Lockdown Diaries 2020/21

I’m finally getting the stir crazies. It’s now late January and Brian and I haven’t seen anyone else or been inside a shop since December 29. And I’ve had enough. I want OUT!   Brian, on the other hand, is rather enjoying the challenge and has likened our current situation to doing Dry January. Well, I’ve done Dry January, and I didn’t like it one bit. It was actually No Booze November in our case, and it started off fairly okay. In fact it was a bit of a novelty at first having to come up with things to do that didn’t involve drink.    The first weekend we headed out for a curry which was fine, though there was an awkward moment when the waiter offered us a free drink after our meal and we had to refuse.   On the second weekend we went to the cinema – again, a reasonable option. But on Weekend Three we went to Twickenham to watch a rugby match, and that was definitely not a good idea.    A dry rugby match feels wrong in so many ways. For one thing we were completely at odds with the h

So yes, we’re now having our groceries delivered by Asda. And that’s fairly uncommon around these parts, I can tell you. We live in a Waitrose Belt - not being snobbish, just stating a fact.   When those marketing people try to work out your demographic they usually ask you which newspaper you read. But in my opinion, asking about your favourite supermarket would be just as good a yardstick.   I enjoy going to our local Waitrose. It’s built above the station car park and has huge windows, loads of light and panoramic views. I spend many a pleasant hour gliding my trolley through the wide aisles, gazing up at the overpriced delicacies on the shelves. No-one rushes me and the staff are lovely and helpful. In fact the only downside of shopping at Waitrose is the other customers, who are singularly joyless. They wheel their trolleys around grimly, using those irritating clicky things to check the price of everything. They’re well-groomed but miserable and if you inadvertently smile at one

My instinct to grow things has re-emerged during this latest lockdown. As I mentioned back in April when germinating my tomatoes (not a euphemism), it makes one’s heart sing to see those determined green shoots fighting their way through the soil. They’re a symbol of hope and expectation in these dark winter days – and winters don’t get much darker than this one.     Perhaps this was why Brian decided to buy me a grow-your-own-mushroom kit for Christmas. It was the ideal gift for someone who a) likes growing things and b) loves mushrooms, particularly this year when panic-buying and Brexit have left everything in short supply.   Growing mushrooms doesn’t seem to involve a great deal of skill, however. The kit comprises a pile of dirt in a plastic container that you have to “activate”, which basically means taking off the lid.    You then have to water your dirt every other day until Day 23 when, hey presto! You pick your mushrooms.    We followed the instructions to the letter. The pic

Yes, that’s right – we’re back in the “pub”.   Last May I wrote a post headed: “Last orders at the Quarant Inn” in the assumption that our days spent reimagining Robbie’s room as a pub were over. Robbie was heading back to London, lockdowns were easing and real pubs were about to reopen. And this meant life would return to normal.   Yeah, right.    Little did we know that within six months we’d all be holed up inside again.    The Quarant Inn started out as an in-joke between the three of us. Early on in the pandemic – even before the first lockdown – we saw the writing on the wall and decided, with much mirth, that it would be a cracking idea to have Friday night drinks in Robbie’s bedroom and pretend it was an actual pub. It pretty much had the accoutrements – wood panelling, oil paintings, stuffed birds, human skulls (okay, some other weird stuff besides the accoutrements).   The Quarant Inn was supposed to be a one-off gimmick to amuse ourself one night back in March 2020. But we r

I was recently surprised to discover that Brian’s least favourite month of the year is November. I rather like November. It has an anticipatory, pre-Christmas feel that smacks of cosy nights in beside a newly-lit fire. But I suppose it’s different for Brian, who in a normal year spends every other week working in Sweden where November signifies heavy snowfalls, bitter winds and long, long nights that will only get longer until the winter solstice.   My least favourite month has always been January. Once Christmas is over and the family has melted away I am left feeling jaded, deflated, cake-fuelled and blubbery.    January for me means 31 endless days of cold winds, dark mornings and soggy landscapes. And I rather think this particular January will be the worst one yet.    This is the time of year when we cheer ourselves up by planning our holidays. Not this year though: we have no idea when we’ll be allowed to travel again.    An overnight stay in a cosy hotel with an open fire is a l

For most people, Christmas is a time for friends and family.  Perhaps your ideal Xmas is a coming-together of the entire clan where everyone from doddery seniors to over-excited toddlers swarm into your home for a chaotic festive feast. Or perhaps you prefer a more nuclear set-up where your partner and children regroup for a bonding catch-up.    A Christmas Day outing to the pub is important to some (naming no names) while others like to splash out on a celebratory restaurant meal. And there are many who prefer to avoid the festivities altogether, heading for somewhere like Vietnam or Thailand where the holiday isn’t marked at all.   Everyone’s Christmas is different. This one wasn’t.   We were all in the same boat this Christmas. Or rather we weren’t, since that would be breaking the social-distancing rules. Instead we were huddled together in tiny groups in very small boats, going nowhere.   We were allowed out for walks with one other person at a time – but that was about it. Wild.

  No-one is as surprised as I am about the sudden resumption of this blog. Everything was going so well when I wrote my last post on June 16. COVID-19 figures were down, lockdowns were easing and people were emerging, blinky-eyed, into the sunlight. So where did it all go wrong?   July 4  Pubs and restaurants reopened at long last but Brian and I managed to contain our excitement until July 9 (my birthday) when we’d planned a cultural walk around historic Greenwich. But when we arrived, Brian said: “Shall we just go to the pub?” So our tour of Greenwich consisted of the Admiral Hardy and the Trafalgar Tavern.   August 1 The Eat out to Help Out scheme began in the UK and we obligingly trotted along to various pubs to be served with discount meals, just as Rishi ordered.   September 24 It turns out that Eating Out to Help Out can spread COVID-19, who knew? The figures started to rise and by September, all pubs and restaurants had to close by 10pm and everyone had to be masked up before e