Well, as the title says, here we are three weeks in and still hanging on. And I am embarrassed to say that, frankly, for us, it hasn’t been that hard. There has been a certain freedom in having no commitments each day: nothing planned, no entertaining, no visits to Marks & Spencer, not spending money, and not even a need to get up. We haven’t gone down the route of the last one, I hasten to say: I have maintained a strict régime in the Shacklepin household, with Call the Hands still at 0700 and Turn To at 0800. Jane really joins into the spirit of this with gusto as she greets each day with a mumbled, “Wha’s the temp’ature…” and gropes for her first cup of energising Oolong, brought in by her doting husband, who moves on to thrust the curtains aside and declare the day officially open.
I say Turn To at 0800, but that only applies to me. Jane just takes forever transforming herself from the closed sleepy little green shoot into the full-bloomed flower that enlivens each day. I don’t know what on Earth she does up there for 45 minutes. While she is doing Things, I am employed in cleaning out the fire grate, humping up the coal, emptying the chamber pots, stoking the boiler, emptying the dishwasher, chlorinating the door handles, playing with the jigsaw, and making the coffee. The red china coffee cups (note, ‘cups’ not ‘mugs’) are placed just so on the breakfast table in the Garden Control Tower, the handle of Jane’s cup turned just right for her hand, the stevia pill already in place. We have a demarcation, you see: I do Drinks (and, by association, drink receptacles); Jane does Food. We are still arguing about soup.
The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba heralds a complete changeover. I sit morosely with my coffee, doing the crossword while Jane prepares the fruit salad and other delectable titbits for breakfast (the food here is excellent). Breakfast, as I have stated previously, is not a sociable meal, but Jane still insists on talking to me. I think it is a deliberate counterattack for the 0700 wakening. Right on cue, as I write this, she has asked,
“Sorry, can I talk to you?”
Patient sigh…Stops typing.
“Yes dear”
“What are you writing?”
“My blog. It’s all about you”
Eyes narrow. “It had better not be…”
Nay, nay my dear. Perish the thought.
One morning, some years ago, I thought I would give her a break and prepare the fruit salad while she was beautifying herself. How hard can it be? This could be worth so many credit points. Fruit, especially exotic fruit, is not really my thing, but I thought I was jolly well going to give it a go. I chose a pinky round thing and hacked at it, but it had some sort of rock in the middle that made dissection difficult. I tried an alternative yellow round item and had a go at that, but that had some sort of core. Time passed by and slimy mush and juice oozed over the chopping board onto the work surface, then slid onto the floor. This mysteriously distributed itself around the kitchen and onto my clothes. I also seemed to have cut myself, and bloodstains added to the general impression of the Valentines Day Massacre. There did not seem to be a lot of fruit in the bowls. Suddenly, my concentration was disturbed by a voice at the door.
“What, in the name of God, are you doing? Look at the mess! And that chopping board is for vegetables. I chop onions on it! Look, just sit down. Give it here”
I retired, hurt, to my crossword. The fruit salad, when it came, was – it is true – not quite up to standard. It seemed to taste of onion, for one thing. And as to the fruit I had been mutilating? I have no idea to this day. Far easier just to stick to Drinks.
Mind you, Drinks can be hazardous too. Yesterday I found that I had just cleaned all the door handles, keys, kettle, and paper money with Plymouth Gin instead of dilute bleach. The bottles were very similar, you see, I having used an old gin bottle to hold a mixture of Milton and water as a potent virus killer. It could have been worse: I could have mixed a Milton and tonic. On the plus side, that £10 note in my wallet seemed very happy as I put it away to sleep it off.
Spring has come here in Melbury. We have had a succession of sunny days, with temperatures around 23C (73F) and it has been absolutely splendid. I have just seen Jane’s legs and painted toenails for the first time since 2019. We have continued to get out into the hinterland for walks and one benefit of lockdown has been that we have discovered more good walking routes available direct from home. We are probably the fittest we have been for years. Armed with our trusty vacuum flask and sandwiches we have pushed back the frontiers of Barsetshire and conquered new horizons. Not exactly Davy Crockett, you understand, but you get the gist. It is amazing what lovely countryside is available just half an hour from our doorstep, and we have revelled in it. One such expedition took place on Wednesday when we embarked on a circular walk starting at 1100. At 1730 we were still walking. A huge dusty field lay in front of us and we trudged on, one foot in front of the other, heads down, like Captain Scott and Oates desperately seeking Base Camp in Antarctica. The coffee and Christmas cake had been consumed long ago after a particularly arduous climb and Jane was muttering in an insubordinate manner (something about the walk not being supposed to be greater than six miles), but I soon quelled that mutinous behaviour. All those years in the navy were not wasted. Finally, we reached home and collapsed on the doorstep. I looked at my GPS. Eleven miles, not counting the hills, the brambles, the wild roses, the collapsed trees, the bogs and the streams. Jane looked at me with some disapprobation. I confess, we did hit the Pimms after we had had our showers and drunk a bucket of water each. It seemed only fair.
It is a curious thing, but despite the government warnings – and even threats – the social isolation is not being strictly adhered to. Our walks occasionally take us on a nearby narrow lane sometimes used as a rat run to get to the motorway. The last time we walked along it we counted 36 cars travelling down the short lane in ten minutes, not counting ‘working’ vehicles such as tractors, Land Rovers or vans. They could not all be people popping out to the shops to buy essential goods, especially not the single young men in BMWs and Audis. Jane was furious (she, it was, who counted them). I did point out that people sitting in their cars on their own were contaminating no one. But she had a point: the general traffic around where we live, especially on our nearby bypass, is as heavy as ever throughout the day. Where are they all going? Is their journey necessary? We could become busybodies if we are not careful. Paradoxically, pedestrians are following the guidance religiously, sometimes literally falling over themselves to keep two metres away as they pass. I wished one passer-by a cheerful “Good Morning” the other day and he recoiled from me in horror, despite being about ten metres away. We are allowed to speak. And good manners cost nothing.
The Thursday “clap for the NHS” at 2000 is now well established and it also gives us a chance to see our neighbours. These things can be quite inspiring, and it was nice to do the clap thing for Boris too, earlier in the week. I confess to being a bit self conscious doing the clapping at first. Rather like the Sign of Peace in church, it is not an English thing to show emotion in public and it can feel artificial. The two-minute silence on Armistice Day is usually as far as we get. There is a danger, though, of ostracising anyone who does not conform to the Thursday clap (‘through ignorance, through weakness, through our own deliberate fault…’) just as there is for condemning anyone not displaying that child’s rainbow picture in their window (I thought it was supporting the LGBTQ community; it turns out it means ‘we love the NHS’. I really am behind on the curve). I gather, though, that the clapping is very much appreciated by our medical staff, even though they do not always witness it, and that makes it all worthwhile.
“It’s awful that Carrie Symonds has caught the virus, especially as she’s pregnant”, said Jane last weekend as we munched our toast at breakfast.
“Yes”, I replied absently, “she won’t be singing ‘Nobody Does it Better’ for a while”
There was a silence.
“Come to think of it”, I continued, ”isn’t she getting on a bit to be pregnant?”
Jane looked at me as if I was being wilfully stupid.
“Who do you think I’m talking about?”
“Carrie Symonds. Singer. ‘You’re So Vain’. ‘The Right Thing To Do’ ”, I replied proudly with a metaphorical flourish, displaying my progress in the CPD (Continuous Pop Development) programme that she had started with me last year.
“That’s Carly Simon, you idiot. Carrie Symonds is Boris’ girlfriend and partner. God, you’re hopeless”
Oh. Yet again, while progressing along the Snakes and Ladders game of life, I had trodden on the snake and had slid back to square one in my wife’s estimation. I do turn out a good wooden bowl on my lathe though, and make a mean gin and tonic. Especially the sodium hypochlorite version.
Hey ho. Must get on. The coffee things need to be tidied away and Jane needs some advice on baking that cake.
9 April 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 