Musings on the Mundane

It’s been a week of winning and losing. After nearly two months of ‘being looked after’ and no exercise due to injury, I attempt my first run. Truth be told it’s more of a jog-walk and every time I see a tree root, my heart is in my mouth and my feet are by my ears to avoid stumbling. Still for me it’s a success – a boost in confidence and a return to normal activity.

The Nearly-Beloved has also benefited from the re-emergence of the ‘home help’. Unfortunately, he now feels qualified to comment on her skill sets which, it has to be said, are sadly lacking. ‘When I was doing the housework,’ he tells me, pointing to a cobweb in the corner, ‘at least I did a thorough job.’ I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to ‘do a thorough job’ on him! Instead, I invite him sweetly to take over the cleaning on a permanent basis. He quickly backtracks, complimenting me on my cooking – a change from the interminable weeks of his ‘signature dish’. Even he got ‘pied’ out in the end…

‘Come and wash up then,’ he tells the adolescent who’s just finishing off his third dessert. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ replies Grunting Teen who’s now found summer employment as a kitchen porter in a local restaurant. Their gain is our loss. After his first eight-hour shift he collapses on the floor, groaning, ‘It’s so awful. I’m exhausted,’ and now refuses to go anywhere near the sink. But on receiving his first pay check, his spirits miraculously lift and his social life takes off.

So, what if his last two school years have been a Covid wash-out? If nothing else he’s learnt to grab opportunity and freedom when it comes his way. Who could believe that not long ago his leisure pursuits were limited to online gaming and hanging out with his geriatric parents? Now he’s not only allowed in parks and gardens but in people’s houses too.

However, this has the downside of it being a reciprocal arrangement. Now my home has been taken over by lumbering Neanderthals with giant footwear and matching appetites. And whilst it’s great to be driving again, I didn’t expect to become a full-time taxi service.

The Nearly-Beloved of course, if not down the pub, cannot be moved from the sofa since competitive sport has returned with a vengeance. As long as Wales trump England in the Euros then it’s a victory for him. As for me, I’m holding out for the Olympics, even though more than 80% of Japanese currently oppose hosting it.

Unlike the UK, their vaccine roll out has been slow. Not for them a ten-minute ‘Bob’s your uncle’ job, courtesy of Tracey at Sheffield Arena. It’s a smooth, well-oiled operation that has me feeling proud of my NHS. And when I’m presented with the sticker for my second jab, I honestly feel like I’ve won a gold medal. Yet many other countries are still lagging behind with immunising their populations and until they are helped to catch up, we can’t claim victory over the virus. And whilst we’ll never beat it into total submission, if each country joins together in a relay race of cooperation, then at least we can keep passing on the baton of collaboration and partnership – one of the real triumphs of the whole pandemic.

For now, we’ll have to be content with our hard-won concessions and a semblance of near normality. We can be in and out of each other’s houses again as long as our feet remain firmly in Blighty. Even the weather has cooperated this month to give us that continental feeling. But it’s poor consolation for those in the outdoor events and hospitality industry.

As always there are winners and losers in every situation. Our welcome heat wave is the next generation’s less welcome forewarning of the climate disasters to come. If nothing else, these Corona times have shown us how interconnected we all are, how individual actions can have far-reaching consequences, and how important it is to realise we are a global family. So, let’s hope that in our post-pandemic awakening, true winning will mean no one has to lose out.

‘What we ‘aving for tea?’ asks Grunting Teen, his head in the fridge hoping to find the answer there.

‘My corned beef hash,’ I reply and watch his face fall before he quickly recovers his composure and mutters. ‘Well at least it’s a change from pie…’

I smile to myself. My gratitude practice must be rubbing off on him. He’s grateful his dad’s no longer in charge of the cooking and I’m grateful that my broken shoulder has healed enough to regain some independence.

But when, with a ‘ta-da’, I stick a stuffed-crust pizza in front of him, he breaks into an enormous smile. It’s so easy to make him happy – just lower his expectations, then over-deliver.

To be honest, I think he’s turned this well-honed parenting trick back onto us now.  So, by already predicting less than promising GCSEs, anything higher than a grade 4 will be seen as a triumph.

And his school has got in on the act too. Usually, Year 11s are taking exams until mid-June but with the whole off-on-off assessment debacle, all official teaching finished before the May half-term. He’s now been offered a three-week online ‘enrichment calendar’. I optimistically highlighted ‘The love of reading’, ‘Menus on a budget’ and ‘Study skills’ but he just rolled his eyes and refused to be enriched. Instead, he’s created his own timetable with ‘The love of gaming,’ ‘Menus in a microwave’ and ‘Sleeping skills’.

At least that means he’s not anticipating fireworks from the ‘Sixth-Form Preparation’ days, scheduled for the start of July. They were supposed to be in person but are now being delivered virtually so as ‘not to increase the Covid-19 risk’. This is post ‘the end of the roadmap out of lockdown’, making me wonder if the school perhaps knows something the Prime Minister doesn’t…

In the meantime, I, for one, have become pandemically prepared for the worst and therefore delighted when disaster fails to strike. My travel corridor was inevitably going to close. Christmas was only ever going to be a one-meal event. And my traffic lights were always going to be stuck on red. So, this summer, the card game I’ll be playing is Happy Families on the East Coast, rather than Risk in the Algarve. And I’ll forego the pubbing and the clubbing if it means I can continue to see my nearest and dearest in the safety of my own home.

But there again, it’s all very well if you’re a pale-skinned introvert past your dancing sell-by-date. What if you’re someone afflicted with Seasonal Affective Disorder and need the guaranteed sun of the Med to keep you from despair? What if you’re simply young and your default setting is to party? What if your livelihood depends on things opening up?

And on a personal note, we need things to return to pre-Corona days so that Grunting Teen can get a real education. He’s spent most of the last fifteen months with only four walls and a PlayStation for company. He hasn’t a clue what the world of work is like. But the Nearly-Beloved is on the case. A summer job of pot washing, baby sitting and lawn mowing is part of the ‘enrichment calendar’ he’s cooked up for his son.

‘Dad, this is well mean, innit?’ complains the boy whose next few months are now jam-packed with hard-labour. ‘I’ve got no free time now! What kind of summer is this going to be?’

‘Welcome to the real world, son,’ his father says. ‘Just remember we’re doing you a favour. When it comes to September, A-levels will feel like a picnic in the park.’

In the meantime, the much trumpeted ‘Freedom Day’ is coming. For some, if not for all. June 21^st was circled in the diary. The day we ditch the masks and the social distancing. Swap PPE for high heels and a Tee. And many had already planned the party. But, what a surprise – now it’s been postponed!  July 19^th is our new goalpost.

Let’s just hope, when the day eventually comes, that this time it heralds real freedom. The last thing we need is more overpromising and underdelivering.

Emboldened by our trip to Wales, we opt for a long weekend in the Lake District to celebrate yet another family birthday. The problem is this time the planning has landed in my hands and the Nearly-Beloved doesn’t believe them to be ‘safe’. The night before he raises an eyebrow when I assure him everything is under control.

Without allowing me to phone a friend or ask the audience he grills me on all the details.  But as my answers impress him, he starts to relax. For the last fifteen months we’ve been plunged into a world of the unknown and, for the Nearly-Beloved, who likes order, it’s important to follow schedules and procedures as a way of dealing with the chaos of Covid times.

‘And the matches?  he asks for his million-dollar question. Once again, I reassure him that everything is under control.

Then forgetting that a softly-softly approach is advisable, he barges into the Teen Cave, disturbing the PlayStation fiend within.

‘Have you been smoking? he asks, sniffing the air suspiciously.

 ‘Joss sticks, innit?’ snorts Grunting Teen not moving his eyes from the screen.

Nonplussed by the smell of cedarwood rather than Woodbines, the Nearly-Beloved hesitates before asking whether his son has packed his bag yet. In response he gets a death stare. Tomorrow is Grunting Teen’s last official day at school and he wanted to hang out with his mates not his family.

‘I’ll do it later,’ snarls the teenager as his father beats a hasty retreat.

By 3.30pm the next day the car’s been checked and the boot’s been packed. Well, almost. Still missing is Grunting Teen and his bag.

The Nearly-Beloved whose estimated departure time was 3.31 pm is not impressed. ‘Go and pack your bag now!’ he hisses as the late arrival stumbles through the door. But Grunting Teen is complaining of a sore throat, headache and cough. My heart sinks. Surely, he hasn’t survived a school year to be felled by the virus in the final hour?

One negative PCR test, a bit of TLC from mum and several packets of biscuits later, Grunting Teen is off the critical list and ready to go.

‘So much for avoiding the holiday traffic,’ mutters the Nearly Beloved as we come to yet another standstill on the M1. But it’s the pandemic, not the teenager, who’s to blame for our delay. All the country is on the move in their desperation for a change of scenery and a chance to meet up with loved ones. And with destinations abroad severely limited, a British vacation is the only solution.

What should be a two-hour journey has doubled in time, punctuated only by the Nearly-Beloved’s constant grumbling and Grunting Teen’s huffing and sighing. I text Delightful Daughter and Super Son-in-law to warn them of the traffic situation so they swap the queues on the road for the queues in the service station. We, however, crawl on past the roadworks opened to coincide with the Friday rush hour. Just as well I’ve got it all under control with a bag of goodies so no one dies of thirst or starvation.

And when we do arrive at our Airbnb, it’s all worth it. The accommodation is first class, the views are superb and the fridge has a welcome bottle of wine. The only issue is the owner. We can’t get rid of him!  Restrictions have meant we are the first guests he’s greeted in person since the start of the Corona craziness and he’s desperate to talk. It’s only when Delightful Daughter and her husband turn up that he takes the hint and leaves.

The next day dawns with blue skies and the longed-for visit of aunts, uncles and cousins, who join us for a birthday picnic. Sadly, the latest traffic-light travel means one much-loved face is absent. But for now, I’ll take this gathering as a win against the virus that’s separated us for so long.

With no internet connection and no news of rising cases and closing borders, the world for once seems safe and at peace. There’s no need for shopping so no need for masks. And with hugging allowed it’s a day of love and laughter. The pandemic recedes into the background.

Then it’s time to light the candles. I search through all the drawers in the kitchen, upend my bag and empty all my pockets. No matches! For a moment panic rises. It’s all been going so well. Then I remember Grunting Teen and his joss sticks… And magically a box of matches appears.

I sigh with relief. For now, at least, we’ve got something under control.

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 90^th 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.

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!

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.

‘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 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.

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.

‘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…