The Corona Chronicles: Week 51: A year on

 

March 22nd 2020. Mother’s Day. The last day I truly feel like a real mum. The last day I hug my daughter with unconscious unawareness. For, despite the knowledge that a pandemic is fast approaching and that lockdown is imminent, how can I possibly envisage that, a year on, so much of my life that I take for granted will be changed beyond recognition?

‘See you soon,’ I say waving her off with what now seems negligent nonchalance. The next day we are ‘ordered’ to stay at home and my mothering career takes a very different turn. Sure, my oldest two are adults, but that’s when the rewards of parenthood finally kick in. Entertaining evenings around the dinner table, with catering finally outsourced to the younger generation. Trips abroad conveniently classed as a ‘must’ rather than a ‘luxury’ in order to be able to see the middle child, who’s moved his life to tourist-friendly Amsterdam. Sightseeing combined with interesting adult conversation. The realisation that you actually enjoy your children’s company now that you no longer have to pretend to like S Club 7 or Pikachu.

Then suddenly these feasts are snatched away. And all you are left with is a few crumbs. The chance to see Darling Daughter’s face from behind a pane of glass. Hurried walks in wintry weather. Eating soggy sandwiches together but at a distance. How are you to know what’s really going on inside her head? Yes, you can see that something’s up. But without that girls’ night-in, watching rom-coms with a confessional glass of wine or two, the truth is less likely to out, and mum’s magic, cure-all hug is out of bounds.

As for my Lost Boy, he’s changed from Pokémon to poker face. Everything is always ‘fine’. Is that pallid complexion and serious expression a result of his mother’s imagination or simply poor lighting? But why then, when Skype interrogations get too close for comfort, does the internet connection always seem to break? How I miss those walks along the Dutch canals or companionable drives in the Peaks when, with no direct eye contact, all manner of secrets unfold…

And yes, I have my youngest. I can still be a hands-on mother to him. But truth be told, Grunting Teen is at that age when he’d much prefer me to be hands-off. He needs his siblings to distract me whilst he gets up to no good behind my back. He needs silent disapproval for his street-cred rather than overt smothering for his mum’s neediness. No wonder he’s been begging for a pet all this time!

So, Mother’s Day 2021 comes and goes, and with it, the carefully chosen card and bouquet of flowers from Darling Daughter, the badly wrapped, last-minute box of chocolates from Grunting Teen and the hastily written, sister-reminded WhatsApp message from the Lost Boy.

It may not be exactly what I had in mind but somehow this year’s celebration has more poignancy for me. The fact that my children recognise my efforts in the mothering department makes me realise that, even despite government-imposed distancing, our bonds are still there. We are all doing our best.

Indeed, we are the lucky ones. For all things pass. And an end is now in sight. Unlike those whose mothers have been lost to them through illness, tragedy or political power-mongering, we live to celebrate another Mother’s Day next year. If nothing else, the pandemic has made us appreciate the bonds of family. For there is no price tag on the love we feel for our nearest and dearest. And no joy greater than when we are finally reunited. And I can be a real mum once more.

A right royal rift

Families, royal or otherwise, are strange beasts. Sometimes you can’t live with them and sometimes you can’t live without them.

At the moment things are tense between Grunting Teen and his father. Someone didn’t inform the Nearly Beloved that their free-trial computer virus protection had run out. So now it’s all a question of security.

‘I bet my games have been compromised,’ wails the teenager, seemingly unconcerned about his school files, which were the reason we bought him a laptop in the first place.

‘Well, you should take a bit of responsibility for yourself and not rely on your parents all the time,’ mutters the Nearly-Beloved forking out for a new subscription. ‘You cost us a fortune.’

‘Excuse me,’ interrupts the disgruntled adolescent, ‘when was the last time you gave me any pocket money? You’ve literally cut me off.’

And while this is an exaggeration, it’s true that we haven’t been handing him his allowance, mainly because he hasn’t asked and also because he’s not been going anywhere to spend it.

It’s the time of his life when he should be hanging out with friends and gaining independence but instead, he’s trapped indoors with his ‘unwoke’ parents and it can’t be doing his mental health much good.

‘Grumpy Git’s always having a go at me,’ he complains. ‘He’s totally unsupportive. He doesn’t understand how difficult it’s been and how trapped I’ve felt in lockdown. He says my hair’s too long and my trousers are too short and that I’m not working hard enough. But he doesn’t offer to help me.’

‘Well, that’s not how I recall it,’ says the Nearly-Beloved when I broach the subject with him that evening. ‘The boy’s lost his sense of humour. It was just a bit of banter. I didn’t want his mates taking the mickey out of him at school. That’s all. And I did offer to buy him new clothes online and give his hair a trim.’

I nod in sympathy for both my boys. Wires can sometimes get mixed up and meaning lost in translation. Grunting Teen hasn’t had a haircut since late summer so maintaining eye contact is becoming increasingly hard. He’s also made excellent use of this third quarantine to have another growth spurt. But whilst a new pair of jeans wouldn’t go amiss, we all know what happened last time the Nearly-Beloved was let loose on my fringe…

‘And you have to admit,’ continues my indignant husband, ‘the Prince of Laziness is hardly pulling out all the stops for his exams. As for expecting me to help him, I haven’t got a clue about Psychology.’

That’s the answer in a nutshell, I think to myself, whilst watching the feuding pair bolt through their mealtimes in simmering silence.  My granny would have banged both their heads together to make them see sense. But addressing each other by correct title might be a better starting point. After all, it’s important to be sensitive about the names we use. And listening to each other and talking through our problems is certainly more productive than the blame game or cold-shoulder approach. Still, sometimes what a relationship needs is space.

So, it’s just as well that school has started again and Grunting Teen is out of the house all day. It’s doing him good to finally be back in the classroom and mixing with his peers. And absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. The house seems strangely empty without him. No hourly raids on the fridge. No music blasting from his room. I even bake his favourite flapjack so that the house smells more welcoming when he comes home.

In fact, Grunting Teen was even smiling as he came through the door the other day. Was that because he caught his father peering out from behind the curtains, watching for his return?

‘Have you missed me, dad?’ he asks, trousers up by his calves and hair flopping over his grin.

‘Like a hole in the head’, his father replies.

But there’s been a definite thaw in the atmosphere. Time and distance are great healers. You see, families, royal or otherwise, are founded on love. So, even when you feel let down, you always know they’ve got your back.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 49: Leaving it to the experts

For now, we’re leaving it to the experts. Covid cases are going down as vaccination numbers rise. We’re still trapped but hopefully not for much longer. The sun is shining, my mood is lifting, and spring-cleaning can wait as I venture outside to admire the snowdrops.

I am not the only one. 

The kittens from next door are outside, frolicking in our overgrown grass. They’ve even enticed Grunting Teen from his pizza-strewn cave. ‘Why can’t we have a pet?’ he moans, ‘Everyone else’s got one in lockdown. You’re so mean.’

To prove this point, the Nearly-Beloved, self-confessed cat-hater, bats the inquisitive creatures away with his newspaper, muttering about ‘mess on the lawn’ and ‘finding the hosepipe.’

But a few days later, the cold snap returns, the media announces a South American virus mutation and my mood falls as we’re confined indoors once more. I’ve still got no work but neither have I got the motivation to shift the dusty clutter-mountains piling up in every room.

Instead, I’m watching repeats of Modern Family whilst the Nearly-Beloved reads the latest scare-mongering headlines and Grunting Teen stuffs his face.

‘What was that?’ he asks, spitting out a mouthful of popcorn as something streaks across the carpet.

My heart longs for it to be a gold-medallist spider but the tail that flashes by reveals the awful truth. I scream. The Nearly-Beloved lowers his paper. ‘That’s what happens when you let standards of hygiene slip,’ he tuts.

‘It moves well fast’ remarks Grunting Teen, displaying a sudden David Attenborough interest in wildlife.

But despite running my way through this pandemic, I am a mere Mo Farrah’s granny compared to this Usain Bolt of the mouse world. My efforts to catch it are as effective as the government’s track and trace system. I know it’s out there but I can’t pin it down.

‘Ah mum, it’s peeping out from under the fire grate. It’s really cute.  But it’s trembling. All your screaming’s frightened it.’

The Nearly-Beloved, however, has remained calm. ‘We need a strategy,’ he announces.

Oh yes? A road map for the removal of rodents? But first we have to identify where it’s come from. Because the last thing we want is for the situation to escalate. Pandemic experience has shown that any delay could be fatal. We need to shut down the borders immediately.

Old terraces and gaping floorboards attract these unwelcome visitors with the promise of warmth and a ready supply of food, courtesy of Grunting Teen. In fact, we’ve had this issue before. We dealt with it. But we knew we’d never eradicate it completely.

‘I’ll get that mouse-trap then, shall I?’ I ask.

Grunting Teen is horrified until I reassure him this isn’t China or Burma. No force will be necessary.

Rifling through the chaos of the kitchen cupboards, I come across cans of wasp spray from ‘Covid: The Prequel’ when everyone was panic-buying and that was the nearest I could get to antibac gel. I console myself with the fact that at least we’ll have insect-free barbecues in ‘Covid:The Return of the Burnt Sausage.’

I finally find the humane trap I’m looking for and walk gingerly back into the living room to find the mouse on its hind legs, snuffling the as yet unused Christmas ‘candle in a jar’. This critter’s getting cocky now and its flamboyant salsa around the rug suggests it’s a Brazilian variant.

For a moment we’re all spell-bound. Has life in lockdown really become so tedious that watching vermin snacking is the height of entertainment?  But whilst little Micky is ‘eating out to help out’ – and it has to be said, he is doing an excellent job of hoovering up after Grunting Teen – I load the trap with some Cheddar.

Mais, zut alors! Could this be a continental cousin? The mouse sniffs our 76% effective British offering disdainfully. It obviously wants to hold out for the 95% proof Swiss version. In the meantime, it jumps into the unlit candle for a relaxing spa roll-around, occasionally twitching its whiskers in ecstasy. And part of me understands its contentment as the scent of cranberry and cinnamon takes me too back to happier times.

But, before we can all be reunited, order has to be restored. So, the next day, with no sign of any captured enemy, deep-cleaning and blocking-up-of-holes are top of the agenda. On the plus side, the house is now sparkling and I’ve found three months’ worth of teenage socks. Then, feeling high from inhaling so many chemicals, I go outside for some fresh air.

The Nearly Beloved is there with the kittens. All three look remarkably self-satisfied. 

‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

‘Oh, the problem’s definitely been sorted now,’ replies my husband, bending down and uncharacteristically patting the felines.

Ah well, sometimes you do have to leave it to the experts…

The Corona Chronicles: Week 48: Dodgy directions?

So, we now have a roadmap out of lockdown. This is excellent news. I like a good map. The problem, so the Nearly-Beloved informs me, is that not everyone is capable of reading them. And this is no little jaunt out. It’s more of an epic road trip.

Hopefully the driver and the navigator know what they’re doing. However, quite often the trek to the final destination can include unforeseen obstacles and diversions, so by the end of the journey no one is speaking to each other. I mean, it’s not as if we signed up for this National Lampoons Vacation. Grunting Teen for sure would never willingly spend the next three months caged in a car with his parents. But sadly, he has no choice. And his wailing ‘are we there yet?’ falls on deaf ears as his father drives on relentlessly. Nothing is going to prevent the Nearly-Beloved reaching his goal. Want to stop? No chance – on we go past service stations and laybys. Feeling sick? Here’s a bag. Or hang your head out of the window.

But wait a minute. What if the route’s been miscalculated and we suddenly find ourselves lost? The Nearly-Beloved refuses to ask for directions. So, does that mean we’ll end up driving round and round in lockdown circles until we run out of steam?

Apparently not, because this is a scientific road map we’re using. A satnav of data not dates. Hooray for the science! Unfortunately, satnavs have a worrying record of lorries wedged under low bridges and cars floating down rivers as a result of that ‘convenient ford’ short-cut. And this satnav is literally glitching with its Top of the Pandemic Pops countdown

At number five is 8th March and all schools re-open. Well, the buildings are opening their doors at least. But instead of text books, Grunting Teen is issued with a kit for a lateral flow test. ‘What? You mean I’ve got to shove a swab up my nose and down my throat?’ he asks, unimpressed until he realises he’ll miss double Maths as a result.  And I’ll miss him. But thankfully, whilst he can look forward to wearing a dog-breath facemask all day, my treat from the government is to throw away my Covid-issue thermos flask and finally sit down for a civilised take-out coffee with a friend.

Moving up one place to number four we welcome 29th March with open arms when the magnificent rule of six returns. Remember to pace yourself, as unaccustomed amounts of conversation could be overwhelming. It’s still outdoors but, hey, the pandemic has turned us all into Wim Hof Icemen who can withstand socialising in all weather conditions. And on the plus side, all those months of ‘exercising with one other person’ means calories in credit for the Easter egg hunt.

Making it into the top three and a definite favourite is the glorious 12th April. However, what to prioritise? A visit to the hairdresser or the beer garden? It’s a tough decision. And it only gets better as we head up the charts to 17th May when all outdoor restrictions could be lifted and up to six people can marvel at how you’ve totally redesigned the interior of your house.

Then by the end of that month, with vaccinations promised to all over fifties, the streets will be awash with oldies brandishing their passports and certificates as they Zimmer-frame their way onto international flights.

And yes, younger souls may have to queue until 21st June to hear that number one recording of ‘You’ve reached your final destination.’ But with any luck there’ll be no ‘Thelma and Louise’ driving-off-a-cliff ending.

It all sounds very promising until we remember all the promises we’ve heard before. But for now, I’m sticking with this latest ride. I might be a little dubious about the driving team’s credentials but I’m desperate to visit the sights along the way. Hopefully the satnav will recalibrate if we take a wrong turn and then it’s just a question of a new post-lockdown roadmap…

The Corona Chronicles: Week 47: Celebration not hibernation

So, I hibernated my way through January, pretending it was a normal year and my staying in was just a reaction to overdoing it in the festive season. But now it’s a different matter altogether because it’s time for celebration.

For a start it’s my wedding anniversary. Usually the Nearly-Beloved is instructed to take a day off work and, after a leisurely breakfast and exchange of gifts, we head to the cinema, have a late pub lunch and maybe a bit of retail therapy. Then we go home, dress up and hit a fancy eatery for a five-star meal. This year, however, is rather different.

‘What do you mean, the Amazon package hasn’t arrived in time?’ I snarl as I’m handed a wilted bouquet hurriedly acquired from the local garage. And although the country walk the Nearly-Beloved has planned for me is very scenic, his picnic of squashed ham sandwiches and a can of lager whilst sheltering under a tree from a downpour is not what I’d dreamed of. When we return four hours later I haven’t the energy to cook a romantic meal, so it’s either my signature corned-beef hash or a take-away curry.

I’m still feeling the effects of the vindaloo several days later. But at least I can put my lack of sleep down to indigestion rather than the usual lockdown anxiety. Just as well I’m awake when all hell lets loose. Huge bangs reverberate in every direction. Are we under attack? What the heck is going on? I shake my snoring hubby back to consciousness to check the SAS aren’t about to break down the door.

‘It’s fireworks,’ he mutters, ‘who on earth is setting them off at midnight?’ As he closes his eyes on the spectacle, I stand mesmerised by the window. A whole rainbow of colours fills the night sky, bringing a sense of wonder and excitement. Then I have a moment of clarity. Of course – it’s Chinese New Year. Normally there would be a bit of a run up to it, a couple of dragons parading around the town centre, the chance to watch some traditional dancing and acrobatics in a show at the City Hall, whilst the Chinese restaurants would be booked up well in advance. Still, at least the local community are seeing off the most-unpopular-in-history ‘Year of the Rat’ and welcoming in the Ox. Apparently, it’s a year that embodies patience, a ‘reap-what-you-sow’ kind of beast. So maybe the government’s more careful approach to easing restrictions is in keeping with the Ox’s slow, steady energy. If we can just hold faith for a little longer, the unprecedented changes that the Rat year brought us might yet yield positive new beginnings.

Next up is Valentine’s Day. And surprisingly, without its normal commercial hype, it turns out to be quite enjoyable. No pressure to eat out and spend a fortune on forced romance. Instead, we settle down in front of the TV in comfy lounge pants that expand to accommodate the delicious but reasonably priced supermarket ‘meal deal’.

Grunting Teen might not have fully embraced that particular occasion. ‘I know it’s from you, Mum,’ he tells me, rolling his eyes when a mysterious card appears for him. Still, it doesn’t stop him from snaffling his chocolate heart and most of mine too.

But he’s certainly keen to celebrate the next important date – Pancake Day. With strawberry sauce, ice-cream, maple syrup and a squirt of synthetically sweet cream, the sugar rush in itself makes the world seem a happier place.

And the change in the weather is also making a difference to our mood. Icy January and freezing February had their benefits, with the magical illusion that we were snowed in rather than locked down but now there’s a breath of spring in the air. Snowdrops and crocuses are poking their heads above the ground. Exercising with a friend is now more about leisure and less about survival. And there’s a hint of sunshine mixed in with the showers.

Even the nightly news is starting to have a celebratory feel to it as Covid cases fall whilst vaccination numbers rise. There may still be some way to go but could it be that the world is slowly coming out of its long hibernation?

The Corona Chronicles: Week 46: At least it’s not the Black Death

I am so sick of this pandemic! I think I’ve finally reached breaking point. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve not been able to hug my daughter since Christmas. Maybe it’s the strain of keeping friendships going online or in the great outdoors. Or more likely, it’s the realisation that Grunting Teen was only fourteen the last time he saw his elder brother and soon he’ll be sixteen.

Before I know it, the low-level anxiety I’ve kept in check all these months has escaped and erupted into a full-blown breakdown. I’m sobbing hot, noisy tears and terrifying the life out of the Nearly-Beloved. He can cope with the usual verbal abuse, hysteria and flying saucepans but a crying woman is beyond his capabilities.

‘You’re just tired,’ he tells me ineffectually patting my shoulder, ‘You’ve been working too hard.’

‘But I’ve got no work at the moment. That’s the problem,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got no routine. I’m making it up as I go along. There’s no purpose to my life.’

‘But you do a great job of looking after us,’ he reminds me.

And normally he’d gain Brownie points for being so sweet but I’m suddenly overcome by an irrational fury, blaming him for being so law-abiding that he won’t allow Darling Daughter to step foot inside the house.

‘Why won’t you let her be in our bubble?’ I wail, ‘It’s so unfair. Everyone else is breaking the rules.’

He makes to pat my other shoulder then thinks better of it.

‘I know it’s hard,’ he says, ‘but we’ve got to think of other people not just ourselves. Look it’s only for a little longer. There’s light at the end of the tunnel.’

I sigh. I know he’s right but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

As the Nearly-Beloved makes a swift exit with that British cure-all promise of ‘a nice cup of tea’, Grunting Teen nervously pokes his head round the door.

‘Are you alright, mum?’ he asks, looking at my blotchy face and red eyes, ‘You know, me and dad need you to be our light. Don’t let yourself get dragged into a hole.’

For goodness sake! Is he really parroting back the wise words I spoke to him only last week? And how annoying and unhelpful they sound, when all I want to do is wallow in my misery. Seeing the expression on my face, he too retreats quickly, leaving me to self-indulge in weeping. But after a while all the bawling has given me a headache, my nose is blocked and I’m finding it hard to breathe. Stress lowers your cortisol levels, making you more prone to infection. I need to get a grip quickly or, if I’m not careful, I will have cried myself into Covid.

The tea helps. As does my maternal sense of duty. I’d promised to test Grunting Teen on his History and I know that the PS4 will triumph over revision if I don’t pull myself together. At least I’m luckier than some friends who have to supervise their primary-aged children with home-schooling every day. How they do it and hold down a job as well is beyond me.

And as Grunting Teen rattles off facts and figures about ‘Medicine through the ages’, I find myself feeling relatively fortunate. Do you realise that in the Middle Ages only half the population made it through to adulthood? And when the Black Death was in full force, there was no free health care, antibiotics or ventilators on hand. No, the best you could hope for then, was for a local wise-woman to waft a posy of flowers over you and for a benevolent God to take pity on your soul.

As I leave the teenager to do battle with French verbs, I get a phone call. It’s from a friend I haven’t spoken to in ages. She suffers from chronic fatigue, so we often just text because conversations tire her. But today she’s in good form. Despite her illness she’s been holding down a job and she makes me laugh with some of her ‘behind the work scene’ stories. She lives on her own and has been shielding since the start of the pandemic. As we talk, I realise that she’s had no physical contact with another human being since March 2020 yet she’s still keeping positive.

I’m glad now that this is just a voice call and that she can’t witness the state of my face. Compared to her, I have it so easy. And yes, I’m still sick of this pandemic. But even without the help of leeches and bloodletting I’m going to hang on a little bit longer.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 45: Rites of passage

In these Covid times the usual ‘hatch, match and dispatch’ rites of passage have been completely overturned. For first-timer ‘pandemic’ parents, their experience of bringing a new-born into the world has been markedly different from the norm. No adoring sets of grandparents gathered around the cot, no neighbours popping round for a quick cuddle nor child-free friends dropping in to offer hasty congratulations and even hastier exits. The usual Babies and Toddlers support groups are now only to be found on line and post-partum blues are less easy to uncover.

On the plus side, there’s less of a barrage of conflicting advice from the well-meaning, and more of a chance for work-at-home dads to get in on the traditionally female-dominated first few months. Fathers with baby slings can be spotted everywhere and the parks are full of testosterone runners, racing past with their three-wheeler prams, showing off both their offspring and their PBs.

As for weddings, like buses, you seem to wait ages for one, then three come along all at once. I was looking forward to buying a trio of hats but cancellation has been the order of the day. Unlike me, the Nearly-Beloved shows little distress at this fact, claiming that the money we save can pay for our summer holiday. That’s if holidays are permitted this year… And Grunting Teen looks positively relieved that he won’t be forced out of his comfy lockdown lounge wear into something more respectable.

For the moment at least, Hollywood style marriage ceremonies are off the cards. For whilst a gathering of four hundred was recently broken up by police in London, few sensible couples would risk their guests’ safety for the sake of a cinematic spectacle. In fact, many are rethinking their attitude to tying the knot. Long-time live-in lovers are wondering if a house extension might be a better use of their funds. That way when restrictions finally ease, they can host a celebratory party at home. And for those wanting to legalise their union for love rather than for the ‘Gram, then spectator numbers don’t count, it’s the promise they make to each other that matters.

Indeed, I attend one wedding online and it manages to be both personal and moving. Only the nearest and dearest are physically present but there is a virtual audience with guests pre-recording video messages, performing songs or reading out meaningful poems. The vows are solemnly taken – a triumph of devotion over contagion. Love laughs in the face of Covid-19. And no matter off-screen or on, I cry at the sight of all newly-weds.

‘Happy tears’ I tell my teen, as he pokes his head round the door to find the cause of my noisy sobbing. ‘They’ll both be crying when they’ve been married as long as we have,’ mutters the Nearly-Beloved who’s been forced to watch with me. But I know he’s joking. I’ve caught him dabbing his eyes with a tissue. Because who doesn’t get emotional at the sight of two young people embarking on life’s journey together?

For all too soon, our human adventure comes to an end. And the Corona virus is a great leveller. Sadly, many have lost loved ones since the start of the pandemic and, whatever their status or contribution in life, only close family are allowed to send them on their way. For they are the ones holding the memory of love forever in their hearts.

So, if nothing else, this pandemic has taught us that life is for living, for seizing the moment and for making a difference. And it’s never too late to do that as Sir Tom Moore our famous centenarian charity raiser has shown us. For who could have imagined the impact on the nation of one elderly gentleman in the autumn of his life?

In current times, there will be no grand funeral, no pomp and ceremony to commemorate his deeds. But, in this last rite of passage, he has left us the reminder that a life of quiet service is an excellent example for us all to follow.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 44: Hope on the horizon?

Is hope finally on the horizon? Updates about vaccinations are occupying almost as much air time as infection rates, which are finally falling.

However, the nightly news never likes to encourage too much positivity and so is currently promoting ‘vaccine anxiety’ just to keep us on our toes. The headlines delight in our clashing with the EU over who receives priority shipments of the life-saving drugs and the possible creation of post-Brexit border difficulties. With relations between nations now focusing on competition rather than cooperation, the world is participating in a shameful playground game of ‘I’ve got more vaccine than you. Na-na na-na na-na!’

And if that doesn’t work us up enough then let’s introduce a vaccine hierarchy. Instead of celebrating the achievement of having so much choice of preventative medicine in such a short space of time, let’s create anxiety about which type is more effective. A different game of ‘My vaccine’s better than your vaccine. So there!’

My mother-in-law received her Oxford-AstraZeneca injection over a week ago. At nearly ninety she wasn’t impressed at having to travel to a local stadium to get it, whilst much sprightlier seventy-year-olds simply walked down the street to their local GPs. And now, as well as worrying whether her next dose, not due for another twelve weeks, will give her proper immunity, she’s also concerned that it’s not as efficient for her age group as the Pfizer version.

And then there’s the new Covid variant to throw into the mix. Will the current vaccine do its job against that, or is the latest Moderna offering the jab to hold out for? And who should we prioritise in this roll-out lottery? The current thinking is to safeguard the elderly and infirm and so take the pressure off the NHS. But there is also the case for protecting our key-workers and immunising teachers so that we can get our youngsters back into education.

Indeed, both parents and children definitely need a dose of something stronger than mere optimism to survive ‘Home-schooling 3,’ the movie with the worst reviews in history. With the announcement that schools are not re-opening their doors at half-term as expected, wine-o’clock in many houses is getting earlier and earlier.

Grunting Teen, who has so far been quite resilient, finally gives in to full-blown despair. ‘Mum,’ he groans, ‘this totally sucks. What’s the point in it all? I hate my life.’ I try jollying him out of it, bringing him regular treats and even randomly tickling him but none of it does the trick.  He’s not sleeping well. There are dark circles under his eyes and he’s looking pale and pasty. The Nearly-Beloved and I take it in turns to cajole or physically force him out for daily exercise but a forty-minute walk round the streets with uncool parents does little to lift his spirits. He misses his routine, his climbing and his mates. Yet when I suggest he meets up to exercise with a friend, he rolls his eyes. It seems that teenage boys are pack animals. They don’t do ‘talking and walking’.

And so, his only survival strategy is to connect on-line. No wonder then that we are producing a generation of ‘bedroom boys’ – young males, cocooned in their PlayStation safety blankets and increasingly reluctant to set foot outside into the real world. Will there be a vaccination against that, I wonder?

In the meantime, I’ve read too many self-help books to give up on my adolescent.

‘You need to be the light for others,’ I encourage him, as he tells me some of his friends haven’t left the house in weeks. ‘Don’t let them drag you down into the hole with them. You need to help pull them out.’

He doesn’t look convinced. ‘What’s the point?’ he moans, when I remind him that he’s meant to be paying attention to the science teacher’s PowerPoint slides rather than scrolling aimlessly on his phone. ‘I don’t understand any of it and don’t tell me to ask the teacher. As if!’

In fact, trying to tell him anything at the moment is not working. Sometimes you just have to sit with how you feel. ‘Look,’ I point out, ‘it’s okay to invite an unwanted guest into your house. But that doesn’t mean you have to make them a cup of tea.’

He raises his eyebrows. My zen wisdom is lost on him. But thankfully my mother’s intuition is not. ‘You know what,’ I say, ‘how about we ditch school for today? I’ll rustle up some popcorn and hot chocolate whilst you pick out an age-inappropriate comedy on Netflix.

And a dose of laughter later, Grunting Teen is back in recovery, with a pre-pandemic glow about him. He even has a smile on his face again as he responds to a text and unexpectedly fetches his coat and shoes.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

‘Just off for a walk with a mate,’ he replies, as if it’s a daily occurrence.

I smile back. Hope is still on the horizon.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 43: A good report?

Grunting Teen is acting strangely today. He keeps flapping into my room, sighing, then disappearing. I reluctantly pause the latest YouTube cat video to investigate.

‘What’s up?’ I ask in the break between his online classes.

‘It’s this,’ he shrugs, pointing at his newly acquired laptop.

‘But we’ve only just bought it,’ I panic, wondering what could’ve gone wrong so soon.

‘No, not that thing.’ He rolls his eyes, knowing how technology and his mother don’t mix. ‘It’s the whole on-line whatsit. It sucks. I know, like, the teachers are doing their best but it’s just not the same as being in class. I hate it. And I’m going to, like, fail all my thingies. And then I’ll never have a proper whatchamacallit.’

I raise my eyebrows. Sometimes his grunting is easier to understand than his actual speech. By ‘thingies’ I assume he means his GCSEs. And so far, the government’s explanation of how grades will be awarded this year has been no clearer. First there were going to be actual exams. Then teacher assessment was deemed fairer. Now there is talk of ‘mini-exams’. So, I can well understand my teenager’s angst.

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ I tell him.

‘I don’t think so, mum,’ he wails, his pale face making me anxious now. ‘And remember you’ve got my thing this afternoon. I bet, like, it’ll be awful.’

I’m confused. I wish he’d be more specific.

He continues, as if I’m the idiot. ‘You know, the what’s-it that Dad never comes to ‘cos he claims to be at work. The thingy where the teachers tell you how badly I’m doing.’

Aaah. All is finally clear. Parents’ evening. I’d totally forgotten. And this time it’s online. Great!

A few hours later, with the Nearly-Beloved conveniently ‘at work’, I go on to the school’s website. Where on earth is the log-in code? Several frantic texts later, a friend forwards me the link. I type it in and stumble into my first appointment with the Maths teacher, who looks barely older than Grunting Teen. To make up for her youth, she bamboozles me with class test results, percentages and ratios. It’s exactly like the nightly Covid news. Facts and figures fly around and statistics are brandished to prove a point. I leave the meeting none the wiser. 

Then with a click of the mouse I land in the next room. At first, I assume I’m in the wrong place. Grunting Teen – a ‘natural historian’, a boy with a ‘keen curiosity’? Are we talking about my son? The one with zero interest in current affairs? The one too busy invading imaginary countries on his PS4 to even notice the storming of the Capitol building in Washington. But before I can request clarification, my five minutes are up and the system sends me on my way.

I end up in French territory where ‘le prof’ and I both agree my teen will never be a linguist. But as going abroad post-Brexit and mid-pandemic seems increasingly unlikely, it’s not a career-breaker. When she unexpectedly awards him ‘cinq’ rather than ‘nul points’, I leave our talks with what I consider to be a ‘good deal’.

But now I have a gap between appointments. In normal times, this is the fun part of the evening – the chance to catch up with other parents and realise my child is almost normal. But alone in my virtual waiting room, boredom takes over and I start to explore the website. Suddenly I’m logged out of the system and when I eventually log back in there are only ninety seconds left of my meeting with the biology teacher. Just enough time to be informed that science is not my son’s strong point. Is it anybody’s though? After all, our politicians have a rather selective grasp of the subject.

Whilst I’m pondering whether the latest vaccination figures are down to good science or good PR, Miss Biology morphs into Mr English and explains how the class have been discussing the language of the pandemic, with its focus on fear and dread. He reassures me that grunting and incoherence are natural parental-adolescent interactions and that my teenager is actually quite articulate.

This fact is also confirmed in my final session with the Psychology teacher. It’s Grunting Teen’s favourite subject and, apparently, he’s done brilliantly in his latest module.

So, I leave the Parents’ Evening pleasantly surprised with my son’s progress. From the way he was behaving I was expecting far worse. As a treat, I order a takeaway and put some money on his PS4 games card. He thanks me with a knowing smile.

‘Just out of interest,’ I ask, ‘what have you been studying in Psychology?’

He flushes, then confesses, with no hint of a grunt or a ‘thingy’, that he got top marks in ‘the art of manipulation’. Oh well, he should have a bright ‘whatchamacallit’ in politics then…

The Corona Chronicles: Week 41: Film fantasies

So, after our brief ‘Born Free’ uncaging at Christmas, we find ourselves back in national lockdown, stuck in our own version of ‘Groundhog Day’. And whilst cinemas remain closed for the foreseeable future, our personal screenplays continue, with a variety of genres on offer throughout the day.

With both my husband and son now at home, it feels like I’m in an arty French film. You know, the worthy type, with its worldly insights and skilful camera work panning in on the main character who’s consuming a peach in real time. Sadly, worldly insights in our house are limited to teenage grunts and middle-aged moaning, and my current storyline consists entirely of people either eating or demanding food. Let’s face it, this category is less ooh la la excitement and more mon Dieu boredom.

Grunting Teen hankers after an action movie. He’s not impressed with this black and white silent version of life. He wants a return to a 4 D cinema experience with full Dolby surround sound. Unfortunately, with gyms and climbing walls closed and contact with non-household members a distant memory, he’s now become a reclusive cave-dweller. Or possibly an extra in a period drama. For once again the streets are becoming nineteenth-century quiet, with those new-fangled automobiles being replaced by two-wheeled transport or lycra-clad legs.

At least, this lockdown, the schools seem better prepared with their in-house entertainment. It’s a daily musical medley of maths and media studies, choreographed by chemistry and produced by PE. The downside is that accessing online learning through a mobile phone has become impractical, so the holiday-we-never-had refund has now been spent on a laptop.

This adds further fuel to the Nearly-Beloved’s evening litany of complaints in front of the box of horrors. He is a particular fan of the Zombie Apocalypse nightly news with its fear-inducing death count. Sci-fi images of Covid-19 flash in front of our eyes but there are no Guardians of the Galaxy coming to our rescue just yet.

The whole situation is a bit of a thriller actually, getting the viewers wondering. Who is the perpetrator of this pandemic? Who is violating the viral code? Who has released the new variant? And where the hell are the good cops when you need them?

What we want is a decent Western, gun-toting, vaccine-carrying hero to ride into town to save us. But what we’ve got are some cartoon characters, so badly dubbed from the original version that their words and actions are never in sync.

No wonder then that my film of choice is always a mood-lifting romcom. Oh, to laugh at my troubles and be swept off my feet by a knight in shining armour. Obviously, this is as likely as a politician’s promise. But at least I can draw comfort from the fact that we are not in a war film. No bombs or shells are exploding around us. And though we may be under house arrest, that’s got to be an improvement on a prison camp.

There may be no A-listers in this current performance and it certainly isn’t going to be a box-office hit. But sometimes films are so bad they’re good. Besides, I always choose one with a happy ending…