Sociably Isolating

It’s the weekend. Woo hoo! We all look forward to the weekend, don’t we? This one, miraculously, is going to be sunny. However, there are weird adverts going round saying that if you go out, you’ll be attacked by seagulls. Apparently, our is called Uncle Dave and is always up for a ruck.

The point of this bizarre advert is to remind people that the best thing you can do to slow the spread of the virus (and give the health service a chance of coping and saving those that could be saved) is to stay within your community and to keep that community as small as possible. This is not the time to take a day trip. 

I’m never sure that the messaging about what we are doing is clear. The deputy chief medical officer tries her best in the briefings but people stubbornly mis-interpret her. The message changes from: 

Keep your distance

Don’t get close enough to people you are not living with to exchange bodily fluids (even accidentally - coughs and sneezes spread diseases)

Stay as close to home as possible 

Wash your hands 

to:

STAY IN

TOTAL SOCIAL ISOLATION

FOOTPATHS KILL (actually, that’s not new and inspired a story that I’m writing about a cereal killer called Cliff, which is the idea of my B&B owning friend)

DON’T STAND ON THE BEACH

SEAGULLS HAVE ASBOS.

Maybe that’s because we are too stupid to get the nuance of it. If they tell us we can leave the house then we will meet friends we haven’t seen in years and have a too-close-chat, or a hug, or shake their hands. If we can walk along the beach we will drive for an hour and sit in a traffic jam, blocking the ambulance’s route to the hospital, and pack ourselves on our little sunbathing towels like seals on the sand. 

This, however, is not a punishment.

If it were then social isolation would be the most effective form. It’s what the worst regimes save for their political prisoners. Nothing drives you crazy faster than total social isolation.

Stephen Sondheim said something about life being best when what you want to do is what you have to do. I don’t want to brag but for the first time in my life, this is where I’m at. There’s nothing I like better than staying in my own little bubble. I’m a master at fanny-ing around and not doing very much. I prefer my walks to be where I see nobody but if I do see people then a distant smile, nod and maybe a chat, where they usually tell me all their problems is in order. 

Since this all happened I have found that when I do see people when I’m walking the dog need to tell me their problems much more. People apologise and laugh and are desperately sad.

Yesterday, we met a man, who was sighing louder than the Long Suffering Husband. 

The dog was being particularly weird and as we were on the home stretch had decided that if he was going to have to go home then we would have to drag him. 

“At least you’ve got a dog,” he shouted across the field.

We moved to within two car lengths of him so that he didn’t have to shout.

“Uh huh,” I said.

“I’ve just been to the Prom,” he said. “It’s awful. I can’t take this. How much longer is it going to go on?”

“I’m guessing about 12 weeks,” I told him, “Are you OK?”

“No. No, I’m not. I live on my own and I’m going stir fry.”

He felt better for some human connection, rather than seeing terrified people dive out of his way. It is possible to be sociably distant. Please wave and smile at people; talk  to neighbours over the fence; Skype your relatives; do an online quiz together; go outside. Remember what we are trying to do and stay as close to home as possible but let’s be careful that we don’t all get stir fried, or eaten by seagulls.

And the good news is.....

“I think I might have become a manic depressive,” a sighing Long Suffering Husband said, as I continued to prance around the house, demonstrating to my daughter, who should have been at the Grand National, how to play Horse of the Year Show, complete with jumps and theme tune.
“Really? That’s fun,” I said between da da das. “Although I think you are meant to call it something else now.

The rollercoaster of emotions brought about by this current situation is the silver lining. Small things, that you would normally ignore suddenly become funny. I mean when else in history could you laugh hysterically at your son, emerging, bleary eyed from his bedroom (having spent two days working on three final year maths degree worksheets, without access to the usual library of resources and helpful tutors) because he said, “That’s the singular perturbation done.”

Some days you just feel really sad: you look at death tolls; Michael Gove appears on telly; you speak to a relative who is a nurse; Robert Peston tells you that you’ll have no money ever again; you read about the eighth woman to have been killed by her partner since lockdown; you talk to a friend who is grieving and alone.

Other days, the emotion is anger: you think about the people that died alone; you see a remote funeral on Facebook, attended by none of the relatives; Michael Gove appears on the telly; the BBC announces that the Chinese are using bear bile to treat COVID-19.

And then, my favourite days are when the emotions have tipped into hysteria: You suddenly have too much energy; you notice all the pretty buds appearing on the trees; life is good; nostalgia is king; Michael Gove is on the telly; perturbation sounds like a rude word; you give the NHS the clap.

I’m not sure the LSH has really experienced the upside yet. He is very affected by the daily death toll. As I was particularly high on life yesterday, I tried to help him.

Since this started, I have coped with my anxiety by reading.  I read the WHO reports and the ONS statistics. I try to get as close to the facts as I can and keep a perspective on it. This isn’t everybody’s method of coping and it seems to make some people more anxious or angry. If you are one of those people then turn away now, as I explain how I tried to make the LSH feel better about the daily death toll.

This is how the conversation went:
LSH: *sigh* They’ve released today’s deaths.
Me: Oh, have they? (I’d missed it because my daughter had spent the day looking for light and fluffy weekend stories for her paper and didn’t excitedly shout, “deaths are in.”)
LSH: They are worse than ever. So many people dead! 563!
Me: You do know that people die all the time, right?
LSH: Yes but I don’t normally have to know about it.
Me: I bet more than that usually die in a day and you don’t even think about them.
I logged onto the ONS website. https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/birthsdeathsandmarriages/deaths/bulletins/deathsregisteredweeklyinenglandandwalesprovisional/weekending20march2020
Me: Yes! So, last week 10,645 people died.
LSH: That sounds like a lot.
Me: Well, it’s 374 less deaths than last week.
LSH: How can that be? More people died.
Me: With Coronavirus but less people died of other things.
LSH: says nothing but does a wonderful goldfish impression.
Me: See, it’s good news.
LSH: 10,645 in a week? I’m never leaving the house again.

The Queen’s Gin

The TV is on in the bedroom. It’s been an emotionally challenging day. I’ve worried about things I can’t control: people who’ve lost their jobs; parents who can’t cope with their children; women stuck in a house with abusive, drunk husbands; people who are lonely and mentally fragile; women who have just had babies or lost babies for whom there is no support; people who aren’t allowed to be with their loved ones when they are sick or dying; the destruction of the economy; neighbours reporting people for breaking the guidelines; my broadband speeds. Weirdly, I’m not worried about a virus or death. I’m almost ashamed to tell you that. It marks me out as different and being different is a dangerous place to be when the world is as it is.

The TV is playing adverts; it’s amazing how quickly they change. Tea adverts show people sharing a cuppa through Skype (other messaging platforms are available - I know, I’ve tried them all and they all lag and try to convert the sound of a flute to speech), cleaning products adverts fill our screens and Supermarket adverts sound like public health warnings.
There is an advert for dog toys. Some people will sniff and think that this isn’t essential but dogs who can only be walked once a day (who are used to two long walks) will get very bored and start to bite people if you don’t play with them.
“Dogs have hands too,” the advert says, “Keep them clean with....”

The next thing I know I’m imagining dogs singing, “Who let the humans out,” for twenty seconds while washing their paws with this new product. It’s tricky for them to get in between the pads but it’s necessary if we are going to stop this thing. Death has to be cured and if anyone else dies it will be your fault for walking down the path by the sea wall with your dog that hadn’t washed his paws. What are you doing walking at the edge of the world anyway? Didn’t you see the sign? CCTV - £30 fine per walk!

Then Boris Johnson appears on the screen, looking slightly more pink and disheveled than normal. He is self isolating at home, in front of a bookcase of heavy political tomes and his collection of rare Enid Blyton stories: The Naked Mole Rat and the Cabinet. He hasn’t been very ill, he says and he has  spoken to Prince Charles who, apart from rosacea and sausage fingers (which he had before) is now perfectly healthy. They talked about the Queen, who hasn’t been seen, live in public since the end of February. The public fear for her safety, Boris says. She is 93. No Prime Minister can have a 93 year old die on their watch. Prince Charles has been to see her and has taken a home video to show us all. The screen cuts to the Queen, at home at Windsor Castle. She is wearing a pale blue silk suit and tiara and is sitting by her telephone table in her favourite Parker-Knoll recliner chair. On the table there is the telephone that we saw her use in the photo and a bottle of gin. In her hand is a cocktail glass filled with dark liquid and a cherry on a stick.
“Charlie dahrling,” she says in her best impression of Olivia Coleman, “So nice to see you. Give Mummy a big hug.”
“I’m not sure if I should, what with this Coronavirus whatsit,” the voice the other side of the camera says.
“Don’t be silly. I’m the Queen. Anyway, I have my own little medicine.”
She laughs, a tinkling glass sound and raises her drink towards the screen.
“Mummy, it’s only 10am.”
“It’s five somewhere in the world. Anyway, that’s why I’m drinking this. It’s Dubonnet and Deaths Door gin. I’ll save the Nolet’s martini for tea time.”
She picks up the bottle on the table and gives it a little shake.
“Oh dear, son, it’s getting a bit on the low side.”
“We can’t have that. Don’t worry Mumsy, I’ll sort it.”
“There’s a good boy. We will make a King of you yet. Oh, and I’m running low on salted peanuts too.”
The screen cuts back to Boris, who is now wearing a white rabbit onesie and looking very serious.
“And that folks is why we need you to do your bit. There will be on the spot fines for anyone breaking the rules. The number scrolling at the bottom of your screen is for you to report your friends, neighbours and loved ones. It doesn’t matter what you report them for, the rules change hourly. The very fabric of our country is in your hands. Exorbitant gins to  animate the vitality of our sovereign are paramount if we don’t want to cross the rubicon.”
The screen goes black.

Birds start to sing.

Our gin collection seems fine

Oh dear. You are going to report me, aren’t you? I’m going to the tower. Off with her head.

April Fool

It’s April the first, which means you can think about or talk about anything other than the thing.
What will happen is every time you are about to say something about cats another word will appear in its place. Oh, see what happened there? I wonder if it’s ok to stroke cats? I mean, how long can a vegetable live on a cat’s fur?

Vegetables are great. I’ve started my courgette plants off on the windowsill. I’m going to give up my allotment because my daily walk helps me to not lose the plot and so I have found a corner of the garden for veggies. It might be necessary because since lichen you can’t buy a courgette in the supermarket. I can’t think what everyone is doing with them.

Have you seen the lichen? As a kid I had a book called The Trouble with Lichen. I have no idea what it was about, except I mispronounced it without the hard k sound in the middle. Anyway, as an adult, what I know about lichen is that it thrives in clean air. The lichen is taking over and we all need to watch out because if the thing that Michael Gove can’t pronounce won’t goat you then lichen probably will.

Front page of today’s Guardian (not an April Fool)

Goats are running amok in Llandudno. Even last year, this would have been an April Fool’s story in the paper but this year it’s real. I can’t tell you why. No really, I can’t tell you but you know it’s because we are bird from going outside.

Oh, the birds. The birds are so happy. It’s spring and they are doing their thing. A goldfinch flew into me yesterday when I was out for my walk. I haven’t seen a goldfinch since 1974, when my mum suggested we go out and count the traffic. We were going to make a pie chart of the different car colours that drove past but it was the daytime and all the dads had taken the cars to work. We did see four green busses and a milk float but we got into an argument about what colour the float was and so gave up. The goldfinches were more interesting anyway. Oh look, I did it. A whole paragraph without mentioning Coventry.

Have you been to Coventry? It where you get sent if you use too many cliches. Currently, newspaper reporters, bloggers and BBC correspondents are roaming the streets trying to learn the synonyms for unprecedented. Soon, they will be joined by the people suggesting that the brightest rainbows happen in the worst storms (they don’t. The best rainbows happen on really sunny days with very fine rain) and the people who sign off their emails “Stay sane.” Oh dear, I can’t even write about the box you keep your money in anymore.

Happy April Fools day. Good luck with trying to think or talk about anything else.

Drunk, Chunk or Hunk?

They say that in any isolation situation you become one of three things: drunk, chunk or hunk.
Now that we’ve had day 4 of the lockdown (Yes, that’s right it is only four days since the scary Monday night announcement) people might be beginning to settle into their pattern. The frantic activity of the first days can’t and won’t last. Nobody does everything.

I think most of my friends are going to fall into the drunk category. There’s rarely a day when I don’t pick up my phone to messages about the lack of wine in the shops, whether it is too early for a G&T or the exciting news that the local brewery does home deliveries. I’ll be honest, they are making me feel a bit left out, so much so that I decided to go and sit in the garden with a gin and tonic. I didn’t drink it but just having it with me made me made me feel calmer.

The next type of person is the chunk. This is who I would probably have been a few years ago. I would have spent my time moving between the sofa and the fridge. I would have baked comfort cakes, biscuits and scones and put on several pounds. I have seen people put things on social media like, “I swear the fridge just sighed and said, ‘what now?’”

The government is hoping that most of us go for the hunk version. It’s why they have suggested we go outside for one exercise a day. It’s very clever, really. Alcoholism and obesity will put a large strain on the already stretched health service, so if they can just convince us that the only way to get out is to don the Lycra and run a marathon then we might just get fit rather than fat. They will deal with the knee and hip replacements later.

However, I think they’ve missed a few. As ever, they’ve forgotten about the introverts.  Introverts don’t really need to replace the social aspects of their life with much. Not being able to go to the pub doesn’t cause huge waves of grief (oh by the way, this thing you are feeling is grief) but their lives have changed too. They are also scared and sad for the loss of the world they have learnt to negotiate. There might be people in their space that they can’t get away from.

Monk, funk & skunk are the other three categories that you need to consider.

The monks retreat into a silent world of books and music. They turn off all of the scary media and sit in their room, praying for it to end. This type of person is well placed for this moment as their ‘to be read pile’ has been growing exponentially since long before the world really knew the word exponential. They are listening to their back catalogue of Gregorian chants or Bach Motets. I’m not making these people sound very attractive but that’s ok because I might be one of them and they won’t read this because it’s on social media.

The funks are my favourite type. These are the creatives. The people who think outside the box and let themselves get sucked down a rabbit hole they weren’t expecting. These people get funky; creating memes and doing research that we all wish we had done. They are a really important part of our current society because we need people to create everything that the drunks and chunks are sharing to give their stomachs a break.
This is the best piece from a funk, so far:
exhaustive-analysis-of-all-the-winning-dishes-on-come-dine-with-me

Lastly, we have the skunks. These are the people who have forgotten what day it is already. They haven’t showered or got dressed. They are beginning to smell and their pyjamas are starting to weld themselves to their body. You are reading this, pretending it’s not you but we all have it in us. I mean, what’s the point in wearing a fresh outfit if nobody is going to see it? Pyjama bottoms are just more comfortable and as for bras, there’s hardly a woman left in the country wearing one.

I’m going to try to aim for balance but if I have dreadlocks or have invented the ultimate penguin knee washing machine when you next see me, don’t be too surprised

I’d rather have a doughnut than the clap

Something rather remarkable and uniquely British happened this evening.

People opened their windows or stood outside to applaud the carers of the country, who are working so hard during this Corona virus outbreak. Then we all went to the pub for a quiz.

The pub quiz was online because pubs are closed. This was perfect for me. I love a quiz but this was accompanied by lemon tart and peppermint tea with no noise of lots of people. I hope it happens every week, even once we are out of this self isolating phase.

I was initially cynical about it. Not the quiz but the show of appreciation. This might have been because of how it was named and the fact that my mind is that of a slightly dirty 12 year old. They called it NHS clap for carers.
“As if they’ve not got enough problems,” I said, giggling childishly, “I can think of better things to give them than the clap.”
My daughter, typing fast enough to make me think something was on fire agreed and we discussed the fact that we couldn’t really see the point. It’s not that we aren’t grateful. It’s not a job I could do and I’m so glad that others can, especially at the moment. We also talked about our favourite cafe in Pembrokeshire, where we learnt the skills required to survive with very little to do, that is allowing you to buy welsh cakes to send to the local hospital. We talked about sending doughnuts instead.
“I’d rather have a doughnut than the clap,” she said

I was wrong. It was a very emotional moment and I love how it appreciated everyone. Not just the doctors, or nurses but the care workers, the cleaners, the social workers and the nursing auxiliaries. I might still send doughnuts.

Marathon not a Sprint

The good news:
There were less Covid-19 deaths than there were the day before.
More people than live in Coventry have volunteered to help.
Most people are social distancing.
Covid-19 is no longer considered to be a high consequence infectious disease (HCID) because mortality rates (overall) are low.
We live in a good country where most people are compliant, even if we do need to be scared witless to get the message.

I like good news. Bob273 on Twitter hates it. He thinks they aren’t telling us about all the people that have died. He thinks this is a Chinese plot in cahoots with the Russians to wipe the West out. He thinks that if your children get this virus they will be carted off in a van, die and you will never see them again. Bob273 on Twitter is hoping for a military lock down, where no one is allowed to leave the house and he can report his neighbours for breathing.

However much I like good news and hate Bob we still need him. We still need to be a bit scared because this is a marathon. If we flatten the curve and cause less people to die then it will go on for longer and if we relax measures too quickly then we will go right back to the spike we had before.
Whatever we do the death toll will continue and soon someone you know will die. It might be great Aunt Maud, who is 93, living in a care home, wearing nappies and carrying round a baby doll that she thinks is your cousin, Pete. It could be your grandad, who seems fine but has had a heart problem since birth and has been taking the stairs more slowly recently. It could also be your friend, who seemed to be perfectly healthy. It could be you. None of us know when we are going to die or what will cause it. What we hope is that if we follow the rules then no one will die because they couldn’t get the treatment that would have helped them.

This, for most people, is day 5 of working from home and day 4 of trying to educate your own children. Are you shocked by that? Day Four! It feels like longer, surely? Brace yourselves: it could last another 12 weeks!

The nation has thrown themselves into it and are treating the whole thing like an interesting experiment. Most people are loving it at the moment.

My friends are sending messages about the cupboards they’ve cleaned and the gin they’ve drunk. Pupil’s parents are telling me about the recorder pieces they’ve learnt and the virtual bands they’ve joined. Colleagues who like exercise have run marathon distances and joined Joe Wicks every day. Teacher parents have taught their five year olds every maths concept invented, planned, evaluated and peer reviewed their work.

This has made me feel more than a little inadequate because I’ve just been overwhelmed. There just seems to be so much and I don’t know where to start. Yesterday, I managed to turn my laptop on. Obviously, anxiety, being a very physical sensation, has left me exhausted and confused but I suspect I’m not the only one who is feeling a failure when comparing themselves to everyone else’s life right now.

Here are some things I’m trying to remind myself.
1. This is a crisis. You just have to get through it. (Recite the Bear Hunt: it helps)
2. You don’t have to do anything.
3. People die. Nobody lives forever.
4. Viruses are sneaky. People do their best but viruses are sneaky.
5. Whatever happens it’s not your fault
6. Joe Wicks and Gareth Malone are optional.
7. You don’t have to be anything you weren’t before.
8. It’s a marathon not a sprint. Sometimes people who start slowly do better because they don’t fall away, exhausted.

If you are feeling overwhelmed too then it is fine to just laugh at memes, be excited that Gardener’s World is to continue (We love you Monty 💓) and watch the videos of penguins at the zoo.

https://twitter.com/kurtearl14/status/1239762454772662273?s=21