We have had yet another sunny and frustrating few days. Frustrating, of course, because we cannot leave home. We went shopping to Lidl on Wednesday afternoon, the theory being that most people would be sitting in their gardens enjoying the sunshine. We were right: there were only about six people in Lidl and we fulfilled our order quite well. The only thing we could not get was flour. Perhaps things are improving. There is a lot of speculation on how long lockdown must last, based on mathematical models and data drawn worldwide, but it is far too early to favour any one prediction. Of course Boris, his Health Minister and the Chief Medical Officer all have the virus now, not to mention the Prince of Wales. No discrimination here, but lots of irony.
Jane kept me busy last week. Any thought of gentle days in isolation doing – well – not much of anything was extinguished. On Wednesday I was turned to spray painting the garden fence – an awful job that I have been putting off for over a year. To be fair, Jane took on the worse job of masking off the upper trellis to prevent surplus spray hitting the drive or neighbours. She does not have the standard redhead’s temper, but she really lost it this time: the wind blew the paper off, the tape stuck to itself or would not tear, and someone accidentally sprayed her with fence paint (Medium Oak in colour, as you ask). Then a union loosened on the spray gun and brown stain spilled all over the patio, necessitating a rapid deployment of the hose (which was not turned on at the main) and a pantomime worthy of the Marx Brothers. So now we have a brown fence, a suntanned patio, and a freckled wife (who looks rather cute).
Thursday was “wire up the pyracantha day”, involving the fitting of sturdy 3mm wire rope to ring bolts in our brick garden wall to hold up the aforementioned vicious shrub. A previous arrangement, using garden wire and ring bolts, came apart during strong winds this winter (the wind pulled the bolts out of the brick). I was dreading this job even more than the fence spraying. You see, as I have undoubtedly stated before, Jane’s garden hates me. Honestly, it really does. I pass through that garden, or even walk on the garden path, and it is like The Day of the Triffids out there. Roses snag me, hawthorn slashes me, pyracantha impales me, and the very earth coats me in filth. Even the benign plants get at me by passive innocence, because every time I step on a flower bed there is usually a crunch or a squelch from a squashed item of flora and a sharp reprimand from the Head Gardener. Given all that, you can imagine how climbing into a full flower bed next to a well-established pyracantha, armed with a power drill and several metres of wire went. I am scarred for life and we ran out of some fittings, but most of the job was done though I was shattered. Another three months of this and I will be very fit or totally exhausted. I understand that she wants us to paint the garden shed tomorrow. I have known Chief Boatswain’s Mates with less energy.
Returning to the present, we managed another good walk in the countryside and sunshine yesterday, strolling (as required) straight from home. We met no one on the walk except a farmer in his tractor, who thanked us for walking round the edge of his field rather than pedantically taking the correct path that went straight across his crops. The birds sang in the trees, the sun shone, and it was good to be alive. We managed seven (felt more like seventeen) miles on the circular walk and oozed smugness on completion. We did treat ourselves to a sensible cup of tea on return, closely followed – after the evening shower and change into Night Clothing – by a refreshing glass of rosé. It was, after all, Friday and – hence – the start of the weekend when all self-imposed prohibition restrictions are lifted.
Thinking of the present crisis, it surprises me that, so far, we have not seen the return of those hallowed wartime phrases such as, “Don’t you know there’s a war on?”, “Closed for the Duration”, “Make Do and Mend” and “Put that light out”. I already have a mug that says, “Keep Calm and Carry On”. All would be applicable except, perhaps the penultimate one, though I’m sure we could fit that in somehow – if only to satisfy the climate change lobby. Much to my surprise, Barsetshire police is enforcing the self-isolation rules quite rigidly: road checks have been established and people in cars have been challenged as to their destinations; cars towing caravans have been turned back; people have been told that it is not acceptable to drive to a beauty spot and park their car in order to exercise in the countryside – they must exercise direct from home. Actually, I think that that is over-zealous: it would be far safer and beneficial to walk on the Barsetshire fields (for example), where you would meet no one, than it would be to walk through the concrete streets of a town or city, but there you go. Even the two metre rule could be challenged, for the virus does not jump through the air on its own. The rule is only there in case someone coughs or sneezes without covering their mouth or nose, thus projecting the droplets onto people nearby. Of course, no one knows that they are going to cough or sneeze as it is an involuntary reaction, so we have to take precautions accordingly – hence the two metres. Mind you, I read today that MIT has calculated that two metres is insufficient if someone has a bout of sneezing or coughing, but I guess we will just have to live with that – even two metres is difficult in practical terms for getting around or queuing.
I think it is important to keep up a routine and standards in these peculiar circumstances lest we lose our dignity or, for that matter, a sense of what day it is. I have read of some people who, given the absence of going out to work, have not even bothered to dress each day or (presumably) to wash. We have kept up our daily routine, though I did have to point out to Jane that she had failed to return her napkin to its napkin ring after breakfast the other day, and had not squared off her place setting. She was very grateful for my remarking on this neglect though I note today (at 1500) that the napkin remains un-stowed. Hmmm, perhaps another approach is called for.
Today it has turned overcast and there is a cold northerly breeze blowing, so we feel no conscience about staying in and not venturing forth. I am sitting in our nice, brightly-lit conservatory looking at my nemesis, the garden, while Jane – who earlier was doing battle with the slugs and snails before the cold defeated her – is making ice cream before mutilating a butternut squash and cleaning prawns for supper. A semi-normal day then. Almost time for a shower, a change into Red Sea Rig and a glass of Hock…after all, the clocks go forward tonight so it is nearly 1800 in BST.
28 March 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 