Lockdown Diary — Week 6
Monday
The new shed is coming. A month felt a long time to wait when we ordered it in March, but the fact is it’s here too early. The old shed remains, half-full. I pull the contents out onto the grass, finding a few gems. A hefty pick-axe that would have helped level the tree fort ground, an electric drill and best of all: a pair of dust masks! I leave the items out on the grass, secure and dry under the reliable blue sky.
Of course, it rains right through the night.
Tuesday
Any parent will tell you that toddlers and nice things don’t mix. Toddlers convert nice things into trash, before moving on to the remaining nice things. My pair of rimless glasses were a case in point. Fresh from the Opticians, I was reading a bedtime story to the boys, the words clear and focussed through unscratched and unsullied lenses refracting their light for the first time. Without warning, Noel grabs them from my nose and tears them into pieces, ripping the arms from the little plug drilled carefully into the lens.
I went downstairs to unretire the old, scratched pair.
Parents will also tell you that toddlers don’t think much of personal space or free-time. A normal person would have taken new glasses back to the opticians for repair as soon as possible. In fact, that dismantlement took place over a year ago. Noel scarcely qualifies as a toddler anymore. Finding the remnants of my nice glasses at the back of the kitchen utility drawer, I call the opticians to arrange for them to be fixed.
***
Two large fir trees mark the start of our back garden. Taller than the house, and close enough to make a surveyor sweat, this month sees their growing season start in earnest. Vivid needles gather on the branches, then drop onto our patio below, building up within days to a spiky carpet, actually piercing the leaves of our sunflower seedlings, thick enough to make one believe the trees do it maliciously.
I usually sweep the needles up fastidiously, but they lie where they fall this year. With cans of paint from the shed on the grass, assorted pots of vegetables growing — with various degrees of success — on the steps, and kids’ toys filling the rest it looks, charitably, like a working garden. Not necessarily a bad thing, but far from my expectations of an immaculate house with all the time freed up from commuting.
Wednesday
I take the boys into the local woods, where we follow the myriad paths that make it feel larger than it is, like a proper forest where you can get lost and encounter serious wildlife. We pass our familiar landmarks, the usual wood furnishings: a sunken pond filled with growing bull-rushes, a rope-swing hanging from a tree, a burned out moped. I’m struck by the smell, literally fragrant, no less intense than the cosmetics floor of department store. The air is bright with the sounds of the kids laughing and talking.
Later, as I take my glasses for their overdue repair, I’m struck by the difference on the high street, the contrast. An eery silence marks the pedestrianised shopping zone, usually filled with market stalls and chattering shoppers. The shuttered metal storefronts and overcast skies cast shades of grey, contrasting only against the vibrant government ads on bus shelters, advising us all to stay home.
Thursday
At the beginning of the pandemic I followed the news zealously, watching events circle the globe on various live blogs: updates from Australia and the far east in the morning, UK events throughout the day, Trump’s briefings in the US at night. Ultimately there’s little new to be heard, little that’s actually changing.
Books are providing a better way to start and end the days, a simpler way to other faraway worlds. The company bookclub has introduced me to several great novels I’d never have found otherwise. Where the Crawdads Sing is my favourite so far. We gather online after work to discuss our latest choice, The Dinner: nothing if not a page-turner, filled with poisonous thoughts and escalating revelations.
I find that the focussed socials work better than rooms in which people are expected to chat on random topics, which are becoming increasingly sporadic. We both miss the social interactions.
Rong and I watch the movie adaptation of The Dinner later, which does not encourage her to read the book.
Friday
The shed arrives on a flatbed truck. The two delivery drivers pile more and more stuff onto the driveway. It takes them the best part of an hour. I think of how long it’ll take me to move it all myself to the back garden, not enjoying the way the sums are working out.
The rain clouds are gathering again, threatening the untreated wood, sitting vulnerable on the drive. With difficulty I shift some of the larger panels into the garage, and start to move some of the biggest pieces to other places of safety, tucking them under a tarpaulin to keep dry.
Saturday
The boys watch with delight as I break up the chipboard roof on the old shed, long since lost to the elements, slowly softening and bowing and rotting, the gaps open to sunlight and water and ivy. The rest of the building is sound though, too good for the skip. I unscrew it carefully and put the walls to one side. Somebody can make something of it, but I have no idea when anybody can come to collect.
The boys are a little more bored and restless, a little more willing to spend their time in front of the TV unless we invent things to do. The weeks of lockdown have passed relatively smoothly so far, thanks in no small part to the generous weather, but normality seems no closer. People don’t seem quite as friendly either as we take our walks, more resigned to the reality dawning on all of us. Gritting teeth.
We get back home and boil the water for the Sunday Spätzle. It’s as good as always. Things could definitely be worse.
