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.
