead the command we need is ‘hike!’ And if we want to slow things down, then it’s just a little squeeze on the brakes and a gentle call of ‘steady,’ whilst an emergency stop calls for a loud ‘whoah!’ and full on pressure.
‘The huskies don’t appreciate it if the instructions aren’t clear,’ the trainer warns us, ‘and if they lose trust in the sledder, it’s hard to win it back. They just do their own thing.’
‘Sounds like my wife’, mutters the Nearly-Beloved, whilst I find myself warming to these intelligent creatures.
She tells us that, like humans, huskies are sociable animals who enjoy company and pine away if left on their own too long. They’re different from other dogs in that they’re creatures of cooperation who will follow orders if they can see the benefits yet are too smart for blind obedience. And usually the lead husky is a female because the whole pack does well when they’re in charge.
I’m starting to like these dogs a lot.
And now it’s time to turn ‘musher’. The Nearly-Beloved, of course, is ‘a natural’ and heads off like a pro into the sunset. He makes it look easy. I reckon I can do this too.
But once the power of the huskies is unleashed, they surprise me with their breakneck speed. I completely forget to steer and find myself careering towards a ditch. In my panic, those oven-ready commands fly out of my head and I shout out an illogical ‘steady-woah-hike-woah-steady’ order that ends in chaos and a near head-dive over the handle-bars.
It seems that being in charge isn’t always as easy as it looks.
And maybe this experience hasn’t been the best for me but there is an end to it and my reward comes later with a relaxing evening in a country hotel.
Returning home, the next day, we find the door unlocked, the central heating on the blink and a smell of burnt toast in the kitchen. We eventually track Grunting Teen down, headphones on, in front of the PS4. The room is littered with discarded biscuit wrappers and coke tins. But, like us, he’s alive and well.
We’ve all survived the experience.
October 22, 2020
Teething problems
I awake screaming as a thousand hob-nailed boots stamp a River Dance along my jaw line. My impacted wisdom tooth has decided to make its presence known for the second time since lockdown. As time slows down and pain increases, I await with shaking fingers poised to dial the dentist’s surgery. The minute it opens, I’m on the line – a toothache junkie desperate for a hit.
But things have changed since I last met my orthodontist dealer on the street corner. No more shiftily sliding a prescription through the car window with no questions asked. No, now I have to be seen in person. No medication without explanation. But this is a good thing, surely? Maybe the dentist can help me get clean? Maybe I won’t need the hard stuff after all?
So off I go to his drug den with its high security. No entrance without prior permission. Instead, a covert phone call is required to announce my presence and allow me to be buzzed into the building, where I sit in desperation with a fellow masked-sufferer. We avoid eye contact. We both know what we’re waiting for.
Finally, I get to see the Boss. He’s heavily disguised in PPE, making it impossible to pick him out in an ID parade. I wait, quivering on the interrogation couch, for his verdict. It’s not good news. ‘That molar is on its way out,’ he warns. ‘But it’s a specialist job for the big guns at Charles Clifford. In the meantime, I can slip you some antibiotics.’ Trembling, I pay up my NHS dues and sneak out in search of a chemist’s where I trade money for my fix and stock up on some hardcore painkillers.
Back home I wait for the big rush. But it never comes. By the time my son and his father arrive back I’m almost psychotic with pain. Grunting Teen pauses on his way back from the fridge to ask ‘What time’s tea?’ When he gets no reply, he deduces from my delirious expression that the situation is serious. ‘Mum, why’s your face swollen?’ he asks. ‘Yes, you do look a bit like the Elephant Man,’ agrees the Nearly-Beloved cheerily.
He’s not so cheery the next morning as my groans have kept him awake half the night. Now instead of helping me quit the habit, he’s scored me some industrial-strength narcotics from his knee-op two years ago. They come with a government warning and a 3-day maximum usage before addiction sets in.
And how easy it is to get addicted as my agony miraculously vanishes and I float through life in a numb, pandemic-anxiety-free haze. Life is great. Until Day 4. The miracle pills run out, the antibiotics fail to kick in and the spiky River Dancers resume their ceaseless jig around my gums, hammering nails into every nerve ending.
There’s no choice, I’ll have to go back and tell them the truth. I’m having a bad trip. What they’ve given me isn’t getting me high. I need the pure stuff coursing through my veins. But on my return the dentist has transformed from dope-peddler to substance-misuse-worker. He’s all concern and compassion. He’s here to help. But I’m already on the grade 1 antibiotics and there’s nothing stronger on offer. The only solution is to go cold turkey at the dental hospital. ‘I’m sorry,’ he tells me, ‘but due to the current crisis, there’s a backlog of patients, and pain doesn’t move you up the waiting list when there are more life-threatening cases to deal with.’ His face falls. He looks sad. Before I know it, he’s telling me that dentistry’s become the forgotten relative of the NHS, that stringent Corona safety measures mean normal procedures take much longer and that, now, instead of saving teeth, he spends more time extracting them.
‘So, can’t you take mine out then?’ I plead. He shakes his head. ‘Too complicated. You need to do business with the men at the top.’ But he offers advice about cleaning and mouthwash, and phones the clinic to bump me up the ranks. Then he packs me off with a virtual hug and an extra supply of antibiotics in the hope they’ll eventually do the trick. And the fact that he’s genuinely concerned about my well-being and doing his best in difficult circumstances does make me feel slightly better.
When I tell the Nearly-Beloved my cure might take months he pales at the thought of more sleepless nights. He makes enquiries. Money is the answer. And we’re lucky to have that option. The refund from our Covid-cancelled holiday in France will pay for private surgery that can be done next week. But will pain or Yorkshire thrift win out?
Spurred on by the caring dentist and the cost of treatment, I embark on a radical rehabilitation programme. I open up about my predicament on Social Media and am immediately overwhelmed by an outpouring of warmth, affection and good wishes. Intervention is no longer needed. Miraculously, the next day, the pain has lessened. I’m in recovery. Loving kindness is the drug that works for me.
But things have changed since I last met my orthodontist dealer on the street corner. No more shiftily sliding a prescription through the car window with no questions asked. No, now I have to be seen in person. No medication without explanation. But this is a good thing, surely? Maybe the dentist can help me get clean? Maybe I won’t need the hard stuff after all?
So off I go to his drug den with its high security. No entrance without prior permission. Instead, a covert phone call is required to announce my presence and allow me to be buzzed into the building, where I sit in desperation with a fellow masked-sufferer. We avoid eye contact. We both know what we’re waiting for.
Finally, I get to see the Boss. He’s heavily disguised in PPE, making it impossible to pick him out in an ID parade. I wait, quivering on the interrogation couch, for his verdict. It’s not good news. ‘That molar is on its way out,’ he warns. ‘But it’s a specialist job for the big guns at Charles Clifford. In the meantime, I can slip you some antibiotics.’ Trembling, I pay up my NHS dues and sneak out in search of a chemist’s where I trade money for my fix and stock up on some hardcore painkillers.
Back home I wait for the big rush. But it never comes. By the time my son and his father arrive back I’m almost psychotic with pain. Grunting Teen pauses on his way back from the fridge to ask ‘What time’s tea?’ When he gets no reply, he deduces from my delirious expression that the situation is serious. ‘Mum, why’s your face swollen?’ he asks. ‘Yes, you do look a bit like the Elephant Man,’ agrees the Nearly-Beloved cheerily.
He’s not so cheery the next morning as my groans have kept him awake half the night. Now instead of helping me quit the habit, he’s scored me some industrial-strength narcotics from his knee-op two years ago. They come with a government warning and a 3-day maximum usage before addiction sets in.
And how easy it is to get addicted as my agony miraculously vanishes and I float through life in a numb, pandemic-anxiety-free haze. Life is great. Until Day 4. The miracle pills run out, the antibiotics fail to kick in and the spiky River Dancers resume their ceaseless jig around my gums, hammering nails into every nerve ending.
There’s no choice, I’ll have to go back and tell them the truth. I’m having a bad trip. What they’ve given me isn’t getting me high. I need the pure stuff coursing through my veins. But on my return the dentist has transformed from dope-peddler to substance-misuse-worker. He’s all concern and compassion. He’s here to help. But I’m already on the grade 1 antibiotics and there’s nothing stronger on offer. The only solution is to go cold turkey at the dental hospital. ‘I’m sorry,’ he tells me, ‘but due to the current crisis, there’s a backlog of patients, and pain doesn’t move you up the waiting list when there are more life-threatening cases to deal with.’ His face falls. He looks sad. Before I know it, he’s telling me that dentistry’s become the forgotten relative of the NHS, that stringent Corona safety measures mean normal procedures take much longer and that, now, instead of saving teeth, he spends more time extracting them.
‘So, can’t you take mine out then?’ I plead. He shakes his head. ‘Too complicated. You need to do business with the men at the top.’ But he offers advice about cleaning and mouthwash, and phones the clinic to bump me up the ranks. Then he packs me off with a virtual hug and an extra supply of antibiotics in the hope they’ll eventually do the trick. And the fact that he’s genuinely concerned about my well-being and doing his best in difficult circumstances does make me feel slightly better.
When I tell the Nearly-Beloved my cure might take months he pales at the thought of more sleepless nights. He makes enquiries. Money is the answer. And we’re lucky to have that option. The refund from our Covid-cancelled holiday in France will pay for private surgery that can be done next week. But will pain or Yorkshire thrift win out?
Spurred on by the caring dentist and the cost of treatment, I embark on a radical rehabilitation programme. I open up about my predicament on Social Media and am immediately overwhelmed by an outpouring of warmth, affection and good wishes. Intervention is no longer needed. Miraculously, the next day, the pain has lessened. I’m in recovery. Loving kindness is the drug that works for me.
October 15, 2020
Building good relations?
With nights drawing in and little to look forward to, people are hunkering down and making the best of it. On our street this has translated itself into a flurry of home improvements and an army of builders invading the area. Our friendly WhatsApp group has been pinging with messages from various neighbours. They’re terribly apologetic and hope we don’t mind but they’ll be ‘having a bit of work done’ and taking the chance to visit far-flung relatives whilst they still can.
We’re awoken at 6am by the sound of heavy machinery under our bedroom window.
‘Bloody bin men!’ groans the Nearly Beloved, jamming a pillow over his head.
But it’s too early for the refuse lorry and, what’s more, it’s a Saturday. It’s only when the loud clunking of metal hits the road, that I realise a skip has just been delivered.
The skip remains blissfully empty until Monday morning when all hell breaks loose and a team of workmen invade number 12 with drills, wrecking hammers, saws and blaring commercial radio. After two hours I give up trying to work from home and head to the local café with my laptop.
On my return I see the skip is already half-full and console myself with the fact that the worst may be over. But just like promises and politics, hope and reality are very different, and the next morning a second skip is delivered outside number 36, along with a rival gang of builders with their rival radio station on at full blast.
By Friday, number 71 is covered in scaffolding and more music is booming out from the rooftops. It’s alright for the Nearly-Beloved who can escape to the quiet of his office. And Grunting Teen just plugs into his own PS4 soundtrack when he comes home. But out of self-defence, my office has now transferred to the café, which is doing a roaring trade in disgruntled forced-to-work-at-home-by-Covid neighbours.
On the plus side we are all united in our despair at both the constrictions and the construction. The sharp-suited neighbour at number 44 nods sympathetically at me over a latte. ‘Such disruption. As if life isn’t stressful enough in these difficult times.’
‘Well, hopefully there’s an end in sight,’ I reply. And as I walk past a workman filling yet another skip, he gives me a thumbs-up and tells me they should be finished soon. I smile and head up the passageway - too late to hear his warning. ‘Watch out for that hole we’ve dug for the drain…’
But, just like the pandemic, the construction work goes on and on and the relentless banging and drilling has resulted in a continuous headache for me and an escalation of bad temper in the Nearly Beloved. ‘Bloody skips’, he complains, ‘there’s hardly enough room for the car as it is, without those monsters taking up half the space.’
It’s mid-week and I’m limping back from the café with Number 44 who is some kind of lawyer. ‘You could sue them for personal injury,’ he suggests. ‘We’re exhausted by it all too. Thank goodness, we’re off for an extended visit to the grandchildren tomorrow.’
But I’m just happy to know it’ll all soon be over and that the Nearly Beloved will, once again, be able to park in front of our house. He’s been spitting feathers all week.
‘Bloody vans now as well as skips,’ he chunters. ‘How many more workmen can this street take?’
It’s 6 am on Saturday morning and we’re awoken by the sound of heavy machinery under our bedroom window.
‘Bloody skip lorries,’ mutters the Beloved.
‘Well at least that’s the end of it,’ I sigh.
And later that day, the neighbours at number 12 return, delighted to discover the kitchen of their dreams, whilst number 36 wax lyrical about their new ensuite. As for number 71, she’s oblivious to the haggard looks of those she left behind. ‘That was such a stress-free way of having work done,’ she tells me, ‘I just hope that extension they’re starting next week at number 44 isn’t going to be too disruptive…’
We’re awoken at 6am by the sound of heavy machinery under our bedroom window.
‘Bloody bin men!’ groans the Nearly Beloved, jamming a pillow over his head.
But it’s too early for the refuse lorry and, what’s more, it’s a Saturday. It’s only when the loud clunking of metal hits the road, that I realise a skip has just been delivered.
The skip remains blissfully empty until Monday morning when all hell breaks loose and a team of workmen invade number 12 with drills, wrecking hammers, saws and blaring commercial radio. After two hours I give up trying to work from home and head to the local café with my laptop.
On my return I see the skip is already half-full and console myself with the fact that the worst may be over. But just like promises and politics, hope and reality are very different, and the next morning a second skip is delivered outside number 36, along with a rival gang of builders with their rival radio station on at full blast.
By Friday, number 71 is covered in scaffolding and more music is booming out from the rooftops. It’s alright for the Nearly-Beloved who can escape to the quiet of his office. And Grunting Teen just plugs into his own PS4 soundtrack when he comes home. But out of self-defence, my office has now transferred to the café, which is doing a roaring trade in disgruntled forced-to-work-at-home-by-Covid neighbours.
On the plus side we are all united in our despair at both the constrictions and the construction. The sharp-suited neighbour at number 44 nods sympathetically at me over a latte. ‘Such disruption. As if life isn’t stressful enough in these difficult times.’
‘Well, hopefully there’s an end in sight,’ I reply. And as I walk past a workman filling yet another skip, he gives me a thumbs-up and tells me they should be finished soon. I smile and head up the passageway - too late to hear his warning. ‘Watch out for that hole we’ve dug for the drain…’
But, just like the pandemic, the construction work goes on and on and the relentless banging and drilling has resulted in a continuous headache for me and an escalation of bad temper in the Nearly Beloved. ‘Bloody skips’, he complains, ‘there’s hardly enough room for the car as it is, without those monsters taking up half the space.’
It’s mid-week and I’m limping back from the café with Number 44 who is some kind of lawyer. ‘You could sue them for personal injury,’ he suggests. ‘We’re exhausted by it all too. Thank goodness, we’re off for an extended visit to the grandchildren tomorrow.’
But I’m just happy to know it’ll all soon be over and that the Nearly Beloved will, once again, be able to park in front of our house. He’s been spitting feathers all week.
‘Bloody vans now as well as skips,’ he chunters. ‘How many more workmen can this street take?’
It’s 6 am on Saturday morning and we’re awoken by the sound of heavy machinery under our bedroom window.
‘Bloody skip lorries,’ mutters the Beloved.
‘Well at least that’s the end of it,’ I sigh.
And later that day, the neighbours at number 12 return, delighted to discover the kitchen of their dreams, whilst number 36 wax lyrical about their new ensuite. As for number 71, she’s oblivious to the haggard looks of those she left behind. ‘That was such a stress-free way of having work done,’ she tells me, ‘I just hope that extension they’re starting next week at number 44 isn’t going to be too disruptive…’
October 10, 2020
Turning into a caged animal
This is the week when I finally succumb. But is it to Covid or mad cow disease? All I know is that I’m very confused. Lockdown rules seem to change hourly and you need a PhD to make sense of them all. It’s very stressful and the threat of a £200 fine for getting it wrong doesn’t help. It’s no wonder then that the BBC Corona update website now includes calming meditation tracks.
But it’s too late for me. I’m beyond help now. Months of social media bombarding me with conflicting viewpoints has convinced me that either the world is about to end or it’s being run by alien lizards. Maybe Bill Gates has actually managed to plant that micro-chip in my brain, as I now find myself in a David Attenborough wildlife documentary where we’ve all metamorphosed into animals.
Back in March, we experience the zoo conditions of yesteryear, all caged up with no room to move. But then our horizons open up so we can roam unchained once more. We have a sense of freedom. We’re allowed to re-join our packs. And some lucky birds even manage to fly away to warmer climates. But with the news of a further six months of restrictions, a Zoom-based winter and a Grinch-style Christmas, we realise that it’s all been a safari park illusion.
Some more timid, vulnerable creatures are happy to retreat into their enclosures but the young have had enough. Like wild-eyed tigers, cooped up too long, they pace up and down, waiting for a chance to escape. They might be kept in check for now but will the long-term effects be worse than keeping them locked down?
The under-18s can still be controlled. They are the lab rats of this pandemic experiment. Sick specimens can be sent home to be isolated, and as long as the rest are regularly fed and distracted by Tik Tok videos and online gaming, they are happy to run round their familiar maze. But the university primates who trusted their keepers to take care of them, rather than incarcerate them, are now beating their chests and demanding to be set free.
And what of our leaders in this Kafkaesque world? Are they trustworthy sheepdogs herding their flocks to safety? Or are they coiling pythons, squeezing out their victims’ last breath of freedom? Let’s just hope it’s not the lemmings who are in charge, blindly jumping off the cliff top.
As regards the general public, they also divide up into different zoological species. The selfless Emperor penguins huddle together in sub-zero temperatures for collective warmth whilst the hyenas run riot, laughing at authority. And then there are the creatures of the Galapagos, so unaware of any threat that they mill around happily with no concern for the potential danger facing them.
So maybe it is better to stick with our trusted pets? For, closer to home, the domestic animals in my life provide some comfort. The Nearly-Beloved is a faithful guard dog, loyal and true. He’ll always obey commands until his nearest and dearest are threatened - then beware his growling bite. As for Darling Daughter, she’s the feline of the home, happy to purr and curl up on a lap yet careful to retain her independence. Meanwhile Grunting Teen is the family’s hamster, sleeping all day, active at night and forever stuffing his cheeks with food.
Yes, I fear that human life has finally got too much for me. From now on I will have to take my cue from the giant tortoises of the kingdom of beasts. So, I’m just going to stick my head inside my shell and go into a long hibernation. Hopefully when I re-emerge the animals will be leaving the Ark two by two.
But it’s too late for me. I’m beyond help now. Months of social media bombarding me with conflicting viewpoints has convinced me that either the world is about to end or it’s being run by alien lizards. Maybe Bill Gates has actually managed to plant that micro-chip in my brain, as I now find myself in a David Attenborough wildlife documentary where we’ve all metamorphosed into animals.
Back in March, we experience the zoo conditions of yesteryear, all caged up with no room to move. But then our horizons open up so we can roam unchained once more. We have a sense of freedom. We’re allowed to re-join our packs. And some lucky birds even manage to fly away to warmer climates. But with the news of a further six months of restrictions, a Zoom-based winter and a Grinch-style Christmas, we realise that it’s all been a safari park illusion.
Some more timid, vulnerable creatures are happy to retreat into their enclosures but the young have had enough. Like wild-eyed tigers, cooped up too long, they pace up and down, waiting for a chance to escape. They might be kept in check for now but will the long-term effects be worse than keeping them locked down?
The under-18s can still be controlled. They are the lab rats of this pandemic experiment. Sick specimens can be sent home to be isolated, and as long as the rest are regularly fed and distracted by Tik Tok videos and online gaming, they are happy to run round their familiar maze. But the university primates who trusted their keepers to take care of them, rather than incarcerate them, are now beating their chests and demanding to be set free.
And what of our leaders in this Kafkaesque world? Are they trustworthy sheepdogs herding their flocks to safety? Or are they coiling pythons, squeezing out their victims’ last breath of freedom? Let’s just hope it’s not the lemmings who are in charge, blindly jumping off the cliff top.
As regards the general public, they also divide up into different zoological species. The selfless Emperor penguins huddle together in sub-zero temperatures for collective warmth whilst the hyenas run riot, laughing at authority. And then there are the creatures of the Galapagos, so unaware of any threat that they mill around happily with no concern for the potential danger facing them.
So maybe it is better to stick with our trusted pets? For, closer to home, the domestic animals in my life provide some comfort. The Nearly-Beloved is a faithful guard dog, loyal and true. He’ll always obey commands until his nearest and dearest are threatened - then beware his growling bite. As for Darling Daughter, she’s the feline of the home, happy to purr and curl up on a lap yet careful to retain her independence. Meanwhile Grunting Teen is the family’s hamster, sleeping all day, active at night and forever stuffing his cheeks with food.
Yes, I fear that human life has finally got too much for me. From now on I will have to take my cue from the giant tortoises of the kingdom of beasts. So, I’m just going to stick my head inside my shell and go into a long hibernation. Hopefully when I re-emerge the animals will be leaving the Ark two by two.
October 1, 2020
Testing times
These are testing times. As we move one step forwards, cases of Covid start rising and the response is to take two steps backwards. The Nearly-Beloved isn’t impressed. He’s enjoyed being around co-workers at the office. For, with schools finally back, the harassed parents in his team have re-appeared, all smiles and sighs of relief at being able to offload their offspring. Literacy and maths have been handed back to the experts, and kitchen tables have been replaced by ergonomically designed desks. And whilst Zoom meetings have kept them all in touch and up-to-date, face-to-face interaction is still a much-cherished novelty.
As for me, I’ve been delighted to have the house to myself. You see, I’m used to solitary working, so having others invade ‘my space’ for the last six months has at times been trying. Now, when I’m ‘in the flow’, there’s no ‘Mum, I’m hungry. What’s for lunch?’ to disturb me. But could this all be about to change? Will I survive a winter with a husband at home and daily battles over thermostat settings? Domestic tension will surely increase although global warming might well be reduced.
But the Nearly-Beloved’s got used to a wife-free work day and a shop-bought sandwich with no mould or past-its-sell-by-date filling. He’s in love with his industrial-sized photocopier and would happily cast me aside for a filing cabinet and multi-drawer shelf unit. No, unless the building officially closes, they’ll have to drag him back to the marital home.
And so far, Grunting Teen’s survived his first weeks of live-teaching. Some schools have already sent whole ‘year-group bubbles’ home when a single child has tested positive. Surely, it’s only a matter of time before he’s under my feet again and in my fridge? Whilst he seems glad about his return to the classroom, he comes home drained. After all, he’s been used to six months of clocking off at lunchtime, so this new nine-to-three routine is wearing him out.
Luckily, this Yorkshire lass’ home is still her castle. The only problem is that the castle’s fallen into disrepair. Half a year of lockdown has seen no visitors cross its drawbridge and whilst the Nearly-Beloved has manicured the garden to Chatsworthian perfection, the inside is sadly in need of care. It’s not that I never tidy up but it’s been a mainly outdoors kind of pandemic and ‘out of sight is out of mind’.
In fairness the house has been too full of stay-at-homes to facilitate a deep clean. I mean it’s much easier to sweep the dirt under the rug and usher the spiders back into their corners than heave the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard and pull muscles dusting the tops of cupboards.
But autumn is on its way and it’s too cold to entertain outside. More pressingly, a new washing machine’s arriving tomorrow. So, strangers will be setting foot inside and ‘passing judgement’. I put my specs on to view things from their perspective and am shocked to discover the light-grey cushion on the sofa is, in fact, cream-coloured, just coated with thick layers of grime. I immediately don full bio-hazard gear to decontaminate my house of shame.
I’m half-way through hoovering Grunting Teen’s cave of horrors, when my boy staggers through the door. ‘I feel awful, mum,’ he says, collapsing in a cloud of dust, ‘I’ve got a sore throat and a headache. I’m exhausted. I think I’ve got Covid…’
Oh, dear Lord. Surely not! He can’t afford to miss out on any more education.
‘It’s just a cold,’ I tell him, ‘and not being used to a full time-table. You’ll be fine by tomorrow.’
His face falls, and his body conjures up an impression of pathetic limpness. ‘But you’re not meant to send me to school, if I’ve got symptoms,’ he whines. ‘It’s not responsible. I could be spreading the virus. I should get tested…’
I roll my eyes. Tested? He obviously hasn’t been watching any news lately. The chance of getting a test is as likely as the chance of us getting a refund for our cancelled summer holiday. Still, he’s right. I don’t want to get him into bad books, especially if school ends up deciding his GCSE results next summer.
I sit down gingerly on his bed to consult the NHS website. The resulting dust storm has us fighting for breath.
‘Well you may be coughing now,’ I say, ‘but it’s not due to the virus.’
‘But I’m feverish,’ he moans, as I read up on Covid versus cold. It’s a mine-field. No wonder there are queues for testing if we’re meant to distinguish between such similar symptoms. Yet there are some differences…
‘You’re not used to walking so much. That’s why you’re hot and tired,’ I tell him. ‘Go and have a shower and, on your way, put these in the laundry basket.’ I wave a pair of dirty socks in front of his face and, as he recoils at their pungent odour, I confirm my diagnosis.
However, the next morning I remain undecided. Grunting Teen’s still claiming Covid. And I’m not a doctor. What if I’ve got it wrong and sending him to school results in a wave of infections? But then a homework alert pings on my phone.
‘Ah, I see you’ve got a mock Science exam today,’ I tell him as his face pales. ‘I think you’re fine to go to school, don’t you?’
Testing times indeed.
As for me, I’ve been delighted to have the house to myself. You see, I’m used to solitary working, so having others invade ‘my space’ for the last six months has at times been trying. Now, when I’m ‘in the flow’, there’s no ‘Mum, I’m hungry. What’s for lunch?’ to disturb me. But could this all be about to change? Will I survive a winter with a husband at home and daily battles over thermostat settings? Domestic tension will surely increase although global warming might well be reduced.
But the Nearly-Beloved’s got used to a wife-free work day and a shop-bought sandwich with no mould or past-its-sell-by-date filling. He’s in love with his industrial-sized photocopier and would happily cast me aside for a filing cabinet and multi-drawer shelf unit. No, unless the building officially closes, they’ll have to drag him back to the marital home.
And so far, Grunting Teen’s survived his first weeks of live-teaching. Some schools have already sent whole ‘year-group bubbles’ home when a single child has tested positive. Surely, it’s only a matter of time before he’s under my feet again and in my fridge? Whilst he seems glad about his return to the classroom, he comes home drained. After all, he’s been used to six months of clocking off at lunchtime, so this new nine-to-three routine is wearing him out.
Luckily, this Yorkshire lass’ home is still her castle. The only problem is that the castle’s fallen into disrepair. Half a year of lockdown has seen no visitors cross its drawbridge and whilst the Nearly-Beloved has manicured the garden to Chatsworthian perfection, the inside is sadly in need of care. It’s not that I never tidy up but it’s been a mainly outdoors kind of pandemic and ‘out of sight is out of mind’.
In fairness the house has been too full of stay-at-homes to facilitate a deep clean. I mean it’s much easier to sweep the dirt under the rug and usher the spiders back into their corners than heave the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard and pull muscles dusting the tops of cupboards.
But autumn is on its way and it’s too cold to entertain outside. More pressingly, a new washing machine’s arriving tomorrow. So, strangers will be setting foot inside and ‘passing judgement’. I put my specs on to view things from their perspective and am shocked to discover the light-grey cushion on the sofa is, in fact, cream-coloured, just coated with thick layers of grime. I immediately don full bio-hazard gear to decontaminate my house of shame.
I’m half-way through hoovering Grunting Teen’s cave of horrors, when my boy staggers through the door. ‘I feel awful, mum,’ he says, collapsing in a cloud of dust, ‘I’ve got a sore throat and a headache. I’m exhausted. I think I’ve got Covid…’
Oh, dear Lord. Surely not! He can’t afford to miss out on any more education.
‘It’s just a cold,’ I tell him, ‘and not being used to a full time-table. You’ll be fine by tomorrow.’
His face falls, and his body conjures up an impression of pathetic limpness. ‘But you’re not meant to send me to school, if I’ve got symptoms,’ he whines. ‘It’s not responsible. I could be spreading the virus. I should get tested…’
I roll my eyes. Tested? He obviously hasn’t been watching any news lately. The chance of getting a test is as likely as the chance of us getting a refund for our cancelled summer holiday. Still, he’s right. I don’t want to get him into bad books, especially if school ends up deciding his GCSE results next summer.
I sit down gingerly on his bed to consult the NHS website. The resulting dust storm has us fighting for breath.
‘Well you may be coughing now,’ I say, ‘but it’s not due to the virus.’
‘But I’m feverish,’ he moans, as I read up on Covid versus cold. It’s a mine-field. No wonder there are queues for testing if we’re meant to distinguish between such similar symptoms. Yet there are some differences…
‘You’re not used to walking so much. That’s why you’re hot and tired,’ I tell him. ‘Go and have a shower and, on your way, put these in the laundry basket.’ I wave a pair of dirty socks in front of his face and, as he recoils at their pungent odour, I confirm my diagnosis.
However, the next morning I remain undecided. Grunting Teen’s still claiming Covid. And I’m not a doctor. What if I’ve got it wrong and sending him to school results in a wave of infections? But then a homework alert pings on my phone.
‘Ah, I see you’ve got a mock Science exam today,’ I tell him as his face pales. ‘I think you’re fine to go to school, don’t you?’
Testing times indeed.
