Lockdown Week 6 (Thurs)

THURSDAY

There’s been a jar of sourdough starter living in our kitchen for nearly a week, so I decide enough’s enough. Either I start charging it rent, or I transform this creamy slop into something edible.

Feeling quite virtuous about the whole idea, I soon realise - once I actually read the instructions - that making sourdough bread is a fiddly process that takes a REALLY long time. I have my doubts, but plough on.

While my dough is proving (a sentence I never thought I’d say), I begin unpicking the boy called Dom saga. I manage a quiet word with the 15-year-old, who reveals that they’ve been seeing each other ‘on and off' for a few months. In the interests of the matter at hand, I resist the urge to clarify exactly what that means. It’s been a long while since I was 15. 

She admits the boy called Dom hadn’t in fact told his parents about their socially distant meetings last week. His dad Patrick saw them chatting by the big lime tree and confronted him. His other dad David, a GP, was worried Dom was being blasé about the risks.

This is all I’m told for now, but I get the impression they’re currently ‘off’. I briefly wonder whether Patrick and David ever knew they were ‘on’, but I know not to ask specific questions. I’ll just await further information.

The bread-making mess I’ve created today would impress any toddler. For me it’s close to torture, as I have a lifelong aversion to sticky hands, and this stuff is like glue. Given how many times I’ve washed my hands, I’m convinced I’ve caused a major sink blockage. This bread had better be worth it.

Lockdown Week 6 (Wed)

WEDNESDAY

Since all the ruckus last week, I notice that the 15-year-old has gone quiet about the boy called Dom. So I try making discreet enquiries - for Satchmo’s sake apart from anything else. Having facilitated her socially distant flirting last week, the dog is now barely getting a look-in.

‘Anyone fancy taking the dog round the block to stretch his legs?’ 

Silence.

‘Look, the rain’s stopped – a good time for some fresh air. What do you think Satchmo?’ 

The dog’s ears prick up and he’s by the door in a flash, tail wagging. Still silence.

Okay, enough with the softly-softly approach:

‘Sooo, any word from Dom this week?’ 

So much happens in the next five seconds that I need an action re-play:

The 15-year-old’s head snaps up. 

She glances at me then glares at the 12-year-old. 

She rolls her eyes at the eight-year-old and kicks him under the table when he sniggers. 

He starts crying because it actually really, really hurt (it was a bit hard). 

The 12-year-old mutters something, makes an angry-looking gesture in sign-language that they all learned a few weeks ago, then flees upstairs and slams her bedroom door.

That went well.

Lockdown Week 6 (Tues)

TUESDAY

I’m trying a new incentive today: penguins.

Edinburgh Zoo has a few live webcams. Some of them are a bit boring - no disrespect to koalas, but they don’t really DO much. And the tiger is far too cool to allow itself to be spotted, a bit like Shere Khan. 

The penguins are totally watchable though, so I decide to use them as currency: one hour of good work = five minutes of joyful penguin-watching.

It works for the first hour, and the penguins put on a fabulous show. After that I think they may have lost their spark.

Just before 11am, I summon everyone into the kitchen to pay our respects to the 100+ NHS workers who’ve died from the virus. The 15-year-old and 12-year-old understand straight away, but the eight-year-old needs clarity. I don’t want to frighten him, though - he’s already asking when we’ll next be able to visit the grandparents.

At the end of the school day, I decide to walk rather than drive to collect Bertie-Wooster’s special cat food – the usual vet is closed, so we have to go further than usual. I ask who fancies coming along, and to my surprise the 15-year-old agrees.

We stroll through the eerily deserted town centre and out the other side. I may have been a bit vague about the actual distance – mea culpa – but it feels like we’ve done some proper exercise when we return 6.4 miles later with sore legs and blisters.

Bertie-Wooster is waiting in the kitchen to be fed; I explain to him that I’ve just carried his 3.5kg bag of food on my back for hours and hours. He looks unimpressed by this heroic feat, and starts licking his bottom. 

Lockdown Week 6 (Mon)

MONDAY

We’re off to a flying start, with all three children dressed by 9.15am. This feels like a positive step, as the eight-year-old would spend all day wearing just his pants given half the chance. At weekends he often does.

When schools first closed in March, I devised an excellent daily Home School routine which was certain to see us through the chaotic times ahead:

9am            Seated at work station (kitchen table). 

                   Look through the day’s Home School assignments.

                   Read a couple of chapters from new and challenging book 

                   (not just Calvin and Hobbes again).

9.30am       Begin school work.

11am          Morning break – fresh air & healthy snack.

11.30am     Resume school work.

1pm            Lunch & fresh air.

2pm            Resume school work (flexible).

3.30pm       Home School day ends (flexible).

I showed it to the husband over a glass of wine on Lockdown Eve. He made encouraging noises at the time, but now admits he had doubts and didn’t want to burst my bubble of optimism.

I realised early on that following any sort of daily plan was a pipe dream. Today is no exception; it's now 10.30am, and there’s been nothing but scuffling and bickering since they started. 

At 11.30am the 12-year-old tells me she’s been watching the same two pigeons pecking at the lawn for the last hour and a half. Time well spent.

Lockdown Week 5 (Fri)

FRIDAY

In the spirit of new challenges, I’m having a go at making sourdough bread from a live starter. This morning, my neighbour kindly brings over a small pot of creamy-coloured gunk which apparently I have to ‘feed’. The husband reminds me that plants usually wither and die when left in my care, so he doesn’t rate its chances. Funny.

According to the internet, proper bakers give their sourdough starter a name, so I ask the children for suggestions – so far, they’ve only come up with rude ones.

We have a family debate about what will happen next, which gets quite heated. We pin our arguments on snippets picked up from the news, radio programmes and discussion forums of varied reliability. The husband is usually more positive in his outlook than me, but today he’s quite pessimistic; this throws me, so I get a bit snippy.

We discuss at length whether the 15-year-old can continue her socially distant meetings with the boy called Dom. We decide to allow it but keep a close eye on things. Spy on her, in other words. 

At least they can’t get up to anything if they’re two metres apart. 

Lockdown Week 5 (Thurs)

THURSDAY

This morning there’s a bit of a shouting and a lot of door slamming. A water glass gets broken and the eight-year-old is in tears. They all decide they hate each other.

Navigating my way through this emotional turmoil, I eventually get to the bottom of it. It seems the 15-year-old has an ulterior motive for the daily dog walks. A boy called Dom.

The way I understand it, the 15-year-old cancelled a pre-arranged meeting during yesterday’s walk. The eight-year-old kept asking who this mystery friend was, so the 12-year-old spilled the beans, just to shut him up. She swore him to secrecy, but the 15-year-old was livid. 

This morning he asks at the breakfast table whether Dom likes Satchmo. He claims he didn’t know I was in the room - this is when it all explodes.

It turns out that the boy called Dom lives at the far end of the cul-de-sac, and she and Satchmo have been meeting him for ‘flirty chats’ (the 12-year-old's phrase) by the big lime tree.

This is alarming for several reasons, but she tells me that he’s in her year at school and he's sensible about social distancing. I know she takes the risks seriously; I trust her. 

I ask whether his parents are okay about this? She tells me they’re called David and Patrick, both around the same age as me – maybe a bit younger. And yes, they’re cool with it. I hesitate for a second to process all this, before the eight-year-old chimes in with ‘they’re both men, mummy’.

Yes, I think I’ve worked that bit out for myself, thanks.

Lockdown Week 5 (Wed)

WEDNESDAY

The mood in the house is a bit sombre today. We have good days and bad days, like everyone else. It’s hard staying positive when there’s no end in sight. 

When lockdown started most of us were thinking in weeks. Somewhere along the line this changed to months. Now there’s talk of some level of social distancing for the rest of the year - and beyond. With conflicting information from scientists and politicians, there’s an overwhelming lack of clarity all round. Most of it’s just noise.

The 15-year-old is being a star this week, taking Satchmo out for long walks every afternoon. The eight-year-old keeps trying to tag along, but she refuses, saying he walks too slowly. She’s hardly one to talk.

Today I take her aside and ask if she wouldn’t mind just this once, as he’s feeling a bit left out. It’s hard being the youngest, particularly when he’s the only boy. He still likes running around with sticks and digging up worms. 

She gives me a ‘my problem, how?’ look, but sighs and gives in. He’s thrilled and grabs his scooter covered in Bart Simpson stickers; I hear him chattering away to her non-stop as they head off down the street.

Lockdown Week 5 (Tues)

TUESDAY

I hear the dawn chorus this morning, loud and clear from 5.30am. I think the birds are having an awesome time of it with less traffic around to spoil their fun. Definitely worth losing a couple of hours sleep for.

I can see Bertie-Wooster’s shadow through the bedroom curtain, looking longingly out of the window at a big cluster of birds in the huge lime tree; he knows there’s no way he can reach them, so he’s saving himself the effort by staying inside.

Today feels like a positive day, as 99-year-old super-fundraiser Captain Tom Moore opens one of the new NHS Nightingale Hospitals. As an email pings in from a friend in Toronto who’s seen the story, I wonder whether I’ll now think twice before complaining that I feel a bit creaky getting out of bed?

The husband and I both head to the supermarket this evening, as we have a few things to get for neighbours who can’t go out yet, as well as our own weekly supplies. We go in separately and come out separately, waving across the empty pasta aisle. There’s no flour for the third week in a row – the children will be disappointed, as we’d hoped to do some baking this week.

When I load the shopping into the car, I find six bottles of wine that I left in the boot last week by mistake. I feel a little too elated, like I’ve won a prize. My world really has shrunk.

Lockdown Week 5 (Mon)

MONDAY

Today marks the start of the summer term – sort of.

Last night they all had the Sunday Blues, which was ironic given that they weren’t actually going back to school at all. But I didn’t dwell on this point too much.

This morning, just eight minutes in, the 15-year-old stares wistfully into the middle distance and mutters ‘I really wish I was at school’. I should have taken a recording of this, for future use.

We get off to a slow start, which we collectively decide is because of technological hiccups. The eight-year-old loves this idea and starts faking his own hiccups. We all find this funny for the first half dozen or so, then it gets a bit annoying. By mid-morning, all three children find their rhythm and look very industrious.

On the face of it, everyone seems quite accepting of our new topsy-turvy existence. I put this down to a need for structure - there’s comfort in daily routine when you’re a child. They may be lulled temporarily into a sense of security by our four walls? Whatever it is, I really expected more vocalised complaint; this passive acceptance is unnerving.

Satchmo sulks on his bed in the corner of the kitchen. Last week he was part of the gang, with noise and chatter all day. Today he's been into the garden for his necessaries but has barely had a passing glance since. Humans are so fickle.

Lockdown Week 4 (Fri)

FRIDAY

Bertie-Wooster is liked by most neighbours, but they find him quite aloof – a polite way of saying snooty, probably. The only household who aren’t keen on him are the older couple who live opposite, so naturally that’s where he spends most of his time. Contrary creatures, cats.

When Satchmo came along a year ago, the couple opposite were initially unimpressed. The day before we collected him from the RSPCA, I had an awkward conversation with them about Bertie-Wooster’s deposits in their flower bed. 

I was slightly unsympathetic and told them they were lucky, as it was excellent fertiliser. It was meant as a joke, but I think it backfired. Fortunately, they’re a bit more fond of dogs, so Satchmo is tolerated.

This evening, they send a message out on our local neighbours’ WhatsApp – it seems as though Bertie-Wooster isn’t the only cat in the neighbourhood who loves their garden. This time I decide it may be prudent to show more concern. 

I suggest they try lion poo. So far, no response.

Lockdown Week 4 (Thurs)

THURSDAY

Dominic Raab announces that lockdown will carry on for another three weeks at least. We all knew this was coming, but it’s still tough to hear.

The 12-year-old asks whether that will be the end, once these three weeks are over? I say that’s unlikely. She looks disappointed so I give her a hug.

According to the weather forecast this will be the last sunny day for a while, so I make them all go outside – even if they just take a book and curl up somewhere. For once there are no arguments, and they decide to do a Joe Wicks workout together. I’m not sure the workout itself is hugely productive, but there’s much hilarity so I let them get on with it.

Lockdown Week 4 (Wed)

WEDNESDAY

We live in a small cul-de-sac with a strong sense of community. There’s minimal curtain twitching, and nobody complains about the noise we make – at least, not to us. Maybe it falls in the category of good-natured racket? 

I’m still able to get to the supermarket, so I’ll happily pick up bits of shopping for neighbours when I go. I usually wear the husband’s black cycling gloves, which I know make me look slightly menacing. Not sure if that’s good or bad.

I tried going yesterday, after the bank holiday, but the queue stretched for miles so I gave up. Today is much better, and inside the shelves are pretty well stocked. The ‘empty shelf syndrome’ seems to shift weekly, from toilet rolls to pasta, then tinned tomatoes, then eggs. If you want a bag of flour – dream on. 

I see someone I know, and we chat across the dairy aisle for a bit. It’s good to see a friendly face, and feels like a worthwhile trip just for that.

Lockdown Week 4 (Tues)

TUESDAY

There’s still a hint of holiday spirit about the place, although the husband knuckles back down to work. He’s managing to carry on largely as before, apart from being based at home full time. 

He uses the little unheated garden room to work in when he’s here. It’s cold, damp and a bit smelly when the sun shines in the wrong direction. We keep saying we’ll update it with some insulation and buy a little heater for it, but it’s been on the to-do list for ages. The husband doesn’t grumble as it gives him somewhere quiet to work, away from family noise.

I have a suspicion that he loves it a bit too much. 

Lockdown Week 4 (Easter Sun & Mon)

EASTER SUNDAY

I’ve managed to build up a reasonable stash of chocolate over the last few weeks, so we go ahead with our usual Easter egg hunt.

We’ve kept this tradition going, even though questions surrounding the provenance of the Easter Bunny have long since stopped. Officially the eight-year-old still believes, but I think he’s under strict instructions from his sisters. Maybe they’re worried the quantity of eggs will dwindle if the truth is spoken out loud?

In any case, rushing about the house looking for eggs might just end up being the only exercise they get all day.

We’re both worried about our elderly parents being alone today. This never normally happens as they always spend Christmas and Easter with one of us. They’re putting a brave face on it though.  

Despite everything, there’s an atmosphere of cheerful celebration in the house. We can all do with a bit of that right now.

MONDAY

The husband decides to go for a run in the morning, which is an entirely normal thing for him to do, though something of a mystery to me. But at the moment, it’s still legal.

There’s a false start, as the 15-year-old decided to impress everyone by joining him. She’s quite sporty, but cross-country running isn’t normally her thing. He’s doubtful, but lets her tag along. 

Ten minutes later they return with the 15-year-old limping. She’s slipped on a rock and twisted her ankle. Oh god, please let it be a minor thing – there’s no way I’m taking her to A&E at the moment unless her foot literally doubles in size. Or drops off completely.

I find a bag of frozen peas and tell her to sit quietly for a bit. The husband heads off again.

Two hours later he hasn’t come back, and I start to worry. I avoid being in the same room as any of the children, in case they ask where he is.

Finally, after two and a quarter hours, he staggers through the front door. After drinking a gallon of water and lying quietly on the cold tiles in the kitchen for five minutes, he admits that he might have got a bit lost.

What? How do you get lost somewhere you’ve lived for 15 years? 

He mutters something about a wrong turn and a field of grumpy sheep, and we leave it there. Best he explains in his own time. Numpty.

Lockdown Week 3 (Fri)

FRIDAY

It’s Good Friday, so immediately it feels like holiday time as the husband doesn’t have to work. We all get up late and sit in the warm sunshine with coffee and some croissants we found in the freezer. 

Official government warnings are in place for the weekend. People can’t just wander freely around in the sunshine without observing social distancing rules. Fines will be dished out and groups will be dispersed by police. The reported daily hospital deaths are now well over 900. Surely this is frightening enough for people to take notice?

Boris is out of the woods, but until he’s fully recovered, Foreign Secretary Dominic Raab will continue to run the show. Righty-ho.

We go for a long walk in the sun - the children have hardly stepped outside the house all week and really need the exercise. Satchmo clearly thinks it’s the best day ever, and brings us all the best sticks he can find along the way. 

We see people we know and have a few brief conversations across the street. This cheers everyone up, knowing that people are still around and doing okay.

The 12-year-old, who isn’t an enthusiastic walker, moans non-stop for the last 40 minutes, but we still come home with some sense of achievement. And a couple of blisters.

Lockdown Week 3 (Thurs)

THURSDAY

I have a small amount of work left to do. After that, I’m not sure that commissioning new features or regular columns from freelance writers will be at the top of any Editor’s list. We’re officially on everyone’s back burner.

This uncertainty makes me a bit tetchy with the children, so by way of apology, I suggest doing some baking this afternoon if anyone fancies it. They all jump at it, and I feel quite touched. 

There are a few minor disagreements along the way, but with the promise of bowl licking (quite literally for the eight-year-old) and cake at the end, it’s relatively harmonious. As always, the kitchen is left in carnage; the 15-year-old offers to help clear up, and I’m glad of the opportunity to chat. She’s finding the separation from her two best friends particularly hard.

Afterwards, still basking in the heady glow of family time, I grab Satchmo’s lead for a walk, hoping someone will join me. No response. Screen time starts in five minutes – what am I thinking?

At eight, we head outside to celebrate the NHS again. The eight-year-old wants more noise, so he rummages around the kitchen – unsupervised. He returns proudly with a metal spoon and a large ornate salad bowl that was a wedding present. I flinch, but don’t want to spoil the moment.

Lockdown Week 3 (Wed)

WEDNESDAY 

The 12-year-old announces dramatically that she has crop circles growing on her leg. I calmly point out that this is unlikely for a number of reasons.

But sure enough, there is a neat circle of raised bumps that look suspiciously like flea bites. By coincidence, the cat’s favourite place to sleep is on her bed.

Trying not to look frantic, I start rooting through drawers for spare cat flea treatment. Don’t fancy my chances of getting it from the vet any time soon. Wish I’d stocked up.

Lockdown Week 3 (Tues)

TUESDAY

We’re all a bit taken aback at the news that Boris is ill. Seriously ill. He went into hospital on Sunday for tests, then ended up in intensive care yesterday evening. Some news reports suggest he’s probably been overdoing it.

There's a long discussion about the word ‘sloth’ this morning. The 15-year-old immediately becomes defensive. I point out that she hasn’t managed to recall a single thing she did yesterday apart from get dressed and eat. She rolls her eyes and goes back to WhatsApp.

The eight-year-old is thrilled to be called a sloth, because he loves Ice Age - an entertaining film, until you’ve sat through it 34 times. Then not so much.

The teenager moodily points out that ‘sloth’ is also a verb – hence it’s an insult. The eight-year-old momentarily contradicts her before realising he might be on shaky ground; he sneaks a look on Google and goes quiet.

I wish I’d never started this conversation now.

Lockdown Week 3 (Mon)

MONDAY

First day of the Easter holidays, and the house is quiet.

Bertie-Wooster appears for breakfast, scratching furiously. He has a good scratch at the top of the stairs, then stops halfway down for another go. When he comes into the kitchen, he starts again. 

I ask the gathered throng – Satchmo, Bertie-Wooster and Mouldy the goldfish when we last gave the cat his flea treatment. I know this is a pointless question as I’m the only one who ever knows. And they’re unlikely to respond anyway.

I wander around until I find the husband, then ask again. He looks confused.

The 12-year-old appears, also scratching. 

Are vets open at times of crisis? 

I scowl at Bertie-Wooster, who looks sheepish.

Lockdown Week 2 (Fri)

FRIDAY

I’m running out of answers. Sounds profound, but it isn’t. With most of reality currently unrecognisable, I need a new set of final answers for the unanswerable questions of daily life. 

Why can’t we have chocolate cereal during the week? Because it’s too sugary; and we might run out. {Good}

Why do I still need to go to bed at 9.30pm? Because it’s a school night. No, it isn’t. {Tricky}

Why do I have to wait until 5.30pm for screen time? Because you’ve been looking at a screen all day. But that’s for schoolwork. {Fail}

I have no idea how I’ll keep working from home over the two-week Easter holiday. The children are fed up and need a break, but I’m not sure how to fill their time when they can’t go out. They can be pretty distracting when they’re unoccupied.

At 11.03am messages are pinging in for the 12-year-old, seemingly endlessly. The eight-year-old asks what there is to talk about for hours and hours? An exaggeration, obviously.

I helpfully point out that she obviously has no more work to do, because she’s finished it all.

Without looking up from her phone, she tells me that she DOES have work to do; she just isn’t doing it.

Well, that’s cleared that up.

Lockdown Week 2 (Thurs)

THURSDAY

At 3.30pm the sun is shining, so I finish work early and suggest an after-school family walk around the block. Satchmo’s ears prick up, and he starts rounding up the troops. 

We haven’t been out all together since the weekend, so I remind everyone of the two-metre rule before we set off. Even Bertie-Wooster trots along for a stretch, until an excitable Labrador appears from the opposite direction, and he scarpers.

After a few minutes we round the corner, and I’m relieved to see that the world still exists beyond the view from the house. Satchmo runs happily up to the funny-pink-house-with-scary-dog, then droops slightly when the dog isn’t there to bark at.

In the news there are reports of well-known people with coronavirus - even Prince Charles and Boris have it. Some haven’t survived. Young people are starting to die, not all with pre-existing medical conditions. There are heartbreaking stories of people dying alone to protect family members from becoming infected, and funerals that loved ones can’t attend.

The 15-year-old reminds everyone to wash their hands when we get back from our walk. Later, we cheer on the NHS. We talk about our relatives working on the NHS front line, including ITU; one of them has been recalled from retirement, but was only too glad to help. 

Lockdown Week 2 (Wed)

WEDNESDAY

April Fool’s Day. Great to hear them having fun.

By midday the pranks have gone a bit too far. Everyone’s phone has been hidden at least twice. No-one is getting anything done, including the grown-ups.

By 1pm the 15-year-old is ratty, and points out to the eight-year-old that it’s COMPLETELY WRONG to carry on with April Fools after midday – EVERYONE knows that. He asks why. She tells him to ask me, presumably because she doesn’t know. I tell him to go to the Google Cave (I don’t know either). He does this, looks puzzled and moves on.