Author: JWAdmin

I’ve shed a few tears this week and stamped my clogged feet in frustration. You see, I was meant to be in Amsterdam, visiting my Lost Boy. But the Dutch have deemed us Brits too Covidy to be allowed entry. So that’s the last time I’ll be buying tulips!

To be fair, it’s just the government I have an issue with. As is often the case, the actual people have been amazing. When, in January 2020, the Nearly-Beloved booked a posh hotel for our elder son’s graduation, who could’ve predicted the pandemic to come? In the spirit of saving money, it was an early-doors deal with no cancellation policy. But Marianne at The Prinsengracht showed us the true face of humanity and kept on extending our reservation. In the end, however, there are limits.

And at least the Dutch are clear with their instructions. No flashing traffic lights, switching overnight from green to red. Just a steady, unambivalent message about our contagious island. VERY HIGH RISK! Presumably, the Netherlands bases its restrictions on scientific data. Interesting then that proof of double vaccination will allow you in from most high-risk countries… so long as they are in the EU…

Fortunately, we have close relatives in Germany. The pandemic hit them hard economically. They could do with a break. Our Lost Boy could do with seeing some familiar faces. And Marianne facilitated a transfer. The Premier League’s loss is the Bundesliga’s gain. It’s been a bitter-sweet occasion. Whilst I’m glad to see my Lost Boy back in the arms of his nearest and dearest, I’m devastated not to be there myself.

And ‘over there’ shows a remarkable resemblance to ‘over here’, it has to be said. Life is going on, seemingly as pre-pandemic normal. On the UK side, the Family WhatsApp is full of photos of gatherings at weddings, pub meals and hearty walks. In Amsterdam, there are busy street markets, bustling cafes and cultural exhibitions.

‘Why’s he always visiting museums? Getting well old, innit?’ says a perplexed Grunting Teen, rapidly rethinking his planned post-GCSE visit to his brother.

But for now, that trip will have to wait until the powers-that-be deem our two parallel worlds can finally meet. Europe is so close and yet so far. Visitors are being welcomed back but mainly if the country’s economy depends on them. And outside Europe the restrictions are even greater. Unless you have a private jet, a government job, or work for an international sporting organisation, there’s no chance of meeting up with your elderly relatives or emigrated children.

So, whilst the majority of the UK is rebounding from the corona crash-down, those of us with family and friends overseas anxiously watch the daily covid figures. Even if the symptoms are now no worse than a head cold for those vaccinated, each positive result still adds to the statistics that are currently heading in the wrong direction. With schools returning, no doubt cases are set to rise even higher.

So, I’m downgrading my expectations. Some days I wonder if I will ever see my son again. Christmas 2021 is my revised goal. Anything earlier will be like winning the jackpot.

And of course, I have to remember that this is a life style choice. No one forced my Lost Boy to work abroad. He thought he was buying into a globalised new future not a virus-divided world. He can always change his job and return home. After all, we’re crying out for lorry drivers and restaurant workers!

At the end of the day, recent events in Afghanistan remind me that we are so very much the lucky ones. It’s still my Lost Boy’s decision where he lives and works. He may not have control over Covid-19 and he might have to jump through several governmental hoops to get what he wants, but he still has individual control. If nothing else, lockdown has shown us how precious that freedom is. So, I’ll dry those tears, count my blessings and keep my fingers crossed for a family reunion in the not-too-distant future.

Good old social media! It gets a bad press. But once in a while it provides a handy civic service. As I’m scrolling through amusing cat videos and photos of friends making the best of their British staycations, I come across a neighbourhood alert for a walk-in vaccine clinic for 16-17year olds. It’s not the most reliable of advertisements and why they don’t send notification of it through the post is beyond my middle-aged mindset. But, as Grunting Teen hasn’t yet received any official invitation from the NHS, it might be worth investigation. If he’s in favour of getting a jab then it’s best to do it before the school term starts. At least it will avoid him being sent home at the drop of a virus.

I decide to investigate. At first, I’m not sure if it’s fake news or not, since the person posting it has a Disney princess as their profile. There’s also quite an aggressive thread going on between pro- and anti-vaxers. But after some digging, I discover it’s a legitimate pop-up centre. What’s more, it’s in walking distance. Now it’s up to my adolescent to do his own research.

‘I’ve sent you a few articles to read about the pros and cons of the vaccine for people of your age,’ I tell him. ‘So, you can make up your own mind.’

‘What? You want me to read something?’ he says, unimpressed. ‘I’ll just ask my mates if they’re having it.’

‘No. You need to make a reliable, informed decision of your own,’ I insist.

He rolls his eyes and ignores the attachments I’ve sent to his phone, claiming that as the adults in the family have been vaccinated and they are obviously reliably informed, he’ll do the same.

‘Look, you’re going into 6^th Form soon,’ I remind him. ‘You’re not going to be spoon-fed anymore. You should be developing your analytical abilities and critical thinking, not just following the crowds.’

At that moment the Nearly-Beloved arrives to undermine my parenting. ‘Vaccines on offer to youngsters. Just round the corner,’ he tells Grunting Teen, tapping his nose like a friendly drug pusher.

So, the next morning I wake him, for an adolescent-unfriendly early start. We are the only ones there apart from one other mum with her tired teenager, yawning their annoyance at being dragged out at the crack of dawn to be saved from a future of long Covid.

This time the roll-out is being hosted in a local Church Hall. It’s a much smaller affair than the mass vaccination centres I’ve been to. But somehow this makes it more accessible, less of a big deal. As usual, the staff are professional and polite, to the point where Grunting Teen looks around in complete confusion when a volunteer announces ‘this gentleman is next on the list’.

Before long, the gentleman in question has waited the required fifteen-minute recovery time and is on his way home. The mistake was in having a mobile with no battery and a leaflet of side effects that, out of boredom, he’s actually read.

‘Mum I’m feeling rather dizzy. I’ve got a headache. And my arm proper hurts,’ he complains. ‘Do you think I’m getting a blood clot? Maybe I shouldn’t have had the jab after all?’

I sigh. This is the boy who catches whatever disease the latest online influencer is promoting. The only thing he’s suffering from is hypochondria. The antidote is to plug in his phone.

As he scrolls through messages from his mates who are about to get Pfizered too, his symptoms magically disappear. In fact, he’s looking positively perky.

‘Ha! I beat them all to it!’ he tells me.

I look confused. ‘How do you know?’ I ask.

‘Reliable information, mum,’ he replies, showing me a photo of the massive queue now snaking its way outside the centre.

It’s a time of big decisions. Exam results have come in. Futures are in the balance. There’s been a rise in top marks. But instead of taking this as good news, it’s been greeted with the same concern as the current rise in Covid infections.

The Nearly-Beloved is particularly concerned. ‘How come with this grade inflation, your GCSEs are distinctly average?’ he asks Grunting Teen. ‘Why haven’t you got any 10s?’

Seeing as the highest score is, bizarrely, a 9, this is somewhat unfair to our not-really-academic son. After all, he’s got through to the next stage and has been accepted into Sixth Form, so he’s achieved what was needed. Job done.  And not a bad one at that.

For the last two years he’s spent more time at home than in the classroom. He’s been isolated from his friends and had Professors Google and Zoom as his main instructors. He’s been terrified into thinking the entire population will be wiped out. Then he’s expected to re-emerge and mix in a viral soup of ‘school bubbles.’ Factor in wearing a dog-breath mask for six hours a day and twice-weekly tonsil swabbing, then it’s hardly conducive to effective learning.

And overall, I think his school has got it right. Had ‘Play Station Performance’ or ‘Rapid Growth Spurt’ been part of the curriculum, Grunting Teen would have aced his subjects. But studying a foreign language or working out how to convert pounds to euros in a travel-banned pandemic just didn’t grab his attention. He did his best. And it was good enough.

No doubt there will be future government funded studies comparing this Corona generation’s results uncharitably with those that went before. But let me save them money and pronounce my own non-scientific judgement, as the mother of three children. The oldest was rubbish at tests but amazing at coursework. The middle one scraped through, purely thanks to last-minute exam cramming on BBC Bite-sized. And the youngest has had to rely entirely on teacher assessment. All results weighted by different factors. But three siblings of similar intellect, similar ambivalence towards studying and, in the end, similar outcomes. I rest my case.

And hopefully by the time A-levels come around for Grunting Teen, the education system will have sorted itself out. The Nearly-Beloved, however, is all for the chaos continuing if it means Grunting Teen can have a £10,000 gap year and free accommodation, courtesy of an oversubscribed university.

But for now, there are other decisions to be made. Older teenagers are in one of the groups of highest levels of Covid infections, so vaccinations are shortly to be offered to all sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds in the hope that this will have a significant effect on dampening transmission.  Do the benefits outweigh the risks? It’s not for me to say. That’s up to Grunting Teen to determine. Parental consent will not be needed.

But parental consent will be needed for the traditional, post-GCSE celebration treat. The oldest child chose a culture-filled weekend. The middle-one opted for an adrenaline-fuelled body boarding course. Grunting Teen has his own ideas. His biggest wish, which he shares with all of us, is to see his big brother once more. He was hoping for a fun-filled weekend, hanging out with him in his adopted home-town of Amsterdam. There’s lots you can do at sixteen years old in Amsterdam!

But even with our blessing, this treat will have to wait until the UK amber turns to green and the Dutch deem the Covidy Brits less of a high risk. How much of this is science and how much of it is politics is hard to decide. For now we can only keep our fingers crossed and hope. Yes, it’s a time of big decisions. Just unfortunately sometimes they’re out of our control.

With all legal restrictions in England now lifted, I am gradually re-emerging into ‘normal life’. But like any patient suddenly discharged from the protective routine of a hospital ward, I’ve been struggling with my rehabilitation.

Unlike the Nearly-Beloved, who follows orders with 100% obedience, I prefer to trust my gut instincts. If it feels safe, then I’m happy to do it. But similarly, despite official reassurance, if alarm bells ring, I will quickly walk away from a situation. So, when we suddenly acquire free tickets to a gig, I find myself in two-minds. I’m excited about strengthening my going-out muscles. Yet I’m also nervous about how my lungs, which for over a year have adhered to a 2-metre rule, will cope sharing air in close proximity to the unsanitised.

The Nearly-Beloved ignores my protests. ‘We’re allowed to,’ he tells me. ‘So, it’s fine.’

‘Well, it might be legal,’ I say, ‘But is it sensible?’

He rolls his eyes and points out that the band in question consists of white-haired rockers and so the audience will naturally be of the double-vaxed age group. I, however, am not so sure. What if they are Baby Boomer rebels with conspiracy theories rather than Pfizer jabs? He reassures me that proof of Covid-free status is required so I reluctantly agree.

All goes well as we arrive early and settle into our seats. It’s only when the auditorium fills up and I find myself sharing an arm rest with a total stranger that I have a mini panic attack and retreat quickly behind the comforting security of my face mask. A few songs in, and with no apparent fatalities amongst the mask-free masses, I start to relax. My neighbour smiles encouragement at me. And not just with her eyes. So, gaining courage, I remove my mask and smile back. I feel triumphant. I’ve made massive progress today. Before you know it, I’ll be going to a party.

And, not long afterwards, my post-pandemic fitness is tested to its limit. We are invited to attend a wedding. Not an inferior Zoom version. A real-life variety. With actual people. Lots of them. Not just sitting. But moving around and interacting. And no PPE specified in the dress code. It’s both magnificent and terrifying!

We accept. Then I spend a few fraught days devising a cunning outfit that includes the psychological crutch of a floaty scarf that can be wrapped around my nose at the faintest sniff of danger. But my worries are eased as the venue insists on seeing test results and vaccination certificates. And as the day wears on I become de-sensitised to naked faces in close proximity.

This get-together of two families and their friends is a glimpse both back into our pre-Covid past and forwards into a more hopeful future. Of course, there are some casualties still in convalescence, not quite robust enough to make it through a day of celebrations. They are the older relatives, whose long months of enforced isolation have left them more cautious, less inclined to venture away from safety.

So, this event is a predominantly youthful affair and, as with all weddings, a triumph of hope over statistics. The happiness of the occasion is infectious. For these are germs of joy that no anti-bac can dampen down. Even Grunting Teen breaks into a smile. He’s been sulking, forced into a borrowed suit and tie, and his first pair of non-trainers. But as the festivities continue and his more adult appearance causes the waiter to keep filling his glass with wine rather than juice, he struts his designer dishevelled look with increasing Boy Band conviction.

As for the Nearly-Beloved, he’s been mixing both his loved ones and his drinks. He’s swopped a Lockdown Lambrini for a Freedom Frascati. This results in him whirling me onto the dance floor, undoing months of physio on my shoulder, as he demonstrates his signature jive moves. 

Suddenly, I’m overcome with exhaustion. I’m not used to all this noise, conversation and fun vibes. It’s time for Cinderella to leave the ball. When my head hits the pillow, I have a moment of anxiety as my throat feels sore and dry. Could it be that it wasn’t only the high spirits that were contagious? But then I realise I’ve not talked so much in months, nor met so many people in one go. I’m simply suffering from sensory overload.  So, whilst I may be further ahead in my recuperation process than others, I still might need to take it easy for a bit longer yet…

A sweaty mess of ancient limbs collapses through the door. Grunting Teen, now equipped with basic CPR techniques, courtesy of his summer job, kicks the lifeless body. ‘Muuum, what are you doing?’ he complains, ‘You’ve made me drop my custard cream in my coke. Gross.’

‘I blame the Olympics myself,’ replies the Nearly-Beloved stepping over the corpse. ‘Your mother thinks she’s Mo Farrah’s replacement. Only, it turns out… she isn’t.’

Ignoring them both, I struggle to an upright position and wait for normal breathing to resume. Unlike elite athletes, there’s no team on hand to offer me water, an ice pack or a reviving sports massage. My training programme is sadly deficient and panic-inspired, cobbled together after the discovery of an important email in my spam. The covid-delayed 2020 Sheffield Half Marathon is finally going ahead. Hooray! Until I realise, just how little time I have left to prepare…

Still, anything is possible. If you’re UK swimmer, Matt Richards, then gold medals can be won by working out in an over-sized paddling pool with a bungee rope. So, who am I to complain? Our Olympians had to change their schedules so that they could peak a year later than anticipated. I’ll just have to peak a bit sooner.

On the positive side, unless a new wave of viral misery hits us, there should be some spectators. And how encouraging it is to be cheered on by an excited crowd. None of that at the Opening Ceremony of the 32^nd Olympiad in Tokyo. Instead, a stark reminder of the world pandemic, as the masked competitors parade, distanced but still proud, around an empty stadium.

Yet the spirit of the Games lives on – sportsmanship, personal sacrifice and an unyielding will to reach your goals. You may lose your Taekwondo match when fortunes are reversed in the last few seconds. But you still have to bow to your victor and praise them to the press, despite your breaking heart. You may have to follow the strictest of diets and the most punishing of exercise regimes to compete with the world’s best. But it’s worth it when you’re on the podium singing the national anthem through your tears. And even if your tyre punctures, you’ll cycle on regardless to grab that medal. So, surely, I can forego the Hobnobs for a few weeks and power through my pain?

After all, it’s not the winning but the taking part that counts. I mean, so what if I have to hobble the last few miles home? Maybe I can be a poster girl for the Zimmer frame athlete? ‘If you can still run up the hill, you’re not over it!’ could be my rallying cry. Because sport is also about inspiring others. 

If the majority of members of Team GB this Olympics are women rather than men, then maybe that will encourage more young girls to continue with a sport into adulthood? Watching a female Afghani cyclist competing for the Olympic Refugee team might incite admiration rather than condemnation from her former compatriots. And the message that sometimes it’s better to withdraw from the competition rather than risk your mental and physical health is refreshing to hear. Winning at all costs is no longer what the world needs.

But we do need to keep an open mind. After all, who would’ve believed that skate boarding could be so gripping! Certainly not me in those tedious hours at the local park, watching a younger, less grunting, much clumsier son attempting kickflips. And dancing horses…The Nearly-Beloved has a lot to say about them! But strangely I find the dressage competition quite compelling. As for Grunting Teen, he even switches off the PlayStation to cheer on Sheffield’s own, Shauna Coxsey. ‘I’ve seen her practising at the Climbing Works, innit?’ he says, as if she is his best mate.

And in these games, just as in this pandemic, there are winners and losers. A false start when a camera boat tries to mow you down in the water may not be what you want. But you have to dry yourself off and be ready to take the plunge again. Your steering skills might go out of control. But you still have to get over the line. So, let’s hope that, like our Olympic heroes, Tom Daley and Matty Lee, Covid cases will take a spectacular dive. Because, if that happens, then maybe borders will open up for us. And all those who’ve been separated from their loved ones overseas will finally get to see them again. That’s definitely a gold medal worth having.

‘Mum, why can’t I go?’ my surly teenager protests. ‘You’re worse than a nanny state, innit? Whatever happened to Freedom Day?’

What indeed, I wonder, as my phone lights up with a text from the GPs reminding me that face masks should still be worn for appointments. Truth be told, nothing much seems to have changed since July 19^th. The supermarkets are still full of veiled faces and pedestrians automatically jump into the road to avoid close contact. There’s been no wild partying on our street nor any inclination to go clubbing. But, maybe that’s my age…

Grunting Teen, however, is keen to maximise his socialising opportunities. The hot summer weather has seen him meeting up every day with ‘the gang’. The problem is that the gang members are largely unknown to me or have grown so much in lockdown that they are now completely unrecognisable. Surely that Hulk lookalike isn’t little Sam from Y1? And that Love Island wannabe can’t be sweet Melissa from the Infants’ Nativity play? But at least I know where they live and am still on nodding terms with their parents.

It’s just I can’t bring myself to trust that Ryan, who seems to have appointed himself unofficial leader of the group. Despite his messy, blonde hair and habit of speaking in half sentences, he’s managed to cast a spell over the others. Everyone wants to join his inner Cabinet, despite the fact that he promotes and demotes people on a whim. However half-baked his plans, his lackies follow unquestioningly. Playing basketball in the dark? So, what if we lose all the balls? A 15km route-march without water bottles? Just as well it buckets it down to counteract the dehydration.

And his latest campaign is a camping trip to the Peaks. The Nearly-Beloved, whilst impressed by Ryan being dropped off in a Porsche, is not impressed by the lack of clarity on this blueprint for disaster. ‘That boy has got more money than sense,’ he mutters, ‘probably thinks there’ll be a butler waiting outside his yurt, not a rampaging bull or an irate farmer. And besides, what campsite is fool enough to allow a bunch of sixteen-year-olds to stay there?’

But some businesses are desperate for customers and, apparently, if we don’t let Grunting Teen go, we’ll be ruining his summer and his future chance of hobnobbing with the elite at Ryan’s mansion with its in-house cinema and games room. So, in the end, worn down by his constant canvassing and the oppressive heat, we cave in – with some conditions. A list of contact details and no wild water swimming.

To drum home the point, I show him news reports of three recent tragedies. He looks shocked. But he has a teenage brain. Exercising caution is not one of its priorities. Nor is healthy eating.

‘Can I take some Pot Noodles?’ he asks.

‘What, not bacon and eggs?’ gasps the Nearly-Beloved, who has fond memories of his Scouting days, where true leadership meant a hearty fry-up.

‘Ryan said we were going to take his camping stove… But I don’t think he knows how it works…’

The Nearly-Beloved rolls his eyes. ‘Your head of operations seems less than competent. How are you going to boil water for your nutritious supper then?

‘I’ll take some Oreos,’ replies Ryan’s spin doctor, demonstrating a reactive rather than proactive approach to problems.

‘And what time do you intend setting off?’ continues his father as if he’s auditioning for Prime-Minister’s question time.

‘Hmm, good point,’ says Grunting Teen, scrolling through his messages. ‘This one says 11am… Ah, but that one says 10 am… Or… is it now after lunch?’

It appears that Ryan is a super spreader of confusion. But to avoid focusing on flawed planning, Grunting Teen adeptly shifts the responsibility.

‘Mum, what have you done with my sleeping bag?’

I sigh, then go and retrieve it, along with his rucksack into which I quietly slip a couple of apples, a bag of nuts and a juice box.

Just then his phone vibrates. ‘It’s Ryan,’ he says, ‘The Peaks is off. Apparently, all the campsite’s staff have been ‘pinged’ so they’ve got to shut down.’

I utter a prayer of gratitude and start to unpack his things.

‘Mum, what are you doing?’ he shouts, ‘The Peaks is off. But we’re going to camp out in Ryan’s garden instead.’

Oh well. A spur-of-the-moment solution. Leadership of sorts. A win for this set of parents. Not sure how it’ll go down with the others…

This year we’ve won the jackpot of an actual summer getaway! We’re not a gambling family, so anything that involves a passport has already been vetoed. The traffic light lottery system is not for us. Wales is as foreign as we dare to get. And we know all about UK weather, so expectations are suitably low. Still there is a sense of freedom in the air, especially for Grunting Teen, who is ‘well pleased’ that the school term has not yet ended and he’s escaping before the holidays officially begin.

The upside to missing out on last year’s trip to the now red-flagged France is that we didn’t have to deal with the Nearly Beloved’s pre-departure checklist. Unlike the government, he doesn’t trust the citizens of his household to behave in a responsible manner. Guidelines and suggested advice are not for him. Instead, boot space is allocated well in advance. Requests to include frisbees or beach balls need to be submitted for approval. Both denied. And bags have to be packed the night before.

After so many years of marriage I’ve almost reached the required standard, although the hairdryer only just passes inspection. Grunting Teen, however, fails miserably on his first solo attempt at shoving things randomly in a case. ‘Why have you got three packets of Oreos and two phone chargers but only one pair of jeans and no underpants?’ asks the Nearly-Beloved despairingly. The teenager opts for a non-confrontational approach. He simply shrugs and returns to his more important texting duties, occasionally glancing up from his screen with a half-concealed smile as his father finishes the job for him.

But the next morning he’s in for a shock. There’s no lying in until legs-eleven. We’re on the road by 9am. Estimated arrival time at our rustic log cabin – early afternoon. A clickety click at the garden gate and we unload the car to create our own full house. Freedom Day may not yet have arrived in Pembrokeshire but the view of lush fields and rugged coastline gives me a sense of deliverance from the last sixteen months of virtual imprisonment. Unfortunately, there’s a reason the grass is so green…the heavens open and our holiday soundtrack becomes the drumming of rain on the roof rather than cicadas on the terrace.

Grunting Teen is all for staying indoors. He’s happy with the hand he’s been dealt. He’s recreated his comfort cave and been conducting his blossoming romance online… until the wi-fi fails. So, to avoid an adolescent meltdown, it’s time to cash in the metaphorical chips and go looking for the deep-fried variety. Plus, I’m not expecting to do any cooking this holiday – I’ve been promised a seat at the high-stakes table. So, we don cagoules and walking shoes to hike down to the nearby village. However, today our luck is out. No steak for us. There is only one restaurant. Despite being half empty, it’s fully booked. The manager is most apologetic. ‘Can’t get the staff, see?’ he explains, ‘No more summer jobs for EU students. And a pingdemic amongst the locals. I know what I’d like to do with that bloomin’ Track and Trace app, isn’t it?

Before the air turns blue, we make reservations for the remaining nights and head to the sea-front sell-all store. Deeming it safer to leave the Nearly-Beloved to the mercy of the crashing waves, Grunting Teen and I venture inside. As my hand hovers over a tin of corned beef, my son swipes it out of reach, placing an army of pizzas, a frisbee and two beachballs in my basket instead.

‘Won’t be needing a mask from the 19th,’ I say, making conversation with the cashier.

‘English, is it?’ she replies, with a hint of disapproval. ‘Yes, well your Bojo’s a bit of a Russian roulette player. Good luck with that! Our Mr Drakeford is less of a betting man.’

But the following day, the odds are for once in our favour. The sun comes out and the air warms up to Mediterranean temperatures. So, what if there’s no air-con and that a swim in the sea is less of a dip in a warm bath and more of a brain freeze in a plunge pool? So, what if our long-awaited Freedom Day fails to live up to expectations? For now, freedom is a blue sky, the sound of seagulls and the joy of a long-awaited break.

It’s coming home! It’s coming home! Football’s almost coming home…
Well, it’s coming into my garden if nothing else. This week my lawn has been littered with balls flying from all directions. It seems as if the neighbourhood children have nothing better to do all day than kick goals over the fence. But, why aren’t they at school?
‘Testing positive, innit?’ announces Grunting Teen with the authority of one who has checked his student email for a change. ‘The whole of Year 8 is off. It’s a joke.’
But it’s certainly not a joke for Darling Daughter. She’s currently in the ‘at risk’ category and has only just had her first vaccination. So, when not-so-super-in-law comes into contact with a colleague displaying Covid symptoms and is forced to isolate, it’s understandable that she’s anxious. Yet if this were to happen a month later, she and her double-vaxed husband would have no need to quarantine.
Is it the data or the date that makes the difference? I’ve given up trying to understand. But for now, those with two jabs are the summer holiday winners. There’s nothing more I’d love to do than book a break in the sun. My body craves the guaranteed sunshine, sparkling blue sea and cloudless skies of the Med. But our under-18 is, of yet, not eligible to be Pfizered, so for now we’re sticking with a week in Pembrokeshire.
I’ve packed my swimsuit with a tub of goose fat, just in case. And I’ve been reading up on the Welsh rules and regulations. Because although for now we are still a United Kingdom, it appears the virus behaves differently depending on whose soil you’re standing on. The Scots for sure don’t like the Mancunians at the moment although whether that’s to do with the Gallagher brothers or the city’s high infection rates is unclear. What is clear is that Scotland’s spiralling outbreak has been linked to the Euros and that it’s not just football that’s coming home.
On the Wimbledon front it’s a slightly more sedate affair, with beer spilling roars replaced by polite applause. For a moment we believe the Ladies’ Singles trophy might come home too. But we have our in-house commentator on hand to explain why that’s not going to happen. And whilst Grunting Teen glazes over at his father’s detailed analysis of lobs and volleys, I marvel at how the Nearly-Beloved switches between sports with such in-depth knowledge. Who would have believed his expertise covers such a wide range? Or is it just that he has the gift of bewitching us with soundbites?
The latest favourite – ‘We must learn to live with the virus,’ – comes from our ex-Chancellor, who’s accustomed to prioritising the country’s economy. He’s been playing ministerial musical chairs and is now in charge of our health and in favour of lifting all legal curbs on July 19th. It all seems too good to be true. But if it means I’m one step closer to seeing my older son again, then I’m all for it. ‘He’s coming home. He’s coming home’ is the only chant I’m interested in. And any maestro who can magic a long-awaited family reunion from a borders-closed EU top hat wins my vote. It’s just I have this awful feeling that, when it comes to pulling the tablecloth of restrictions out from under the Corona dinner set, things might all just crash and break.
Whilst New South Wales, Australia, with its recently reported 18 Covid cases is locking down, the UK with its 27,000 new additions is opening up. The question is, which of the two countries is the one that’s got it upside down? Does our massive vaccination up-take mean we’ve weakened the chain between infection rates and hospitalisations? Are we kangaroos bounding towards freedom or should we be koalas clambering for safety?
Yes, something’s coming home. It’s coming home. The problem is we’re not yet sure what that something is…

Grunting Teen is learning that people don’t always practise what they preach.

‘Mum, why do you say you’ve spent ages putting the shopping away, when that’s clearly not true?’

I raise an eyebrow as he opens the fridge and an avalanche of dairy products cascades to the floor.

‘And, how come out-of-date yoghourts are fine for me to eat, when you never touch them?’

‘Plus, you’ve put the cooked meat above the raw, which would have you shut down if the inspectors came’ he continues, adding to my growing list of Health and Safety violations.

I resist the urge to poke him in the eye. I mean, it’s great that, thanks to his summer job, he’s in possession of a Food Preparation Level 2 certificate. Unfortunately, he now considers himself the fount of knowledge on all subjects kitchen-related.

So, he’s refusing to towel-dry any pots and pans, deeming it deeply unhygienic. Of course, the science proves he’s right. But as the Nearly-Beloved won’t buy a dishwasher, and Grunting Teen gets through an entire dinner service with his incessant snacking, then airdrying isn’t an option. Still, whilst it’s a welcome change to be worrying about non-Covid bugs, I haven’t got the time or energy to pre-wash, wash, disinfect and rinse every plate. After all, surely hardened Fairy Liquid counteracts caked-on ketchup? And his siblings survived to adulthood despite the house being a hotbed of salmonella…

Unbeknownst to him, I’ve done Knife Skills Level 1 which includes a section on filleting irritating know-it-alls. But instead, taking a deep breath and resolving to be a better role model, I enquire about his plans for the day.

‘Just hanging with some mates,’ he says. ‘And don’t forget you promised me pancakes after my shift.’

Did I now? He’ll be lucky! However, he has been working hard. So, I hide my annoyance and offer him a lift. He looks unimpressed.

‘Global warming. I’m not the G7. I don’t need a private jet to get around. You’ve got to walk the walk, innit?’

I nod, albeit thinking that his speedy refusal probably has less to do with climate change and more to do with not wanting his mother to find out what he’s up to. And sure enough, he’s been hiding something from us. But no need for security cameras when you have a ‘mum radar’. It turns out the ‘mates’ he’s been ‘hanging with’ are singular and female.

‘You’re going to have to have the talk.’ I tell the Nearly-Beloved when I break the news. ‘Bit too late for that,’ replies my husband.

I nearly drop the bowl I’m drying. Is this a page one scoop? Is my boy going to have to resign from Sixth Form? And how did the chief-in-command find out before me? He’s usually the last to know. Unless he’s part of the cover-up…

But the Nearly-Beloved carries on unperturbed, ‘Yes, breaching social distancing rules. Not staying in his school bubble. Disgraceful. But to be honest, even I have given up now! If it’s okay for the health minister, then we can’t really object, can we?’

Later that day Grunting Teen returns from his job with a spring in his step and the news that his ‘friend’ is going to start at the restaurant too. ‘Oh, has she had an interview then?’ I ask. ‘Nah,’ he replies, tapping his nose, ‘Chumocracy, innit? Good wages too. Hopefully I’ll make enough money for that trip to Amsterdam in the autumn.’

He’s looking forward to visiting his brother, who’s offered him a post GCSEs, parent-free break there. ‘Don’t get too excited,’ I tell him, ‘The Netherlands are still on the amber list, so you’d have to quarantine.’

‘Really?’ he says, ‘But those football VIPs haven’t quarantined, have they?’

I shrug my shoulders as no sensible answer comes to mind. So, to distract him from the topic and any further Health and Safety infractions, I serve him up his favourite pancakes.

‘I thought you might not make these, mum’ he grins, ice cream and chocolate sauce dripping down his chin.

And yes, it did cross my mind. But, like a good citizen, I always deliver on my promises.

‘It’s a healing miracle’ gasps the consultant at the fracture clinic as he signs me off his list. And it’s great that my bones have knitted together so fast and I can nearly straighten my arm above my head again. But how come it feels like hundreds of teaspoons are tapping on my tendons and a random movement still has me screaming in pain?

‘You can’t expect things to revert to normal straightaway. Your body has to recover first. Try and focus on the positive,’ the Nearly-Beloved tells me, making me wonder if he’s accidentally been reading my self-help books? More likely he’s just bored of my moaning.

In turn I’m bored of Covid 19 and its endless variants. After fifteen months of leading a limited life, even though we appear to be in recovery, there are after-pains and trauma, because not everyone’s healing miracle happens at the same speed.

Some have discharged themselves straight away and are out on the town every night, raring to make up for lost time. Others refuse to leave their beds. Even though double-vaxed, they still disinfect their shopping and guard their distance. They’ve been fed a diet of pandemic pessimism for so long now that they can’t imagine any other reality.

Indeed, Freedom Day has come and gone. And, whilst our cousins on the continent are jetting off for holidays in the sun, we’re mainly marooned on our isolated island of infection. And just in case we don’t buy into this fatalistic future, let’s predict a fourth wave and ten years of booster jabs and travel restrictions. I turn off the news quickly, aware that energy goes where attention flows.

Instead, I decide to be more mindful of my surroundings and invite my boys to an ‘Open Gardens Day’. Grunting Teen snorts his refusal. He has better things to do now. A hike with his mates in the Peaks. ‘Mind you don’t go near open water,’ I tell him. He rolls his eyes and leaves me to take the Nearly-Beloved on a stroll round the neighbourhood.

This turns out to be a mistake. Manicured lawns. Thriving flower beds. Colourful shrubbery. A far cry from the wild jungle at the back of our house. The Nearly-Beloved is about to sink into despair. But a beer and the footie help to revive him as well as my promise to do some much overdue weeding.

A few hours in and I’m about to pull up a giant-beanstalk cow-parsley lookalike when Grunting Teen returns, surveys the scene and screams at me to stop. ‘Giant Hogweed, mum,’ he explains, ‘don’t touch it. Really dangerous. Causes burns and blisters. Can even make you blind if its sap goes in your eyes. Don’t you remember? Alnwick Castle. 2015. The Poison Garden.’

And yes, I do. Cannabis plants, hemlock and deadly nightshade. Fancy that! Not good news we’ve got a biohazard growing in the garden but on the positive side my attempts at culture have finally paid off. In fact, I’m so impressed that I even omit to comment on his suspiciously wet hair. Instead, I don a full hazmat suit and safely dispose of the offender.

‘Well exciting, innit?’ says the adolescent who obviously enjoys an element of danger. But I focus on the positive. He’s no longer a social recluse. He’s been out in the fresh air. And he’s come home in one piece.

We opt not to tell the Nearly-Beloved about our hogweed exploits. As it is he’s already watching the news and depressed that more summer music events are likely to be cancelled. ‘That’s the second year running they’ll have called off Tramlines,’ he moans. But then it’s announced the festival might go ahead as part of a pilot event. ‘Hmmph, unless we see another surge in cases…’ is his upbeat reply.

And yes, maybe the new variant is spreading but that doesn’t mean to say the panic has to spread as well. So, when a few days later I spot two more of the suspicious weeds, I don’t wait around, but deal with them quickly and effectively. And even if my shoulder twinges, I remain focused on the positive. After all, a month ago, I was still wearing a sling. Sometimes you’ve just got to believe in miracles.