Lockdown Diaries 2020/21

It’s quite common to read in the lavatory. Isn’t it? People often put magazines and humorous books in the smallest room in the house for family members and visitors to peruse.  At least I assume they do. We do, anyway. Though instead of flicking through a joke-book or magazine, I’m currently ploughing my way through the complete dairies of Samuel Pepys.  They’re not exactly page-turners if I’m honest. Pepys writes long-winded, turgid accounts of his job in naval admin and intersperses them with updates on his flatulence and occasional testicular discomfort. He also records rather unsavoury details about dalliances with maidservants in pubs. These are often written in French or Spanish, presumably so that no-one reading his diaries in the future would understand or judge. How’s that working out for you, Sam? Anyway, Pepys began writing his diaries in 1663 and after several years of non-events, I’m now up to1665. Which as you history buffs will know was when the Great Pl

It’s hard to get one’s head around the extent to which our lives have changed over the past few months.   Things that might have driven us wild a matter of weeks ago suddenly don’t seem very important. Brexit was under constant discussion in 2019 and politicians’ views were divided. Lke the children of squabbling parents we Brits became mulish, discontented and angry. And shockingly, death threats to politicians became increasingly common. But those death threats seem to have declined along with the threat of actual death. Now that we’ve all been confronted by a common enemy we seem to have become – well, nicer. People are clamouring to do each other’s shopping and provide help and support where they can. Children are being encouraged to paint rainbow pictures and display these in windows as colourful beacons of hope.  Signs and messages congratulating the NHS for their invaluable work are becoming common, and we’re also beginning to see coloured-in posters thankin

  A few weeks ago I marvelled at the fact that the Have I Got News For You panellists were broadcasting from their respective houses. We were all given rare insights into the homes of familiar faces such as Paul Merton and Ian Hislop - a fascinating novelty. Now it seems that everyone who is anyone is clamouring to invite us in to watch them act, sing songs, make jokes or generally attempt to entertain us from the comfort of their own homes. The results have been mixed, I have to say. Watching our favourite celebs perform indoors with their overly-long hair and no make-up has been a revelation. And while some of them obviously struggle with the lack of an audience, others positively shine. From the various clips I’ve seen of the Big Night In and the One World concert – both hugely praiseworthy money-spinners for the NHS, it has to be said – I’ve drawn a few conclusions. Warning: Personal Opinion Alert. 1.     Comedy sketches aren’t as funny without an audience tell

Have you noticed how swiftly we’ve moved through the social distancing spectrum? Initially we all felt somewhat shamefaced about having to shun strangers in the street. So we treated everyone like our least-favourite neighbours, crossing the road to avoid them and averting our eyes in hostile awkwardness as we did so.  Then we started to embrace the concept, smiling and nodding across the road in an embarrassed, “I-know-this-is-silly-but-these-are-the-rules” kind of way. Now, however, some of us have become social-distancing zealots who glare at anyone who gets too close. And others have become space-invading mavericks who walk where they please, forcing everyone else to duck and dive out of their way.  Social-distancing rage is everywhere. Dog-owners hurl abuse at each other for encroaching on their ball-throwing space, while parents are berated for allowing their children to scamper within the sphere of others. I’ve heard of a skateboarder who shouted at an old l

The Quarant Inn has now served as our pub for four consecutive Fridays. In fact Robbie is even designing us Quarant Inn T-shirts as we speak.   The idea was originally a bit of a gimmick, something to unite the three of us in the absence of a trip to a real pub. But our makeshift hostelry has now become an important part of our lockdown life. The ritual begins on Friday afternoons when Robbie tidies his room, clearing away the weights and setting up a table and chairs in the same formation as the previous week. We then set up drinks on the “bar” – wine for me, beer for the others - and fetch crisps and peanuts from the kitchen. Robbie turns on the music and we take our favourite seats. And the pub session begins, with Houseparty on in the background so that friends and family can “drop in” if they want to.  It doesn’t half lift the spirits. As someone who works from home on a daily basis I understand the value of a change of scene to ward off boredom and gloominess

We’ve all heard of Watergate. But have you ever heard of Gate-gate? This occurred at the start of World War II when everyone’s garden gates and railings were requisitioned for the war effort. Presumably the idea was to turn our wrought-iron finials and Victorian scrollwork into munitions. And the patriotic British rose admirably to the challenge and hurried to donate their gates. The scrap metal mountain grew and grew – and then suddenly disappeared. No-one ever found out what happened to their ironwork, but it may have ended up in the sea or in landfill because most of it was unfit for purpose. However, nothing was done to halt the metal influx because it united the nation in a common cause. A genius stroke of propaganda - the likes of which we’re seeing now. At the start of the COVID-19 emergency a call was put out for volunteers to support the NHS and provide shopping for vulnerable “shelterers”. The offers flooded in and soon the government had three times th

Do you remember me suggesting in those heady, early days of lockdown that we all grow things? I then revealed that I myself was growing things on my window sill. Well it turned out I wasn’t – I was merely giving houseroom to a collection of old pots filled with stony soil. All except one stray bean which proceeded to take over the kitchen, winding its way around the window catch and generally making a nuisance of itself.  I did start off in a very half-cocked way, to be fair. I found a bunch of last year’s seeds in a drawer and planted them in garden dirt, being unable to source any proper compost online. But besides the bean – which obviously didn’t receive the memo – nothing else happened whatsoever. Zilch. Nada. I then managed to order some new seeds over the internet and a couple of small packets arrived. So I started again, excitedly planting this season’s courgettes and tomatoes in place of last year’s cast-offs. And still nothing happened.  My frustration with m

Yesterday’s highlight was the fact that I managed to talk to Auntie Jean. As you may recall, she’s 102 and in a care home. Not a good time to be either of those things. With all the news about care home deaths I’ve been phoning regularly to find out how she is. But if someone who doesn’t really know her picks up they will simply look at her notes and say: “Yes, she’s fine” which means: “Still breathing last time we looked”.  In frustration I asked if there were any way I could video call her. They said: “Yes, we have a smartphone we use just for that purpose”. She’s been living at the home for four years and in lockdown for three weeks. Why am I only learning this now? Anyway, I called the number and a carer took the phone to Auntie Jean’s room. It wasn’t altogether successful – AJ’s sight and hearing aren’t the best – but her face lit up when she realised it was me and we managed a semi-coherent conversation. Having an ageing relative right now is stressful as we

  At times like this I almost wish I were religious. Not because we seem to be hurtling towards the apocalypse or anything. No, it’s more because a few God-centric rituals would probably provide some structure to this formless four-day holiday. Duh. I’ve always struggled a bit with Easter. My Dad was the same. “Are we following a Saturday routine today, or a Sunday routine?” he would ask Mum anxiously on Good Friday. Twelve years his junior and a lot less rigid, she would laugh dismissively. “What does it matter?” she would ask. It matters. Brian and I face similar dilemmas. For one thing, we usually go to the pub on a Friday to mark the start of the weekend (as you know). So on Easter weekend, should Pub Day shift to the Thursday? Then on Sundays we have “Cocktail Hour” at 5pm sharp when we have a gin and tonic (Brian) and a vodka and orange (me) as a last hurrah to the weekend. But maybe that should be moved to Easter Monday? There’s also the issue of how to fill

  I had an anxiety dream last night. Though I feel a bit guilty telling you about it. Dream-talk is banned in our house. It began one morning about 20 years ago when I was telling Brian about the dream I’d had the previous night. It went something like: “I was walking down the road, only it wasn’t a road, more of a desert, and then you came along, though it wasn’t really you, you were a woman…..”  And Brian asked me, quite civilly, to stop filing his head with things that hadn’t actually happened. Just like that, dreams were outlawed. While it’s true that other people’s dreams can be pretty dull, I still find it frustrating not being able to talk about my own. Robbie understands – he’s another regular dreamer and he and I sometimes have covert dream-discussions at home, looking furtively over our shoulders in case the Dream Grinch happens to be lurking nearby. So, back to last night’s dream. I had just flown to Germany – not to visit Josie, sadly, though I saw her at t

Today is one of Brian and Robbie’s work-out days.   I can hear them upstairs, exhaling loudly, clunking down weights, urging one another on and congratulating each other when they successfully complete an exercise. “Workout days” were a genius idea of theirs. Robbie bought a set of weights as a teenager, but for the past seven years they’ve been lying neglected in his childhood room, getting in my way whenever I tidy up for a homecoming (I can’t move the flipping things). In his normal life, Brian spends much of his time working in Sweden and he used to frequent the hotel gym in the evenings. But he’s lost motivation in recent years and has been grumbling about how unfit he’s becoming. As it turns out, each of them needed a workout buddy. And now that they’re housebound, what better way to kill time and get fit than to revisit those old weights together? Robbie’s room becomes the Quarant Inn on a Friday night, as you know, but during the week it becomes the Long

I had a call from the Grimsby Fish Lady last week. That’s how she introduces herself on the phone, anyway. I think she thinks it’s cute.  She represents a company that delivers fish – wait for it - from Grimsby. I only signed up because a jovial northern chap once turned up at my door, called me “love” and persuaded me to pay over the odds for goods I didn’t particularly want. The fish is excellent as it turns out, so I have no regrets. However, I’m still faintly irritated once a month when the self-professed Grimsby Fish Lady phones me up to flog me haddock when I’m in the middle of a work assignment or a game of badminton. Not this month, though. I greeted her like my best friend and saviour. Here was a lady – a Fish Lady, no less – prepared to deliver me actual food. And from Grimsby! (I’m not altogether sure where Grimsby is, but it’s definitely further than Watford which makes it positively exotic in this travel-restricted era). Having items delivered to the

Okay, so there isn’t much of an upside to a global pandemic that’s killing thousands of people every day. But in the spirit of optimism, let’s look at the positive side of Lockdown Britain, shall we? You can experiment with your hair It seems that men everywhere are growing their first-ever beards or moustaches, secure in the knowledge that few people will see them in real life. Others are even shaving their heads - though one should ensure one’s equipment is fully functional before trying this. A friend of Robbie’s is now half bald after his razor battery ran out midway through a buzzcut. I’ve also heard tell of a grandfather who has dyed his hair purple for fun. And let’s face it, we all need a bit of fun. The ‘to do list” goes in the bin Dreading that trip to the dentist’s? It’s closed. Less than enthusiastic about that family dinner party? It’s off. Struggling to find the energy for that weekly spin class? It’s cancelled. So, put aside those lame excuses for doin

This is the first warm weekend of the year – and boy, is it a cracker.   Traditionally this is a time for national celebration, when everyone digs out last year’s shorts and takes to the road. They then proceed to snarl up the highways as they head for beauty spots, theme parks, garden centres and beaches. Not this year, though. It’s just a quick trip to the grocery shop and possibly an hour’s walk for us. It should have been a depressing and frustrating experience. But the fact that we’re all in this together means no-one is actually missing out. Except perhaps for the Scottish chief medical officer, who snuck away to her second home when she thought no-one was looking. How embarrassing. There’s something to be said for being forced to appreciate what we have, rather than yearn for what we can’t have. As far as we were concerned, we decided to do what we could with the tools we had and the available space. We’re fortunate enough to have a garden, so we found a len

This week we notched up another first: we took part in a virtual pub quiz. Brian and I used to love a quiz in the Real World. In fact we used to regularly attend the Thursday night quiz at our local pub until they carried out a terrible refurb and moved the event to a much-less-acceptable Tuesday.  So, imagine my excitement when I discovered there was a virtual lockdown quiz on You Tube – and on a Thursday night, too. I’m not sure what I was expecting. A jovial, wise-cracking landlord interspersing his questions with banter, perhaps? Plus a cosy, pub-like backdrop with low lighting and background music? Instead there was this ordinary-looking bloke, drinking gin in his living room and working his way through a bunch of standard quiz rounds with a deadpan delivery. A wild night in It wasn’t. But it did serve to highlight another new facet of our lives: the fact that everyone’s worlds are becoming smaller. I hate to mention Joe Wicks again, but his daily workou