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

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.

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

Silverware Wars and Sporting Firsts

There were proud moments at the weekend, as Hearth-Father and Gilby strode out onto a cricket pitch together for the first time, playing in a friendly game for Ladymead, versus Ockley.

Gilby was a little bit nervous, he confided in me on the way to the match. "And I don't think I want to bowl."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm nine and they're men!"

Fair enough. He did, though, and bowled a maiden for the final over. And at one point there was Hearth-Father, Hearth-Uncle and Gilby all in the slip cordon. Not sure how many more times that might happen.

(Now I'm looking forward to stepping out onto a stoolball pitch with Gertie for the first time ever tomorrow night. Come on the weather!)

(*Edit: This did happen! And we batted out the final overs together, me 26 not out, she 5 not out. Dream team!

)

But the cricket wasn't the best bit about Gilby's day. The best bit was being awarded player of the year for the second year running for his football team. It was totally unexpected - especially as I had been suggesting that since he won it last year they would probably share things about a little to give another player a turn. Apparently not.

When he walked off the cricket pitch after three hours of fielding his little face lit up when he remembered the morning's silverware that he had entirely forgotten about in his state of concentration. It's fair to say he slept well on Sunday evening.

Meanwhile, Gertie and Eddie were in action at a dancing competition on Saturday. For the first time ever, Eddie came home with more silverware than his sister. (She's in the top grade and he's still classed as a beginner, but we'll ignore that...)

A wonderful way to end the half-term break. Roll on summer.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

Steven Gerrard Ate My Sausages

Getting to bed at a respectable 2am after seeing in the new year with friends and family, it is fair to say that I was nursing the suggestion of a teensy-tiny hangover first thing.  Given that I was clearly in the lower magnitude on the Richter scale of hangovers, and was not the only sufferer, discussion at the in-laws this morning focused on the merits or otherwise of different hangover cures. It is worth stating here that Hearth-Father visited the opticians yesterday. I am beginning to wish he had had his ears tested instead. For 'bacon sandwich', that well-known remedy, he heard 'baby cabbage'.

Even as a vegetarian I think I know which I would prefer.

The inclement weather meant that this new year's day has definitely been one for 'plotting up', a favourite expression in our household, rather than going out. I have thereby discovered that it is actually fun spending time with members of my family. Eddie has been running round earnestly completing pages of his 'Wreck This Journal', a lucky, last-minute choice by Santa, as it turns out. Gilby, obsessed by the trials and tribulations of Tom Gates has also begun keeping a journal of his own. Today's entry was entitled 'Steven Gerrard ate my sausages' which is an inspired interpretation of the morning's events.

I won't spoil the mystery by explaining exactly how that came about; suffice to say that is is, in a sense, accurate, (not the Steven Gerrard, obvs) and provides an excellent, if somewhat obscure, title for a blog post.

There has been some new year's brotherly love. I'm not panicking, it's bound not to last, but I enjoyed it nonetheless:

I spent two hours in the bath reading Anna Karenina, which means that I might just about have finished it in time for new year 2018 - but what luxury. Turns out you can do that sort of thing on New Year's Day. And Arsenal won, helped by a blinding goal from Giroud. Happy new year one and all.

On Reading

What if the English teacher, reading researcher and four-book-club member produced a non-reading child?

Gertie reads for England. I can't stop her. It causes late nights and all pocket money spent in the Lions charity bookstore. Thank goodness for them.

Gilby has to be bribed. Literally. Like - 'If you read me a chapter then you can watch another match on Match of the Day' (or play FIFA for half an hour, or anything else football related.)

Though I did catch him doing this:

Which I suspect means that he will take after his father in terms of reading habits.

Currently reading: Pica by Jeff Gardiner

January Blues

Hearth-Father is in the throes of some sort of mid-life crisis.

We have a rowing machine in our bedroom.

Alcohol is but a distant memory, 'carbohydrate' has become a dirty word, sugar is the devil's work.
In a thank you letter to friends who invited us for supper last weekend, I felt the need to apologise for our 'uncharacteristic sobriety' and promise that it wouldn't happen again. 'Microbiome' has entered our vocabulary.

In the sixteen years that we have been together I have never known Hearth-Father come home from work and not have a glass of cider. Men's Health magazine has a lot to answer for.

Time to take stock as we near the end of our self-imposed Dry January.

I should be pounds heavier in the bank from all of the money saved from not buying wine. Surely?
I should be pounds lighter in the flesh from all the healthy eating...?

Neither.

And, for some reason, I seem to shout at the kids more.

Roll on February.



Currently reading: The Gut Makeover by Jeanette Hyde (in keeping with the theme)

On Dressing Up...And Underestimating Dad

October and November have been turbulent and travel-filled.

I returned last weekend from ten days in Uganda, where I was 'on duty' over half term with a group of Year 11 students.  The trip itself was amazing, but the logistical arrangements to enable it to happen - over a period of holiday for the kids with Hearth-father working - were quite spectacular.

Shaded into the shared google-spreadsheet(!) were the swimming lessons, football club, Irish dancing workshops and nursery sessions with clear instructions about who was picking up whom and when.  Secreted into last weekend with little discussion or preparation was a Halloween Party in fancy dress.

Above is what he pulled off! Most impressive was the make-up. Clearly my services were not required. Note to self: go away more often...

 What a fearsome trio they make!

Eddie insisted on coming to meet me in his full 'bat' gear - which look slightly less devilish at 9am on a bright November morning.

But it was rapid change into the Ugandan away kit, so that the 'Uganda Boys' can continue to train this season:

And later that afternoon, Nano returned from her even more far-flung travels - with some pyjamas from Hong Kong:

 So, my return had a rather theatrical feel to it all.  I wonder where they get it from?




Currently reading: The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters

How Not To See Your First Football Match

Gilby is a football fiend.

He can't walk past anything that doesn't have foundations without kicking it to try and score. His first love is Arsenal. He has the kit; he has the pyjamas; he has the Arsenal football.

His sixth birthday was a football party - complete with full size pitch and coach.

He has begun playing for a local club, and his school coaching is done by the Albion in the Community team from Brighton and Hove Albion football club.

But he had, until last weekend, never been to a 'real' game.  (Sorry, Hearth-Father, Sunday morning veterans doesn't count...)

At the final cricket game of the season (a tense few weekends when the cricket and football seasons overlap) I happened to mention that I was trying to get tickets for a local game.

'Why don't you and Gilby come and enjoy the hospitality of my private box for the next Brighton and Hove Albion home game?' offered the president of the cricket club.  Now, there's an offer you can't refuse.

So, off we went - for my first visit to the magnificent AMEX Stadium (saw a few games at the Withdean, but it's been a while), and Gilby's first Championship game.

Now - there were a few rules. It's smart in them there private boxes, so no team shirts and no trainers.  And we had to arrive two and a half hours early in order to enjoy the three course meal...

We were presented with a complimentary programme on arrival.  Waitresses brought drinks directly to us,  and the view from the table was magnificent.

What's more, Brighton's Hemed scored in the opening five minutes after a shot by Dale Stephens was blocked just before. For the first fifteen minutes Brighton dominated and it was all very exciting.  Bobby Zamora came on right at the end for his first appearance at home for his old club in twelve years. The crowd were suitably appreciative, and Gilby was well aware of Zamora as a player from his premiership days. Brighton won 1-0, and whilst the rest of the game didn't quite live up to the pace and promise of the start, the sun shone and it was a fantastic afternoon.

For Brighton it was always going to be a special day - tinged with sadness as the club paid tribute to two of their own lost in the Shoreham air disaster three weeks before.

It was moving and fitting - both solemn and celebratory.

And the Brighton win meant that the club were four points clear at the top of the table. And what did Gilby do at the final whistle? Phone his father, breathless with excitement, to proclaim that, 'We won!'. What happened to my little gooner?

For one six year old boy, a truly unforgettable day. (Even if he did think the mascot looked more like a duck than a seagull.)

And he's in for a shock the next time he goes to game and has to make do with a seat in the stand and a pie...


Currently reading: The Ocean At The End Of The Lane by Neil Gaiman.

In the Swim of Things

Eddie has a weekly swimming lesson, and has done since he was about six weeks old. The word 'lesson' here is used in its loosest possible sense, and it's fair to say that he hasn't taken to the water like the proverbial duck. Thursday mornings have the potential to be a very stressful affair.

So, when he announced last Thursday that he wanted to get himself ready for swimming in advance, the suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Hearth-father. Perhaps this might be a 'good' swimming day.

All was quiet upstairs for a while before Eddie marched down proudly, fully dressed but pulling his shirt buttons apart in the manner of Superman (Eddie is obsessed with superheroes; Batman and Spiderman are his current favourites) so that it was plain to see that he was already sporting his all-in-one swimsuit beneath.

Behaviour was bordering on enthusiastic, and it meant that exit from the changing rooms to poolside was unusually speedy and hassle-free. The chickens were lining themselves up to be counted.  The lesson passed without a tantrum, and Eddie even did some of the things that his teacher told him to.

But there was a problem. Hearth-father realised that, following Eddie's self-selected sartorial arrangements, he had neglected to bring along a pair of pants for Eddie to change back into after his lesson.

"Don't worry, Daddy," Eddie piped up unperturbed, "I kept my pants on underneath my swimsuit..."

Perhaps it's a superhero thing.




Currently reading: The Book of You by Claire Kendal