The Corona Chronicles: Week 61: Abroad at home

This weekend sees us embark on our first road trip since summer 2020 as we venture into a ‘foreign’ country. And, whilst we don’t need our passports, we do need to abide by different rules and regulations as well as brushing up on the lingo.

The Nearly Beloved even makes us take a PCR test, just to ensure we don’t contaminate the green valleys of his birthplace with our potentially lethal English breath. ‘Do you really have to shove that stick through my nostrils and into my cranial cavity?’ I gasp, clutching my head as tears stream down my cheeks.

‘Now you know why I do the school ones myself,’ gasps Grunting Teen, recovering from a retching fit brought on by his over-zealous father.

But I understand my other half’s concern because we are finally going to visit his mother who’s been under virtual house arrest due to Corona and Mark Drakeford. Unlike his English counterpart, the Welsh First Minister has been far more cautious about relaxing restrictions and even now we have to pray for good weather as indoor liaising is still taboo. But today is my mother-in-law’s 90th birthday and there is no way the wider family is going to let her celebrate alone.

As we pass the ‘Croeso i Gymru’ signs that welcome us to his fair country, nation of rugby lovers, the Nearly-Beloved visibly relaxes. He’s back in his homeland. I, however, have the sense that we’ve crossed into a much-loved but definitely alien territory.

‘Oh, I’d forgotten everything’s written in Welsh,’ says Grunting Teen, as we take the turning off for ‘Casnewydd’ which, incomprehensibly, turns out to be ‘Newport’. And it’s not long then until we reach the house where a collection of Celts is waiting in the garden to herd the lost sheep back into his fold.

The noise level rises as the Welsh contingent sing-song their delight at seeing the Prodigal Son return and their shock at the size of Grunting Teen. In the scrum of exclamations of ‘There’s lovely!’ and invitations to ‘Come over yer!’ my husband catches sight of his ‘mam’. Involuntarily, my breath catches in my throat and my eyes start prickling. The love in the air is palpable, intensified by the long months of separation. Officially, hugging outside the immediate household isn’t yet allowed this side of the border. But if there comes a point at which two consenting, negative-tested double-vaccinatees have a ‘cwtch’, then I, for one, don’t witness it.

The rest of the day passes in an ever-changing outdoors game as we negotiate the rule of six. There’s a successful kick-off as the first row of relatives catches up on the news. Then there’s a mid-match substitution as old friends line up to join the ruck. Conversation is booted in and out of touch until it’s half-time and refreshments are brought onto the pitch.

We’re encouraged to sample a ‘Welsh cake’, ‘now in a minute’ and ‘I’m not gonna lie to you’ but the buffet spread is ‘proper tidy’ whilst the birthday cake is absolutely ‘lush’. Grunting Teen polishes off any leftovers before they can be offered around but avoids the sin bin as his nana, the referee of the event, decrees her not-so-little prop forward needs fattening up.

And indeed, the ref’s word is final, for our nonagenarian matriarch may have grown a little frailer physically in lockdown but mentally she’s completely on the ball. All those cryptic crosswords and 1000-piece jigsaws she’s been doing as a daily warm-up have honed her Hawk-Eye system.

And while we’ve scored a try with our gift of a garden bench, she’s deemed its position to be offside. She consults with her linesman, the Nearly Beloved, who reaches for his handy tape measure. There’s a lengthy consultation about the exact spot for optimum placement. And looking at the two of them in happy discussion I realise that being a touch judge is definitely genetic and that family bonds can never be broken by a mere pandemic.

All in all, it’s been a Grand Slam of a day. So, if holidays abroad this year turn out to be a Eurovision ‘nul points’ disappointment, let’s not forget that the UK offers us plenty of ‘foreign’ surprises as well as top marks for beauty, diversity and, more importantly, easy access to our loved ones.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 60: Is it all going swimmingly?

We are now on step three of the roadmap out of lockdown and find ourselves on the diving board to freedom. Here, the bathers at the public pool have divided themselves into two distinct factions.

First there are the gung-ho sink-or-swimmers, happy to jump in at the deep end and just get on with life. They are the ones eager to do it all. Morning gym work-out, followed by an espresso in the café. Afterwards, lunch in a restaurant, early evening cinema, with a trip to the pub to dissect the blockbuster, then a final nightcap back at a fellow reveller’s house. It’s hard to believe this was once the norm rather than the exception. They want to do it all and they want to do it now! And yes, maybe they are the ones who’ll end up with their belly flopping antics going viral, but at least they’ve created lots of memories.

For others, this kind of timetable strikes fear in their hearts. They sit nervously at the shallow end, with one toe in the water, arm bands on and flotation boards at the ready. They are going for a softly-softly approach, a gradual submersion. And if the water temperature isn’t perfect or they feel themselves slipping under, then immediate retreat is the answer. They need to start with a cuppa in a trusted friend’s sanitised kitchen before moving on to a more crowded venue. For now, films will be watched from the safety of their own arm chair and a pint is only on the cards if it’s before 7pm and the rebel rousers have yet to come out. And yes, maybe they are the killjoys but at least their rubber rings won’t explode with the latest Covid variant.

In our household, the Nearly-Beloved is usually Mr Health and Safety. But due to my broken shoulder, he’s now taken on full household and taxi duties with the resultant stress making him throw caution to the wind. Apparently, he needs to go to the gym and play tennis to let off steam, whilst a few beers down the local do wonders for his mental health.

Grunting Teen is too busy at the moment with GCSE assessments, and too used to his Teen Cave to consider dive bombing into a pool of social activity. For now, he’s just glad to be back climbing three times a week and taking exams without a face mask. But once school has finished, ‘hanging at a mate’s house’ and all-night-no-sleep-overs are back on his wish list. Let’s just hope the roadmap takes us there and not to India instead.

As for me, my injury has slowed me down, making me more aware of how things don’t always go to plan. So, as the neighbour’s gardens fill with the happy sound of long missed grandchildren, I’m still in the paddling pool, testing the water. For the first time this year, I’ve finally been inside Delightful Daughter’s house and nearly tripped over the cat she adopted to replace us. Then I’ve ventured out to support my local café with a suitably antibac-ed and vaccinated companion. I’ve even started making tentative plans – a big birthday, two re-organised weddings. Who knows, we might yet make it to Amsterdam to see our Lost Boy.

But there’s just a few more lengths we have to swim. You see, all public baths have their fair share of unpredictable babies splashing around uncontrollably. Their immaturity makes them a liability. If not properly supervised by the life guards, accidents are prone to happen. And that’s the very last thing we need!

The Corona Chronicles :Week 59: Hugs and holidays

Conversation this week revolves around hugs and holidays. Should we, or shouldn’t we? There’s many a relative or friend I’d usually love to enfold in a warm embrace but fourteen months of ‘keep your distance’ indoctrination has made some of us less inclined to leap back into each other’s arms.

For me, with my broken shoulder, holding anyone tight at the moment is a definite no-no and therefore a welcome excuse in the current minefield of post-covid etiquette. The Nearly-Beloved, on the other hand, has no such get-out card. But that doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s never been a great one for public displays of affection, so anyone, apart from immediate blood relatives, is ordered to ‘Back off!’ in no uncertain terms. As for Grunting Teen, he is a closet hugger, enjoying a sneaky snuggle on the sofa. But in public he guards his personal space. Still, it’s nice to see him resume awkward adolescent arm punching and jostle-jesting as he walks home from school with his mates.

But now we are allowed to mix and mingle again, tempers are fraying and emotions running high, as touchy-feely types get upset when, on their approach, those more reserved step back, sending a nod rather than a kiss in their direction. ‘But what’s the problem? We’ve both been vaccinated,’ exclaim the face-lickers. ‘Yes, but only the first dose. And then there’s the Indian variant. And you once went to Bolton by mistake. So, you can’t be too careful,’ explain the untouchables.

On the holiday front, there’s also a big divide between the just-go-for-its and the wait-and-seers. For those desperate to get away, Australia and New Zealand are great tourist destinations. Unfortunately, though, they are rather picky these days about who they let in to cuddle a koala or get up close with a kiwi. Tristan de Cunha, the most remote archipelago in the world, would be the Nearly-Beloved’s ideal break – if only visits didn’t have to be planned a year in advance. Iceland comes highly recommended too but not for the sun seekers, and Israel has just blown up its chances of becoming the next holiday hotspot. So, for the moment Portugal seems more promising and Gibraltar might soon be the place to rock up to.

The problem is, it’s all such a gamble. No one wants a repetition of last year’s ‘Corridor Countdown’ chaos or to take part in the government’s popular ‘Quarantine or No Quarantine’ show. Plus, now we have the added excitement of ‘The PCR Price is Right’. That’s if we can find a test provider guaranteed to deliver us a result before we fly home. And if we end up with a false positive, holiday heaven might just turn into holiday hell.

This all makes planning rather fraught. And once again, anxiety levels start rising. So, this year the Nearly-Beloved has vetoed any thoughts of abroad. We’re packing our waterproofs and hot water bottles and heading over the borders to Wales. But even that might turn into ‘It’s a Knockout’ if Welsh regulations differ from English. In which case we’ll have to settle for a day trip to Scarbs or Skeggie.

For my part, the only place I want to visit is Amsterdam.  Not for a jolly jaunt. Just a chance to see my Lost Boy once again.  You see it’s all very well that we’re now part of one Global Village but the virus doesn’t distinguish between unnecessary sun, sea and sand trips and much longed for family reunions. Around the world so many loved ones remain separated. And it’s only when all countries get access to vaccination programmes that we can truly hug and holiday together again.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 58: Walking in others’ shoes

‘Are you wearing dad’s clothes?’ asks Grunting Teen as I miss my mouth for the umpteenth time, spilling cornflakes over the Nearly-Beloved’s stolen shirt.

I wait for my carer-spouse to reposition his ‘it doesn’t matter’ smile as he rushes to mop up the mess, whilst I give up on the spoon and stick my head in the bowl to syphon up what remains of breakfast.

‘Yes, I am,’ I reply, milk dribbling down my chin, ‘I’m trying out a new metrosexual look. Also, it’s the only thing I can pull over this broken shoulder without screaming in agony. And by the way, how on earth do you make being left-handed look so easy?’

Grunting Teen shrugs, ‘Not always easy, mum for us lefties – the special 10% of the population. It’s always been awkward using scissors at school. But at least it comes naturally to me.’ He reaches over and uncharacteristically hugs me. A tsunami of pain washes over me and I feel sorry for myself all over again. I can’t believe how much I am missing physical touch. But at the moment it’s out of the question, as are many other things I normally do.

On the plus side, the hidden unsung duties of a mother are now having to be shared out. The ‘Mum, where’s my packed lunch?’, ‘Mum, what’s for tea?’ and ‘Mum can I have a lift?’ are now being prefaced with a ‘Dad’ and responded to with a series of eye-rolling and head-shaking.

Just as life was returning to normal and the Nearly-Beloved was getting into a routine of playing tennis, working out at the gym and drinking in the pub garden, he now finds himself back supermarket shopping. He can’t be trusted on his own after 2020’s shoplifting incident and DIY debacle, so I am forced to accompany him. It is not a happy experience.  He doesn’t like the nearly pre-Covid conditions. ‘Where’s the man spraying the trolleys?’, ‘What happened to the one-way system?’, Why are people walking so close?’ he mutters before terrifying the assistant at the checkout as he bellows ‘How much?!’ and grabs the receipt off her to double-check the total.

Once home, after another melt-down when he discovers the shopping doesn’t magically pack itself away, he disappears with a stiff drink, only to reappear with a smile of satisfaction. ‘All sorted,’ he tells me, ‘I’ve ordered a delivery for the next few weeks. I don’t know why you’ve never thought of that.’ It turns out I’ve also never thought of using an ironing service or hiring a cleaner.  Sometimes walking in someone else’s shoes, gives new insights. And at least we’re helping the local economy…

And Grunting Teen is quickly developing survival skills as when ‘What’s for tea, dad?’ is met with a ‘I’m off to play tennis,’ he realises he’s the household chef today. Despite cutting with the blunt edge of the knife, dropping half the ingredients on the floor and singeing his eyebrows on the gas flame, he does a passable job, and even washes up without complaining. Giving me an air hug, he tells me ‘Mum, I never realised how much you do for us.’

I smile. Sometimes walking in someone else’s shoes, gives new insights.

Later that day a friend in France Skypes me to see how I’m doing.

She’s widowed and been on her own for the whole of lockdown. And now I really appreciate how hard it must’ve been, with no one to give her a much-needed embrace. We avoid talk of Jersey, fishing and warships and concentrate instead on the vaccine roll-out and how it’s providing us all with an escape route.

We reminisce about how we met many years ago on a Sheffield-Lille school exchange. It was quite a shock to the system. She had to adjust to strange British eating habits whilst I had my first taste of horsemeat. We both walked in each other’s shoes for several weeks and the experience definitely gave new insights.

And maybe this is one of the positives we can take from the whole Covid epoch. The chance to understand what others do for us. Our friends, relatives, neighbours and those around us – the medical staff, scientists, shop-workers and delivery drivers.  Every job and every person has their value. We just need to walk in their shoes to realise this.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 57: Don’t fall at the last hurdle

The little old lady slumped on the ground averts her gaze as the wild-eyed youth swagger-limps past her. Ignoring the large, red cross on the seat he plonks himself down and starts rapping the words to the latest hit being played incongruously in the background. He catches the attention of the hardened blonde in her micro skirt, high-heels in hands, attitude on face and mottled blue legs up on the table.  Before long they’re flirting. Lucky for them they’re oblivious to the stream of effing and blinding coming from the lad with the broken nose and shattered fist, bleeding noisily in the corner. To all intents and purposes, it could be a pre-pandemic Saturday night in town when the clubs eject their worse-for-wear clientele.

Instead, it’s a Tuesday afternoon in the Minor Injuries Department of the Northern General. And what a motley crew is gathered here today! With no friends or relatives allowed, the Corona-comfortless waiting room has to provide its own support network. A nurse appears. An expectant hush descends above the beats of this week’s chart topper. A name is called. But it’s indecipherable, lost in a thunderstorm of moan-swearing.

‘I think it’s ‘er on the floor’, points out the blonde who’s managed to reapply her make-up and is posing for a selfie with the now doe-eyed youth. She elbows him in the ribs and he and broken nose get up as one and, forgetting all Covid protocol, hobble-sway towards the little old lady. Between them they manage to pull her to her unsteady feet.

‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘and sorry about the bad language.’  Broken nose breaks into a smile. ‘S’alreyt love. Just given mi boss an earful. Trying to sack me instead of giving me sick pay. What’s wrong with folk, eh? Hope they get some drugs down you sharpish.’

And a glorious half an hour later, co-codamol kicks in and my age drops a couple of decades. I don’t even mind that the X-ray department is full of radiology students vying to position me in untenable poses. After all they’ve missed a year of their practical course, so I feel it’s almost worth my injury to be helping them out.

‘Is it always this busy?’ I ask the consultant, who diagnoses a fracture.

‘Lockdown easing,’ he says with weary resignation. ‘People are back to their old tricks. No longer paying the attention they should.’  I flush uncomfortably thinking of how a carefree walk with friends in the woods ended up with my flying over tree roots and crash-landing on my shoulder.

‘Yes,’ he continues, ‘add unsuitable footwear and alcohol to the mix and it’s a recipe for disaster. But at least it’s a change for the better.’

The nurse who fits me with a sling agrees, ‘Yes, it’s almost a relief to see ‘normal’ injuries again. You can’t believe how awful it was,’ she tells me with tears in her eyes. ‘I get so cross seeing people out there with no masks on. They have no idea.’

But that evening, we do get a taste of what might have been in store for us. Watching the news coverage of India’s hospitals full to the brim with Covid patients makes me so grateful for our falling numbers and rising vaccination count. Hearing stories of essential medical supplies running out makes me realise how much we take our NHS for granted. Despite what we’ve been through over this past year, how easy it is to forget once a semblance of normality returns. And how important it is to still remember hand washing, mask wearing and social distancing. After all, we don’t want to fall at the last hurdle.

As the Nearly-Beloved helps me into a chair and cuts up my food for me, I’m not even phased by Grunting Teen’s observation that I’ve turned into a little old lady. Because, thanks to an accident of birth, I’m lucky enough to have been born in a country that offers me decent, free-at-delivery health care. Let’s make sure we nurture that provision. And if we do, then this little old lady still has a few more years left in her.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 56: Sunshine versus grey skies

It’s been a week of sunshine versus grey skies.

The unseasonable warmth brings the city centre to life with brightly-clothed shoppers springing up outside every store. Life, at last, seems to be returning to pre-pandemic normal. Buskers appear on every corner. A late morning chorus of reggae, with its Bob Marley message of ‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ fills me with hope and a sense of new beginnings

I’ve even persuaded Grunting Teen to hit the sales with me for a brand-new wardrobe. For, if he’s achieved nothing else in this Corona era, he’s succeeded in adding seven inches to his height, resulting in me confiscating his pair of last year’s shorts for the sake of decency. Whilst masks and anti-bac are still this season’s shopping essentials, social distancing during bargain hunting seems to have gone out of the window. Thank goodness then for my lad’s XXL arms that can reach into the scrum to fill his bag full of half-price goodies.

He’s ‘well happy’ by the time we return home, then changes into his new gear and disappears to hang out with his mates. This return of ‘the rule of six’ has opened up a social life for him again and relegated me to my former status as taxi-driver. And if I’m not ferrying him to various parks or climbing walls, then I’m dropping off the Nearly-Beloved at his office or beer-garden of choice. It’s not that I mind, after all, it’s good to see them both getting out and interacting with others. It’s just that the daily routine has suddenly become strangely busy again. Meals now have to be organised around schedules. Meet-ups with long forgotten friends take place in unfamiliar gardens so parcel deliveries are no longer guaranteed to have someone there to open the door.

But when the sky clouds over, the song on the streets changes to ‘Exodus’. For it takes a hardier spirit than mine or a patio full of fire pits to make outdoor get-togethers appealing. The sales no longer appear ‘summery’ but of the ‘closing down’ variety and now it’s the rough sleepers, rather than the street artists, who catch my eye. And I reflect on what it says about us as a society that at the start of this crisis we managed to house the homeless in hotels but now they bed down in doorways and subways. It’s no wonder then that we crave escape from this grim reality.

Holiday ads entice us to jet off to warmer climates. But hidden in the small print is the extra cost of two-way testing for the virus. And trips abroad that previously came with only a potential Delhi-belly warning are now out of bounds as the nightly news scares us with double mutant variants and the risk of mandatory quarantine.

The Nearly-Beloved is desperate to get away this summer. Last year’s staycation was an overcast experience with no hidden rainbows and he’d be willing to pay over the odds for a bit of rest and relaxation. But his moral compass won’t let him. ‘We’re better off waiting until more of the world gets vaccinated,’ he says as I surf for deals on the internet. ‘We need to think of the bigger picture.’ So, no Super League selfishness for us. No putting the interests of the privileged minority over the getting-by majority.

And then the sun comes out again and people power and reggae lyrics unite in ‘One Love’. The message sent is that if we all come together, despite our differences, we can challenge those with power, make our voices heard, and create a better post-pandemic future. We’ve had our fill of Covid grey skies. It’s time we had some light.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 55: Sob it all out

‘Are you crying, mum?’ asks Grunting Teen in disbelief as I watch the news of Prince Philip’s death. ‘That’s so weird. You didn’t even know him and he was well old, anyway.’

And to be honest, I’ve surprised myself by shedding a tear for a man I’ve never actually met. But it’s like discovering that the eccentric elderly uncle who turns up unfailingly to all your family occasions is no longer there to drop a casual non-PC remark and shock the youngsters with his eyebrow-raising behaviour. What’s more, it’s like realising you didn’t know him at all. He had a whole other existence before he got wedged behind the dinner table of your expectations.

It takes a death for us to reassess a life and to realise that despite what social media shows us, things are not always so clear cut, so black and white. Humans are multi-faceted. For instance, whilst to Grunting Teen I am the provider of regular meals, the magic laundry elf and personal taxi-driver, the Nearly-Beloved views me as that irritating itch he’s learnt to live with over the years. Yet in my dreams, I am a free-spirited writer with a rich and fascinating past.

‘He was quite a character, Phil the Greek, wasn’t he?’ says Grunting Teen, who I’ve forced to sit through the news coverage as part of his history revision. ‘Are you both going to watch the funeral then?’ he asks. His republican father snorts his response, announcing that he’s deliberately organised a game of tennis. But I am a royalist at heart and anyway, I’ve already shopped myself senseless and left it too late to book an outdoor seat in a restaurant.

Besides, in many ways, a good funeral is what I needed right now. A chance for some national mourning. Because we’ve all been in mourning for our pre-pandemic lives. Even as society opens up once more, there are notable absences. Stores we once loved have closed their doors, indoor entertainment is a distant memory, and collective celebrations of sport and music are still beyond our reach.

So, it’s a chance to remember all those we’ve lost, whether it be to the virus itself or to the consequences of lockdown. Like many others, I’ve tried my best to keep a stiff upper lip and remind myself of all the positives. I’m in good health, have a roof over my head, and food in my stomach. But I mourn for my past. I miss the person I used to be. I miss the freedom. I miss the hugs. And oh, how much I miss the Lost Boy I haven’t seen since Christmas 2019!

And yes, patience is a virtue. We’re nearly there now – our goal is in sight. And yes, technology is marvellous. We can Skype and Zoom our way into loved ones’ hearts. And yes, science is incredible. The vaccination programme is leading us out of the epidemic.

But sometimes you just need to sob out the sadness.

A funeral gives us a chance to do that. A chance to reflect on the life that was led. A chance to realise that blurred lines and grey areas make us the wonderful but fallible humans that we are. Mourning our losses is natural but the silver lining is that when we lose something it creates room for something else to take its place.

And here we might surprise ourselves with what we’ve learnt. Maybe we’re mourning the things we’ve lost but will now show a greater appreciation for the things we have. Maybe instead of asking ‘why is this happening?’ we’ll ask ‘what is this teaching me?’ Maybe we’ll realise that some of our past is best left buried so that our future can shine all the brighter for it.

So yes, I’ll be crying. But maybe they’ll be happy tears…

The Corona Chronicles: Week 54: A bad-tempered week

It’s been a bad-tempered week. Just as the light starts shining in the pandemic darkness, my torch of tolerance finally runs out. Maybe it’s yet another Easter Holiday with the what-shall-we-do options limited to bracing walks in over-busy parks. Maybe it’s the fact that the unpredictable weather promises long, sunny barbecues but delivers hasty, rain-drenched cuppas. Or maybe, despite being fed up of the same old faces, I’ve lost the ability to meet new ones.

It starts off well with a warm day and five neighbours in my garden. But after so long in lockdown, I’ve forgotten how to host. Filling up people’s cups and plates is surprisingly tiring and I’m having to completely relearn the art of group conversation. My daily socialisation consists of grunts from the teenager and monologues from the Nearly-Beloved. I inevitably tune out. But now I need to tune in. Active listening is exhausting and by the time everyone leaves I have to lie down.

Interestingly, it’s not just me having problems adapting. When my running club restarts, a veritable crowd turns up and even though we run in sixes, one member makes their excuse to sprint off into the distance, unnerved by so many bodies in one place. Nor is it an age thing, as I hear more and more stories of school refuseniks and youngsters unable to cope with the return to the classroom after so long in the safety and seclusion of their Teen Caves.

Even when we venture out, the landscape is not the same as it was before. Shops may be reopening but masks and hand sanitisers are with us to stay. What’s more worrying is where have all our flagship stores gone?  Profits have taken precedence over public preference. My bad temper escalates. The torch of tolerance flickers and dies. Without the helpful assistant in the changing room am I really going to have to rely on the Nearly Beloved’s opinion of next season’s fashion?

But what brings my mood down the most is the thought that emerging from our months of enforced isolation, we come out of it into a world that seems none the wiser and none the better. For when we do have a day of blue skies, the hordes descend on the nearest green space only to leave it a littered tip of take-away packaging and empty cans.

What’s happened to the kindness and consideration we witnessed when the country first shut its doors? Why would anyone steal a local pensioner’s e-bike if they realised it was the only thing offering them a sense of freedom and connection? Are we returning to the dog-eat-dog society of the pre-pandemic rat race? With the current vaccine wars and the passports-to-pubs palaver maybe it’s better to stay indoors and grow that extra-terrestrial head in the comfort of our home bar?

But that’s giving in and, as a nation, we never do that! So, we’ll swot up on social skills and hone our herd behaviour. We’ll come dressed for four seasons in one day. And, when we want to buy new stuff, if we’re not profitable enough for the big corporates, then we’ll take our custom elsewhere – to those small independents that have fought and thought outside the box to keep themselves going throughout the Corona crisis.

We have to be the change we want to see.

So, I’m posting a neighbourhood WhatsApp alert for that bike. And, on my next trip into the countryside, I’ll be suitably weather-proofed. Then, instead of shaking my head at the inconsiderate idiots who’ve left their mess behind, I’ll pick it up and take it home. Because I refuse to let our inclement climate, the pandemic’s restrictions and the minority’s bad conduct affect my good temper.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 53: Vaccine Victory

I’ve been feeling April-foolish. You see, whilst the majority of the over-fifties have been vaccinated with no big deal, I manage to sabotage my big day.
Right from the start I’ve been jab-ambivalent, not because I’m an anti-vaxxer or needle-phobic, but more because my default setting is to steer clear from doctors and medicine of any kind. Our family motto is ‘Die or Don’t’ and no one goes near the GP unless wounds are suppurating or joints refuse to pop back into their sockets.
But this is a pandemic and we need to protect the vulnerable by keeping the virus at bay behind the Great Wall of the Vaccinated. Not to mention, this is our passport to freedom. Who knows what slogans might catch on this summer – ‘Have a shot to get a shot’ or ‘Want a vacation? Get a vaccination’? So as a good citizen I sign up online to do my duty.
The process is easy. Just enter a few details. Don’t worry if you haven’t memorised your NHS number or if it was last seen at your maternity appointment in 2005. The computer knows all, and before long, you’re being offered a variety of centres to attend. With fond memories of a Michael Bublé concert I opt for the Sheffield Arena and click on the most convenient dates. Job done. I rush off to spread the good news.

The Nearly-Beloved, being older and wiser, has already got his ticket out of lockdown and is keen to make sure I behave.

‘Arrive on time. Then follow their instructions. You can do that, can’t you?’

I nod enthusiastically. But he’s not convinced so decrees that he’ll accompany me.

The night before, the news headlines are full of vaccine nationalism. The UK’s roll-out is impressive compared to the European Union’s. But we’ve apparently upset our neighbours with the one thing we’ve done well in the pandemic! Despite dissing our Oxford-educated immunisation, there’s talk of blocking exports or re-routing them to Ireland. So, I’m feeling rather smug at already being booked in. I don’t even mind when the Nearly-Beloved talks to me in the voice he reserves for small children.

‘Now just show me your reference number before we set off tomorrow. You don’t want to be that annoying person holding up the queue, do you?’

‘Ermm?’

‘You do have a reference number, don’t you?’

‘Ermm?’

‘In a text message? An email?’

‘Ermm?’

‘Oh, great! Have you done your usual trick of forgetting to click ‘confirm’ before you sign out?’

‘Ermm…’

I phone the helpline in a panic. They can find no record of me. More panic erupts as I find the Arena is no longer available. Within minutes I transform from someone with Astra-Zeneca apathy to a Pfizer fanatic. I need that virus-slayer in my bloodstream now! If my dose is winging its way to Dublin, I must wing my way to the nearest centre.

I scroll down the list – Leeds, York, Manchester. If I could combine these with a trip to the Armouries, Minster or Arndale Centre, then I’d be tempted. But, as the distances increase, my desire for inoculation wanes. Then my eye alights upon Mansfield, a mere eighteen miles’ drive away. It’s never been on my bucket list but today it feels like one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

And it means a road trip – my first jaunt outside the city boundaries in months – albeit to a repurposed Wickes store. Not quite the Bublé of my dreams, but well-organised and efficient. I wave goodbye to my chauffeur as I’m issued with a mask and ushered through a series of checks.

This is where I nearly fall.

‘Do you have any symptoms of Covid?’ asks the uniformed official.

Faced with authority, I question myself. I’m feeling feverish actually and my head does thump slightly.

‘Ermm…’ I say.

But I see the frown on his face and remind myself it’s 22C outside and I’m most likely dehydrated.

‘Do you have your registration number?’ asks volunteer number two.

‘Ermm…’

A small queue forms as I scroll furiously through my phone.

The staff have now clocked me as ‘one to watch out for’ and I’m asked not once but twice to verify my details. Still, it’s third time lucky and, with a minimum of fuss, a kindly nurse jabs me in the arm then presents me with a sticker.

After trying to exit through the entrance, I’m escorted out of the building, back into safe hands.

‘Did it hurt?’ asks the Nearly-Beloved, who suffered from a sore arm and flu-like symptoms when he had his.

‘Not so far,’ I say as I get into the car.
Minutes later, I feel weak and nauseous, and all my muscles ache. Then I realise I’ve been reading the leaflet on side-effects. I’m perfectly fine.

So fine in fact that the Nearly-Beloved rolls up my sleeve to confirm I did actually have the injection. Because, let’s face it, if I hadn’t, then I really would be feeling April foolish.

The Corona Chronicles: Week 52: Pancake Panacea

There is a six-foot toddler on the carpet having a tantrum. ‘I might as well leave school now,’ it moans, throwing a pencil case across the room, ‘I can’t cope! I’ve got no future!’ As I move all breakable objects out of reach of its thrashing limbs, I sigh to myself. The buck has to stop with me. It’s mock exam time and the word ‘mock’ says it all. I should never have outsourced science revision! It’s a domestic re-run of Track and Trace, overseen by the well-meaning but basically clueless Nearly-Beloved.

‘You were meant to help him bullet point the information, then test him,’ I hiss to my other half as he trips over the melt-down monster blocking the doorway.

‘Well, he didn’t have any notes as far as I could tell and he said he was fine,’ so I just let him get on with it,’ says Mr Incompetent.

‘That’s what study guides are for,’ I explain.

‘Oh, yeah. Well, I wasn’t sure where to get them, so …’

‘You didn’t,’ I say, realising now how the PPE scenario got out of hand.

At times like this though, apportioning blame isn’t helpful. What’s needed is a quick solution.

‘Pancakes,’ I say decisively.

Several plates later Grunting Teen has been sugared into a better mood.

It’s hard to tell how much of this is his own doing. I mean if he’d followed my catchy slogan of ‘Stay off the PlayStation. Control your revision. Save your Sixth Form place’, he wouldn’t be in this mess now. But maybe he needed better guidance, less self-interpretation. After all it’s difficult enough being a teenager anyway. Throw a pandemic with its exam uncertainty into the hormonal mix and it’s a recipe for disaster. What’s more, he now has to shove a cotton bud down his tonsils and up his nasal passages twice a week, so no wonder his brain is scrambled.

Once he’s calmed down, I reassure him that everything will turn out ok. There are no government inspired algorithms to shatter his dreams this year. His results will be teacher assessed, so a bumper box of Thornton’s for the staffroom might just do the trick. And besides, the clocks have moved forward, as will he. The Covid school years of Y10 and 11 are ticking to a close and a new start in Y12 beckons.

Spring is here and hope with it. Vaccinations are being rolled out, gardens are entertaining visitors once more. Hospitality and haircuts are on the horizon. We’re counting down to opening our businesses and our doors. It’s just three steps now to heaven.

Let’s not contemplate this ‘third wave’ or a ban on holidays in the sun. After all who wants to go abroad if ‘British’ has now become synonymous with ‘virus variant’? I’ll save my £5000 fine, thank you very much, and spend it on fun in our promised summer of freedom and festivals.

But hang on a minute. I’ve had a year of isolation. No one has stepped foot in my house since Christmas. I’ve got used to living life from behind the safety of a mask. I’ve forgotten how to shake hands. As for hugging, it’s a long-lost art. And people! The rule of six is more than enough for me.

I can’t leave lockdown! How am I going to cope? I’m scared of the future!

As my heart pounds at the thought of crowds and face-to-face contact with strangers, I remind myself that these next few months are like our mock GCSEs in ‘Back to Normality’. We’ll have trial tests at meeting up outdoors.  A dry run to the gym. A practical exam in the beer garden. And when we’ve done all our preparation, we’ll finally be ready for the end of term party.

But in the meantime, what I need is a pancake!