Week Two of Twelve is nearly over and things seem to have settled down a bit here now. The supermarkets are quiet and almost normal (still no flour though). Isolation continues, but that has been no hardship for us. It is debatable whether a point of inflexion has yet been reached on the UK’s CV19 death curve, but I think it is close. As Winston Churchill said, in another context, it is not the end, it is not even the beginning of the end, but it is [close to] the end of the beginning. Keep washing those hands. On the plus side, I don’t know about you, but our house has never been cleaner, the pictures have never been more level, and the door hinges have never been better oiled. It is lovely and quiet, with most people hibernating and no children playing in the street. I am not sure how parents have achieved the latter: slipped them a double dose of Calpol perhaps, or just tied them up and gagged them.
It has been heart-warming to observe the positive support that most of the public have given in this crisis. Whether it is industry gearing up to produce equipment, retired doctors and nurses returning to the NHS, or simply people volunteering to help with community service the whole thing has been inspiring at a bleak time. Local shops and farms have come into their own and I hope the support there will continue when all this is over.
On another positive note, I was surprised to read that, believe it or not, the number of deaths for England and Wales in 2020 to date (including CV19 deaths) is actually less than the five-year average for that same quarter. Look it up on the ONS website if you don’t believe me. That is not to say that the present situation is not serious, but it is something to think about and seems to support the current strategy of isolation. In previous years at this time, typically about 11,000 people died in England and Wales each week; however, in previous years the government did not announce the death toll on a daily basis as they do now.
I sense minor cracks are beginning to form in the National resolve, instigated by the carping criticism of reporters, who never seem to be able to accept that there are some things a government simply cannot do (such as ‘magic up’ a supply of reliable test kits or PPE). I don’t know why we bother with the expense of elected governments and science degrees when all we need is a coven of clever-Dicks armed with a degree in journalism and a smattering of buzzwords. The phrase, “a little learning is a dangerous thing” is very apt at the moment. There was a very good interview on the TV recently in which a Professor of Epidemiology completely demolished one reporter’s half-baked and ill-informed statements politely and firmly. I do not say that the government is doing a perfect job in handling this crisis, but I do think it is doing well in difficult and unprecedented circumstances and at least it is basing its strategy on the best scientific advice available rather than the dubious opinions of armchair experts.
It is a funny old thing: when China built that emergency hospital in a week (or whatever), all the commentators said how amazing it was and how damned clever those Chinese were. When the British Army does it in nine days at the Excel arena in London there is little amazement and fewer compliments. True, some comment has been made on the efficiency and “can do” spirit of the Armed Forces in contrast to the inefficiency and bureaucracy of civilians – though that last comparison is a little unfair as the Excel project (“Nightingale Hospital”) was, in fact a joint venture with the Department of Health and private industry. It is, however, fair to say that the Armed Forces are pretty good in emergencies and in organisation (well, I would say that, wouldn’t I?). I remember the reports from Iraq when the British Army was handing over administration of International Aid to Iraq to the Army’s counterparts in the newly-formed civil service Department of that name. The soldiers’ comment on the civil servants was (and excuse the vulgarity – these rough soldiers),
“They couldn’t pour piss from a boot with the instructions written on the underside”. You cannot beat a member of the Services for coming up with a succinct summary of a situation.
You will be pleased to know that Jane and I are still living in peace and harmony, with every wakening a pleasure and every new action a revelation and learning experience. I gave her an affectionate and proprietorial smack on her bottom the other day as she prepared to take her shower and she promptly clocked me one on my left ear. I won’t be doing that again. I have also started helping with the cooking and can claim to be a dab hand at chopping vegetables (I attended a Knife Skills Course in 2017, you know); sadly, and strangely, my offers of assistance have been declined lately, ever since I tidied up the cutlery drawer and suggested we re-order the pans according to size and function. Reluctantly, I have been forced to avoid the kitchen altogether and, perforce, to watch episodes of Wheeler Dealers and Everybody Loves Raymond on the television (“…God, how many times have you seen this…?”). At least it is not episodes of I Love Lucy. Not yet, anyway.
Well, about that shed (I knew you’d be interested). On Sunday I felt a burst of energy that was only slightly dispelled by the freezing cold wind outside. Today I was jolly well going to tackle that shed, which did look a little neglected; but before any painting could start it had to be washed down to remove the dirt and green stains. I reasoned that the stiff north easterly wind would dry the woodwork perfectly in time for Operation Paint on Monday. If I was out with soap anyway, then I could also wash down my super-duper new car, it being still in the honeymoon phase of car ownership and I still being lovesick with this, my last car ever. Honestly.
So I gave the car a good soaping and washed it off, dried it carefully, polished the windows and then left it to stand and drip dry. I then turned my energies to Phase 2 of the day, that shed. I gave the matter some thought. While I could use a bucket of detergent and a sponge, that would need to be followed by hosing down and some sanding to remove the loose paint that was in evidence. It then dawned on me that I could, in fact, combine all three operations if, instead of the bucket, detergent, hose and sandpaper, I utilised the pressure washer that I had just used for the car. A quick spray with the soap, then a good all-round blast with the pressure nozzle would work a treat as combined abrasive and cleaner, leaving time for a warming cup of tea afterwards and the warm congratulations of my good wife who was preparing the Sunday lunch.
I rigged it all up and gave the shed a good dose of soogee. Then I fitted the pressure nozzle and started with the blasting. Spoiler alert: don’t do this at home.
The pressure washer certainly cleaned off the shed. Alas, it also proved to be a little over-zealous. Our shed is (was) a two-tone affair in the style of a beach hut. Parallel horizontal stripes of cream and blue complement each other to give our garden that jaunty holiday air (or that is the aim). Well, before the clean up the shed looked just a little shabby and neglected. After the clean up it appeared to have developed architectural alopecia. You see, it is very hard to stop when you use a pressure washer: you always want to clean a little bit more, like when you have peeling sunburn and want to pick off a bit more skin. In fact this last analogy proved very apt, for it soon began to dawn on me that the process was removing not just the flaky paint, but also the good stuff as well. Moreover, it became apparent that the fallout from the operation was becoming a problem in itself: a misty cloud was descending steadily, covering the garden, the garage wall, the fence, and me in dirt and tiny dry flakes of Cornflower and Elderflower paint. I stopped and examined this devastation. Shed, fine I suppose: the wood was still there. But the debris? I glanced surreptitiously at the glassed-in Garden Control Tower (aka the conservatory in normal households) where the Head Gardener was, by that time, alternately playing on her iPad and looking out for green shoots. Had she noticed? The wind blew mightily. No problem, I thought, given a bit of time the paint flakes will be dispersed around the garden and blend in. Cornflower on cornflower, Elderflower on elderflower. Very poetic. She’ll never notice, given time.
Time to stow the gear away and slink back indoors nonchalantly. But first, put the car away. Oh my God. The fallout had not confined itself to the garden. It had swept over the fence and covered the nice clean new car in fine bits of old paint, like radioactive dust from Chernobyl. I spent the next hour, between bouts of sobbing, dusting (yes dusting) the car delicately to get it all off. The moral of this story? Don’t use a pressure washer on wood without adult supervision. The positive side? Jane thought I had done a brilliant job on the shed, even if it did look a little piebald. She hadn’t seen the garden yet. Blow wind, blow.
Come Thursday and we were suffering from Shed Fatigue. “Does What It Says on the Tin”, says the spiel on the tin of paint. What it also says is that you have to apply three coats, each separated by at least four hours. Two colours of three coats each with four hours between equals, let me think, oh yes – a long time. Every breakfast this week we have looked out from the Garden Control Tower sipping our coffee and munching our toast and home-made marmalade, looking balefully at The Shed. The Hated Shed. We were onto the coats of Cornflower now and the coverage was quite satisfying: it showed up particularly well when it was flicked accidentally onto the cream (“Elderflower”) that had already been done up to Coat 2. Jane was heard to opine that, next time, if there was a next time, we paint the shed just one colour; I said next time we just leave it as bare wood. By about noon, things were going quite well and we had just about finished, except one gable end. It was at that point that I accidentally kicked over the paint can.
It is a measure of how punch drunk (paint drunk?) the two of us were by this time that there was no screaming, no wailing, no rending of cloth: we just set the can upright and continued, using a stepping stone in the shingle path as an excellent palette. I drew comfort from the fact that the spillage was onto expendable shingle and one stepping stone before I realised that someone (it would be invidious of me to name him) was leaving Cornflower Blue, size 7, boot prints over the solid paving slabs beside the shed door. It will not come off, of course, not even with a pressure washer (I tried that after the last Shed Fest). I suggested to Jane that one solution might be to make a feature of these Medium Oak, Elderflower and Cornflower paving slabs by painting them with floor paint, “Paint them all blue, you mean?”, she enquired innocently. “No dear, Sandstone”. Hmmm. Methinks she has not forgotten that napkin ring story.
Finally, we were finished for the day. Two and a half coats done. If that shed wants a third coat it can start whistling Dixie as far as I am concerned. I am getting a bit worried that I have started talking to a shed and implying that it can whistle. Must be the virus. I stood Jane down, cleaned the brushes and stowed the paint cans so that Jane could start seeding out her pricklings or some such horticultural pastime (she had been glancing longingly over her shoulder at the garden all morning), but first we decided to repair indoors and change before having a nice cup of tea. Jane suggested we do something naughty to celebrate the completion of the shed and duly followed through with two defrosted mince pies left over from Christmas. They washed our tea down beautifully.
So, next time you visit our humble abode (God willing) you can play one of those games like we encourage children to play when looking in shop windows at carnival time: “ Spot the Oddity”. Seek out the suntanned patio stones, the blue stepping stone, the multi-coloured shingle, the Giant’s Footprints. Follow the trail of Medium Oak fence paint spots to find the Secret Garden. And see if you can find that elusive, but ever present little rascal, Mr Bit.
2 April 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 
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