Bribing My Way Through Lockdown Days

Half term is always expensive, and turns out it still was, even in lockdown during a global pandemic when we can't really live the house, and certainly not the village. 

How, you ask? 

Well, we have a 'rule' in our household of no devices before 3pm. Mornings, without the discipline of homeschooling, became long voids of time. Gertie met a friend to walk around with for an hour each day. Gilby managed a socially-distanced morning of fishing with a schoolfriend, and Eddie, too young to meet up with a friend independently, read quite a lot of Beano. (A subscription has been his lockdown treat.) What we really needed was structure and purpose. 

So I resorted to bribery - always a parenting win - and came up with a series of half-term 'challenges' with a heirarchy of financial reward. (And before I am judged too harshly, they don't yet get pocket money.) 

The list included poetry and Shakespeare by heart, cooking, DIY, writing, music and sport. 

Gertie learned the prologue to Romeo and Juliet. Eddie learned the first part of Hamlet's 'To Be Or Not To Be' soliloquy - though it sounds funny coming from the mouth of a 9-year-old. We had two three-course-meals cooked for the entire family, and the boys collaborated on writing and recording a song about the foibles of various family members. Several 5km runs were completed in increasingly competitive times, and I got a new birdtable. (To be fair, that birdtable required some intervention from Hearth Father as it was a little more complex than I originally envisioned, but still.)

I am now skint. 

The littler people have decided that challenges are an easier way to earn money than chores. It's a crying shame that they require the extrinsic motivation of a financial incentive to do this sort of stuff. I seem to have created some sort of monster. Easter is only three weeks away. Let's hope we have a few more freedoms. It would be cheaper to go to a theme park or eat out every day. And it might have been cheaper to buy a handcrafted birdtable from an artisan online shop, but never mind. 

Currently reading: A Swim in a Pond in the Rain by George Saunders

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

New Adventures at Layalot Castle

Layalot Castle has been fully renovated since and security stepped up since we were unfortunately visited by Mr Fox back in March.

I have missed the antics of the hens, especially first thing in the morning, but it has been very difficult to track down a supply of new ones during lockdown. Apparently, everyone in Sussex decided that they wanted to keep chickens when the pandemic began, and there was something of a shortage. I had planned to go for chicks and raise them, but we couldn't get hold of any.

So back to rescues. We were hoping for six, but only three arrived: Blanche, Nessie - short for Lyonesse - and Lynette (to continue the Arthurian theme).

Eddie was a little disappointed that they wouldn't eat sweetcorn straight from his hand.

But, aside from being a little timid they seem quite happy so far -and in far better condition than rescues we have had in the past. They have plenty of feathers for one thing. Nessie laid an egg within ten minutes of moving in. But Blanche is the early front runner for ruling the roost. I found her eight feet up on top of our garden wall when I went to put them to bed.

And Gilby made for an excellent hen-whisperer when the girls had no idea how to get back into their coop.

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. 

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

Happy Hour

It was a hot day.

Eddie was a long time in the kitchen and some worrying noises were emanating from behind the door. But he'd only asked if he could help himself to a drink. What could possibly be the issue?

At the point at which my interior monologue was suggesting that I ought to be on the verge of conducting an investigation, he emerged.

'Just making myself a little drink,' he grinned. 'Like I said.'

'MUM!' Gertie yelled. 'Eddie's cut up a lemon with the apple slice!'

You can't argue with his commitment. Though I have no idea where he has the idea that an afternoon refreshment needs to look like something that might be served by members of the Human League in Leicester Square. My similes are a little out of date. Something that would be presented during happy hour in the Atlantic Bar? Just googled that and it apparently closed in 2006. (I don't get out much, these days.) 

But what inspired him? No idea at all. Can't think where he gets it from. Nothing to see here. 

*Whistles innocently.

Carry on Not Camping

Easter 2015 was the time that Hearth-Mother decided it would be a Good Thing to have a camping adventure in the garden.  The little people had been looking for a good excuse to set up their 'dens' and there would be space enough to pitch a proper tent close by. It might even be considered 'glamping' given the proximity and availability of electricity, heat and lighting. She reckoned without the chickens, the commuters on the A29, the three-year-old's tantrum, a snuffling retriever and a Chinook helicopter.

Two sets of our friends are camping this Easter, and reluctant to join in since our last outing two years ago when I had to be chipped from a block of ice in the middle of the night, I thought a garden expedition would be a happy compromise.

It took one evening to pitch the tent so that everything was ready for the following night. Youngest, Eddie, came home from nursery in the filthiest, blackest of exhausted tempers, and refused to wait for his campfire supper. He fell asleep in a stroppy huff on the sofa.  One down.  Not the holiday bliss I had imagined.

Three of the chickens had 'escaped' from and were careering round the garden doing what chickens do, which is mostly to poo everywhere.  Hearth-father thought it was time their wings were clipped again.  My less rational explanation was that the sight of a large purple canvas erection next to their coop was enough to send them on the run.

Kempton got over-excited and got in to the bin, so that as well as chicken excrement, our campsite was also now littered with a week's worth of decomposing rubbish.

We cooked beans and sausages on the campfire, followed by marshmallows. In a fit of guilt at all the fun we were having I decided to wake up Eddie to see if he wanted to join in.  Big mistake. The pre-supper tantrum was just a warm-up for the screaming and relentless sobbing all over the garden he had planned for the rest of the evening.

Just as we got all three sleeping (and overcame the difficulty of Eddie getting his bottom all the way into his sleeping bag) a pair of helicopters decided to circle low over the house with searchlights, so that we felt like we were in the middle of a James Bond film at the very least.

By the time we settled everyone again the roaring traffic of the A29 was just about to begin for the morning rush hour. (Or so it seemed!)  I was under this strange illusion that we lived in a rural area, but it transpires that our main road is more like the M1 first thing in the morning. The over-efficiency of the heater meant that the previous year's defrosting wasn't necessary; in fact we all woke up with a bit of a sweat on.  One that had absolutely no relation to the amount of red wine I felt it necessary to consume in order to sleep five in our four-man tent.

'Again, again!' said the kids in the morning, like demented Teletubbies.

But that nonsense is all over for another year, at least.

(Although I do, inadvertently, appear to have book a yurt for us all to stay in for the Hay Festival next month.  Whoops...)



Currently reading: A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh

Scars, Tantrums and Banishment

Oh.  We are recovering from a row. This is a BAD THING. And I am still nursing the scars from a bouncy-castle related drinking injury at Gertie's birthday party, so feeling doubly wounded.

Have I mentioned recently how 'difficult' Gilby is?  On a scale of one to ten he currently sits somewhere around 'hellish'.  Temper tantrums, an unhealthy preoccupation with the word, 'no', an inability to carry out a task without being distracted by a toy: Eating, dressing, teeth-brushing, putting on shoes...the list of potential clash-points before we have even left the house in the morning is quite...exhaustive.  Sorry: exhausting.

This morning's flashpoint occured in the bathroom.  I have a three strikes rule.  I say 'rule', I suppose it simply reflects the limited amount of patience I possess. Once I have politely requested a course of action twice, I really can't be doing with a third time. So - to cut a tedious story slightly shorter,  I ended up forcibly brushing his teeth for him and then banishing Gilby to his bedroom to calm down.

I went back in to see if he was ready for 'deep breaths and a cuddle' but, no, it was too soon for that.
So, I returned to getting myself ready.  I mostly remember to brush my hair these days, and occasionally find some lipstick to apply badly. It was at this point that Daddy knocked on Gilby's door.  Met with a gruff, "Go away!" he responded with, "Don't worry, Gilby, it's only Daddy."  Don't worry?  DON'T WORRY?  Oh, I see, it's not evil Mummy, it's only Daddy."  Well, I'm afraid I momenarily became 'evil Mummy' until Daddy retracted his statement.  Oh dear.  Was I over-reacting?

And then Gertie decided, inexplicably at that moment, to point out that she hadn't, in fact, had any of her own birthday cake at her party. The cake that I had lovingly laboured over just for her...  It didn't really do a great deal to lower the emotional intensity of the moment.

And all this by 8am, before my day's work has supposedly begun.

Things got better though, and finished this evening with a glass of wine in the garden in glorious evening sunshine. The healing power of sun and alcohol...now only the bouncy-castle scars remain.

The Trials of Chicken-Keeping

We lost two of our chickens on Saturday, waking up in the morning to a vortex of dark feathers blowing around the garden: a sure sign that we had been visited by Mr Fox. Thankfully the evidence was nothing more grisly.

The children were delighted to see so many feathers (Gilby the naturalist has amassed a not-insignificant collection of feathers over his two-and-a-half-years on this earth). I didn't have the heart to explain why they were there, and have yet to make reference to the untimely demise of Gwinny and Nimue, a pair of black cochins who have been laying for about six months. They are survived by Cecily (a pretty Partridge Wyandotte bantam) who doesn't seem in the least bit bothered and is delighted to rule the roost once again.

We generally, though not exclusively, have 'Arthurian' named pets. Vivien (a Rhode Island Red stray rescued by Daddy) and Isolde (another Partridge Wyandotte), met a more dignified end last summer, dying 'peacefully' within a few days of each other.

This was in stark contrast to our first pair: Gertie (a Buff Orpington bantam) and Guinevere (our first Wyandotte). Guinevere came to a very sorry end when she was pecked to death by her 'friend' after just a few days. That was our not-so-happy introduction to smallholding, and a reminder of nature's cruelty. We took Guinevere back from whence she came (to a poultry farmer a few villages away) and swapped her for a pair of Wyandottes. One of whom is the still-surviving Cecily, but the other didn't make it through the first night, as 'something' (a stoat?) tunnelled beneath their little run and got her. We nearly didn't carry on after that.

But I do love the hens running round the garden and the eggs, of course, so we reinforced the run with concrete and chicken-wire beneath, and tried again. The black cochins were the best layers, but they unfortunately insisted on roosting in the trees above the henhouse rather than returning to the henhouse itself of an evening. There seemed to be nothing we could do about it, but we've learned our unhappy lesson and will ensure that any future birds are better trained.

RIP: Gwinny and Nimue

Gilby Dolittle

Gilby is fascinated by The Gruffalo. He would happily have that same story read to him every night, even though he knows it word for word and has fallen asleep on more than one occasion reciting the words aloud. For my own sanity I have to vary the choice of bedtime reading material. The Gruffalo's Child is second choice, not because he loves that story in the same way, but simply for the mention of the hallowed gruffalo itself.

Out walking the dog with me, or accompanying me in the car whilst driving down country lanes, Gilby will insist on searching for snake's log-pile house, fox's underground house and owl's tree-top house, because that way we might come across the gruffalo itself. These will be solemn, whispered, often urgent searches. See, I truly think he thinks that the gruffalo is real.

He definitely has something of the naturalist about him, even at two-and-a-half: he will always pick me flowers (will he still be doing that at fifteen, I wonder?), and can spend an inordinate amount of time appreciating a blade of grass. Today, for example, whilst we were at a birthday party and all the other children were busy on the treasure hunt, his 'treasure' was collecting dozens of sycamore leaves.

But I started to worry when he told me that the owls were 'talking to him' in the night. Was this a dream? I needed to get to the bottom of it. He was quite insistent about it, but wouldn't tell me what they were saying because they were talking to him. He even made the noises for me, which in fairness, were quite owl-like. It was only later when I saw collared doves fly off from roosting beneath his window that I realised it must have been their cooing he meant (not unlike the twit-twoo attributed to an owl.

So he doesn't talk to the animals, (yet), but is certainly convinced that they are communicating with him.

I wonder what that gruffalo will say, if he ever finds it.

It's Such a Perfect Day Until...

Let me paint a picture of the Easter harmony and domestic bliss that issued forth from our home yesterday.

The sun is shining and we are in a kind of paradise, our very own walled garden. The children are having fun and their shrieks and laughter drown out the noise of the traffic from the A29 rushing past, so that you could almost imagine you were really in the countryside.

Both children had a sleep simultaneously following their morning swim, so that I have been able to get lots of housework done and do some of the enormous pile of Easter marking that I have brought home with me, so that I don't have The Guilt, and am actually able to sit outside and enjoy the afternoon.

I am on a sun lounger with a book. And although at 20 weeks I already resemble a beach ball with protruding limbs, my children are not judgemental. They are both smothered in enough factor-bastard suncream to last the England cricket team on an entire tour of Australia, so I don't have to worry about sunburn. Gertie is alternating between bouncing on her trampoline and splashing in the paddling pool with her little brother. We had the foresight to fill it up early this morning, so it is now sun-warmed and a very pleasant temperature. Gilby is content to sit in the two inches of water and steadily empty it out using a variety of plastic cups and containers onto the lawn (recently mown and not entirely overgrown). The bare patches of grass are covered with strips of turf, which, whilst not yet properly laid, at least give the impression of an expanse of green instead of a sea of mud.

The three vines we planted in a fit of optimism are still standing upright in their respective places rather than having been uprooted and dragged across the garden by the puppy as they have been most mornings this week. In fact, Kempton is uncharacteristically restrained, and none of the children's toys have yet been chewed today. She is not bothering the chickens, and the cat, in turn, is not bothering Kempton. The new garden furniture is fully assembled and in a shady part of the garden ready for when we all get too hot later on. It is 'rattan effect' and not the rattan itself that we thought we were buying, but we are over that now.

Peace reigns.

In my head, I hear the strains of Lou Reed: It's such a perfect day/I'm glad I spent it with you....

Gilby decides that he wants to strip off and be a 'nunga punga', and so his sister joins him. Together they run around the garden playing happily and cool off in the water from time to time.

And then, I suddenly hear, "Naughty Kempton, naughty Kempton!" I look up from my book. Something is wrong with the paddling pool. It has gone a funny colour. Strange things are floating in it. What on earth could Kempton have done? And then the truth reveals itself.

I mentally change the words of the song in my head: It's such a perfect day/Until Gilby does a poo...

I'm not sure which was worse; the fact that he did it, or the fact that he tried to blame it on the dog!