Pie in the Ground

Early on in lockdown, on one of those warm, sunny spring days, we were all sitting together in the garden having lunch. 

I can't remember who first looked over to the tumbledown shed in the corner (I had earmarked the space for my shepherd's hut when we first viewed the house, but David Cameron got there first and he doesn't appear on the list of people who I would want to share dreams with) but someone remarked on it. 

The idea of a replacing a leaky building that even the cat shunned on a wet day was born.

'I could have a dance studio!' cried Gertie.

'No - it would have to be a gaming room with a PlayStation.'

'And a chumfy sofa.'

'It would definitely be a spare room for when guests come to stay,' I said firmly - not realising then that people would not be 'staying' anywhere but at home for the forseeable future.

'A bar!' said Hearth Father, with a resounding lip smack, eyes alight.

It seemed that we all had a plan. Except that none of us did. Not really. It was all pie in the sky. (An expression, the origin of which incidentally, I had to look up: From the lyrics of a song called The Preacher and the Slave by Joe Hill in 1911, itself parodying a hymn promising heavenly reward after death. Now used to refer to something pleasant to contemplate but unattainable or unrealistically Utopian.)

And there were so may things in the way of it ever happening. Actual, big things - like an enormous beech tree, a brick wall and the aforementioned dilapidated shed. 

Yet somehow, from those idle words, seven months later 'Saplings' has risen from the ground. It comes complete with dance floor, games console and sofa (that becomes a bed for guests, when at some still far distant point in the future we are able to have such things again).

Tree surgeons, diggers, accidents with ancient walls - all are now a distant memory. 

Hours of impressive work from Hearth Father - groundwork, carpentry, building, roofing, landscaping - with much-welcomed support from good friends have helped the project come to fruition in late Autumn.

He just forgot one thing - his bar.

Cheers!

Currently Reading: A Portrait of a Lady by Henry James

Lockdown Letter

One of Eddie's homeschooling activities this week was to write a letter. He will be heading into Year 4 in September, and the idea was to introduce himself to his new new teachers.

He carefully drafted the letter in his notebook, then borrowed my typewriter to type it up. He seems fascinated by the 'instant' nature of the typewriter, in comparison to the laboriousness of having to wait until the end of wordprocessing something to print it off and get the hard copy in your hands.It's an interesting perspective.

Anyway, here's the finished version.

Now, as an English teacher I'm very happy with the layout and paragraphing. Nice work there, on the whole.

I'm less excited by the unintentionally ironic misspelling of 'literacy' in identifying it as his favourite subject.

Then there is the gradual fading out of capital letters and punctuation (some of which can be blamed on the typewriter - it's a temperamental old thing) and the allergy to spaces between words at times.

But I can let those go. 

I'm more bothered by the fact the implicit suggestion that his mother is weird, he's being 'left behind' at school and that he has the onerous task of feeding the cat and dog, as though he lives in some form of Victorian workhouse. The idea that sleeping on a sofa is a particularly human characteristic that the dog has adopted is also a tad troublesome. 

For the record, the chicken run is now a peaceful, harmonious - it just took a few days for the pecking order to be established! (Blanche is in charge, in case you were wondering.)

Currently reading: A Journal of the Plague Year by Daniel Defoe

Bubbled School Days

Life has returned to normal, somewhat, for Gilby and for Hearth Father. Gilby is back at school for four days a week, and Hearth Father back at work full-time after being furloughed in April and May. 

The rest of us are still, for the most part, stuck at home. 

Gertie goes out occasionally to meet one friend. Eddie is too little, still, to be able to do this. Excitement for him comes in the form of being able to go to the shop once a week, alone, to buy some sweets or chocolate. On his last visit a man 'was quite old and a bit confused and wasn't able to properly socially-distance,' he explained. Given that the pubs have only just reopened and the local is next door to the shop, I expect I know the reason for his confusion. Football training returned last week for both boys. In 'bubbles' of five, maintaining two metres distance at all times, each child with their own ball.

Socially-distanced football training

I escape into school occasionally for a meeting with parents - in the open air - or a meeting with teachers. I have not been assigned to operate a bubble at school because I have two children of my own at home. My teaching is all online - through a blog and Google Classroom, with a few 'live interactions' via Google Meet or Teachstream through the week. The days beat out to a different rhythm, punctuated now by the additional demands of  'staggered' drop-off and pick-up times for Gilby. 

As a Year 6 student Gilby could have returned on the 1st June. We waited a couple of weeks and sent him on the 15th June - time for the dust to settle on new systems.  As well as the variations to the start and end of the school day, I have to wash his uniform every night to 'decontaminate'. He has had his leavers' assembly - split into three celebrations with the maximum fifteen students spread out on chairs two metres apart in the hall - where he received a dedicated copy of the Bible along with a virtual handshake. This was videoed for parents and sent out as a YouTube link. The moments of Gilby holding the candle and doing a reading didn't make the final cut.  Fridays are reserved for teachers to make their Zoom calls to other students and set on-line work, so it is a four-day week in school.

A new suit for the Year 6 prom

A socially-distanced 'prom' has been organised for the Year 6s for next week. Pupils must bring their own food and drink, and only one parent is able to drop them off. At the suggestion of the school, Gilby has also taken in a polo shirt for his fellow students to sign - in a sealed bag that can only be opened after seventy-two hours.

They play cricket each day, with two balls; one dropped into a bucket of disinfectant each time it is played - touched by the bowler and a single fielder before being thrown to the teacher and cleaned while the other ball goes into play. 

There is no interaction with anyone outside of Gilby's bubble. It seems a strange way to end primary school, but perhaps better than no ending at all, which is what it looked like back on Friday 20th March when they were sent home for what we thought might be the final time this academic year.

Currently reading: The Illustrated Pepys From the Diary, Edited by Robert Latham

Empty Playground

I had to drive past the boys' primary school yesterday, and noticed how overgrown the empty, cordoned off playground opposite looked. The last time we were there was the last day of school, Friday March 20th. We didn't know if it would end up being Gilby's last day at primary school or not (though we are choosing not to send him back on Monday; can't bring myself to do that while people are still dying in their hundreds) and the atmosphere was very weird. It got me writing again - and thinking about how the plague preyed on play.

The Lowdown On Lockdown Birthdays

We've had three, so far: Hearthfather's, mine and Gertie's. That would be Gertie, who somehow while I wasn't looking, has just become a teenager.

So we are getting quite good at lockdown celebrations as we have had quite a bit of practice. There are a few rules:

• The birthday girl or boy gets to choose the structure of the day and everyone has to go along with it. 
• Lockdown birthdays really ought to last for two days rather than one
• There are more family presents than usual.

So, inevitably, we each went for something different in terms of the 'structure of the day'.

Hearthfather went for

• a lunchtime beer 
• a family Zoom quiz (he won on a bonus question, supplied at the last minute, to ensure that result)
• a takeaway curry.

His was quite early on in lockdown days, and the Indian restaurant (that we are relatively frequent patrons of ordinarily) actually let us have a beer while we waited to collect the curry. And brought some poppadoms to the table. It almost felt like going out. As in olden days. But not quite. Because it also felt quite naughty. But nice.

Mine involved

• no Zooms whatsoever, on pain of death
• a cycle ride 
• a disco. 

I realise that final bullet point requires some explanation. It was a disco for five people. At home. (With rather excellent disco lighting that we have now permanently installed in the sitting room.)

I have decided that this is by far and away the best format for a disco. I could dance like nobody was watching, because, really - they weren't. We went beyond 'air guitar' and mimed with actual guitars. And it was actually enormous fun - we partied until after 10pm. Yes, 10pm. Gilby took himself off to bed just before and Eddie had to be carried up, floppy and exhausted, like back when he was a toddler. Even Gertie got involved. (It was before she became a teenager though.)

Gertie chose

• a family Zoom quiz (which she won by a country mile, not needing the bonus question)
• separate social distanced doorstep deliveries from friends who had baked cookies and a cake
• a takeaway pizza

And what a cake!  We are still eating it. Apparently it feed 30-35. It's not really helping the lockdown diet terribly much.

Gilby is eleven in July and Eddie's is not until September, so there is a bit of a lull now. Eddie has his heart set on Harry Potter World. Fingers crossed.



Currently reading: The London Train by Tessa Hadley

Unexpected Benefits of Lockdown #23

I don't know if it is 'number 23', but there have definitely been plenty of unexpected benefits to the strange state of affairs that Covid19 has brought about.

Until this afternoon, we had a bright pink carpet in the dining room.

I hate it.

I have hated it since we first viewed the house. I have no idea what might have compelled anyone not on drugs to make this choice in their actual home. In a bedroom of an elderly aunt, maybe, thirty years ago. Certainly not in a DINING ROOM where actual people might actually see it.

But, worse, this was evidently relatively recently fitted. It was in 'good' condition. Like new, in fact. There were more urgent jobs when we moved in. I am famous for my big plans and shallow pockets. Other things had to come first.

And so the pink carpet remained.

For THREE YEARS.

It has tormented me at least daily. Mostly early mornings, when I come down before everyone else is up and rage at it, silently. Sometimes, when it is covered in Kempton hair when she is being particularly moulty, and I have to vacuum three times a day, then I rage out loud.

We have talked occasionally about putting some tiles down. And now seemed like a good time. Hearth-Father has plenty of time on his hands, for once. (At least three more weeks of lockdown, as was announced today.) So he spent a good four hours measuring up, researching tiles and grout, comparing prices. The time really had come. We had made a decision on the very tiles (or at least narrowed it down to three), when he pulled up a corner of the carpet to see what lay beneath...

...to discover the most glorious, perfectly intact parquet flooring.

Look at it!  Just look at it. Why would anyone cover that up? And why would they cover it with pink?

It rather changed the whole complexion of an otherwise quiet afternoon. Suddenly it was all hands to the deck, so to speak: now the dining room gets a spring clean, we get a new floor, and it hasn't cost a penny.

Gertie, Gilby and Eddie are providing the labour.

Well, mostly Gilby and Eddie, to be fair. Gertie is 'a bit busy', and (evidently practising for becoming a teenager next month), now sees 12pm as an outrageously early time to be out of bed.

As you were.




Currently reading: The Volunteer by Jack Fairweather

John Pidge Reporting For Duty

We are very lucky to have a large garden, which has meant that we really have stayed at home for the last three weeks. Hearth-Father has done our shopping, and I have taken the dog for a short walk most days.

The kids actually haven't been anywhere at all since schools closed. Gilby came with me on a short dog walk for the first time in the week and returned home boasting to his siblings, 'I've walked on actual pavement!'

So life beats to a far gentler rhythm. But there have been some home improvements. Or at least some gardeny ones: the lockdown has thus far generated a new garage roof, a revitalised rockery and a reseeded garden lawn. 

(The proposed 'deep clean' of the house room by room has temporarily been put on hold due to inclement weather. Inclement weather for cleaning the house, that is - it's been glorious in sunny Sussex, so all activities have been directed outside. Not complaining.)

But the pigeons, it has to be said, are no great respectors of a reseeded lawn. In fact, given the numbers in which they are congregating (with no regard whatsoever for social distancing), I can only conclude that it must simply look like a luxury banquet of the pigeon variety. We have had trouble keeping them off and trouble keeping Hearth-Father calm as he sees his work undone and flaps around the garden chasing them off.

Enter John Pidge, as our scarecrow has been affectionately named.

Although he may display a 'touch of the Isadora Duncans' as one FB friend kindly put it, he did take a morning's enthusiastic creating and was installed at around midday yesterday.

And Hearth-Father has just returned from his morning pitch inspection with a broad smile and a thumbs up, so our new family member must be doing his job. 'Outstanding,' is the verdict.

Currently reading:  Can you ever forgive me? Memoirs of a Literary Forger by Lee Israel. 

To Her Adjusting Husband

Hearth-father has been backwards and forwards to work from time to time, when he hasn't been able to work from home, but mostly he has been here, self-isolating with the rest of us.

It's me who's been getting out to walk the dog daily, visit the chemist for prescriptions, get the essentials from the little supermarket at the end of the road. Me, therefore, who has seen ordinary things daily metamorphose since this 'not-lockdown lockdown' began two and half weeks ago, and accepted them without question.

It, was, therefore, something of a surprise when Hearth-father decided to come with me to walk Hearth-dog, and seemed unaware of how some of the basic 'rules' had changed.

So this comes with enormous apology to Andrew Marvell.

To Her Adjusting Husband

In this new world of ours, no time

to learn, husband, etiquette crime.

We must work out, and think which way 

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

To walk though, is complicated.

Our destination located

by public Station Road Gardens

Where people are; begging pardons.

Why is that gate left wide open,

you complain.  I sigh. You slope in.

(You haven't been out in ten days

- folk have already changed their ways.)

Because people are hoping not 

to touch I say, and dance gavotte

around the offending handle

trying not to be a vandal.

Let’s walk this way you enthuse

and are surprised when I refuse.

A one way system operates

while round this path we circulate

in wide two metre interval

giving good berth in principal

that we not pass by our neighbours,

make inadvertent germ transfers.

I see, you say. Is there a sign?

(How big a sign would you design?

I think, but do not out loud say.)

And we pass further on our way.

What's up with her? Her face so long, 

vaster than empires and more wrong.

Well, you should have moved out and slowed.

She had to step out in the road.

How can I tell it should be me?

She's older than you. So you see,

It’s your responsibility.

On age at least we can agree.

      But at my back I always hear 

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

For one short hour is all allowed

that public space not overcrowd.

Process of self isolation 

not be taken like vacation.

At home, first task is wash our hands.

Still he argues, not understands.

We haven't touched a single thing.

But that's the world we’re living in.

The grave’s a fine and private place, 

But none, I think, do there embrace.

     Now therefore, while we can't meet

with family just up the street,

we FaceTime to communicate.

here, husband’s in his element.

And while his willing soul transpires, 

it isn't what my heart requires.

Conversations with no concerns

to play by the rules and take turns,

all talking at once right over 

each other so that thoughts devour.

A tiny screen split into four: 

three heads in each, and maybe more.

It clefts my skull. I cannot take 

the demands on me that it make.

But that's the world we’re living in;

somehow I rise above the din.

I see I am learning to hew

a new type of etiquette too.

    Thus, though coronavirus stun

our lives, yet we will make it run.


I'm very much struggling with the compulsion for everyone to 'Zoom' and 'HouseParty' the whole time, as the final part makes clear. But we all have our crosses to bear.


Currently reading: Mothering Sunday by Graham Swift.

Covid Sleep

We had some very uncharacteristic night terrors in our house the night before last. 

Eddie took the best part of an hour to properly wake up and shrug off whatever it was that he was frightened off. That it was something indescribable and invisible that made a big noise was about as much as I could discern. He kept trying to leap out of the way of it, and wouldn't let go of me.

It's a scary time for the little people, but I posted a poem called 'Covid Sleep' on Facebook and the comments made me realise what a scary time it is for the big people, too. Plenty of my friends wrote of their own nightmares in recent weeks.

Currently reading: Hamlet by William Shakespeare

Unexpected Benefits of Lockdown

Like most families we have had to quickly establish a home-working routine that suits everyone, and thereby create some structure to our locked-down days.

Last week I managed at home by myself and had to multi-task my way through teaching my students alongside my own children, while Hearth-Father tied up things at the garage.

There were some noteworthy achievements during that time, though. I finally rediscovered what the bottom of the laundry basket looks like. It isn't a black hole, after all, though most reports put its last sighting back in 2006, before the advent of children.

My brother-in-law was rude enough to suggest that the image had been photoshopped. As though my photoshopping skills were superior to my laundry ability. In true, Hollywood ending, socks long consigned to the 'odds' basket have been happily reunited with their once forlorn partners.

Not that there is anywhere to put all this newly laundered stuff. Turns out, if it's all done at once then it doesn't actually fit into the available wardrobes and drawers. Who knew?

We have managed two family facetime calls in the last fortnight, with four households tuned in simultaneously, joining Sussex, Surrey and Dorset. We didn't quite get the Isle of Man contingent online at the same time, but will try again with that next week.

Another highlight was that Gertie and Gilby baked bread. Together. Unprompted. Almost harmoniously. Or at least as if they quite liked each other. Ok, so it didn't quite rise as they might have hoped, but still. We chewed gratefully, if for longer than expected.

And brand new horizons have been reached today; while I merrily created resources for several different year groups for home learning this morning, half the lawn was dug up ready for reseeding. Oh yes. Hearth-Father has been very busy indeed. I shall have to get over myself and forgive the radio blaring all day long that has accompanied his labours.

Currently reading: The Female Persuasion by Meg Wolitzer

Lockdown

I wrote a poem called 'Lockdown'.  Apparently the poet laureate did, too, so that's not very original. He published his last week, though; so much quicker off the mark than me. But then he's poet laureate. 

Lockdown

The thermometer thrives in the fruit bowl. 

It has moved from the anonymity

of the bathroom cupboard and has new status.

There’s daily disorder while the new world 

order works itself out. What is essential?

Narrowing of horizons on all sides;

as the requisite distance further widens.

We find new fulcrums on which to pivot.

Lines are marked out for us to stand behind,

that were not there before. Along the line 

much is online and that line must be toed.

Solidarity gestures remotely 

jostle with unhealthy suspicion of 

strangers given wide berths. WhatsApp, on tap, 

alerts to the communal carers’ clap.

The pace of change has infected us all.

A nation’s febricity rises into

unsettling peace. I reach for an apple.

Ted Gooda

March 2020

Currently reading: Reading Poetry by Tom Furniss and Michael Bath

(Which is what has prompted today's burst of creativity.)

Ready for Reading - Covid Time

Schools closed yesterday.

Now we prepare for 'remote learning' to begin. Eddie and Gertie have stocked up their shelves with books to read, while Gilby prepares to do plenty of garden football challenges.

I sometimes wonder why two out of the three are readers. In a way they all are, but Gilby prefers sporting autobiography while the others are happy with a novel. And he has to be coerced into reading while the others snatch every available opportunity.

Though Gilby was game enough to go to school as a female book character for the second year running on World Book Day. This time as 'Gangster Granny' (last year he was The Boy in the Dress). My pearls and high heels did not survive the day.

In an online 'decluttering' (now that there is covid-time to do that sort of thing) I found this video clip of an early reading session:

Eddie is four, I think (though he is so small that he seems younger), and Gertie must be eight.  I love that Gertie gets a little bit cross with her brother for not finishing a word, and that he seems incapable of sitting still, even for a second. Still, some early seeds of reading love were being sown in both directions.

Four years later Eddie's working his way through the third in the Harry Potter series and begging me to buy him a wand.

'Twelve pounds for a stick?' was Hearth-father's unimpressed response. I think remote learning day two might involve whittling a wand from oak.




Currently Reading: The Heart's Invisible Furies by John Boyne