Lockdown: Week 4
10 years ago, Louise and I went on holiday to Lanzarote. On the day of our flight home, the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in Iceland erupted so all flights were delayed indefinitely. There was hysteria at the airport with sunburned men in Aston Villa shirts snapping at their other halves and me (a sunburned man in a Leeds United shirt) being snapped at by mine.
An enormous snaking queue to the Ryanair stand formed and we duly joined. Although information began seeping back that the airline had zero clue what was going on, nobody left the queue. After four hours we got to the front and were told, sure enough, there was no news.
“What now?” Louise asked.
We joined the back of the queue again.
What else can you do? This went on for 30 hours, at which point we were given a 5-euro sandwich voucher (deemed by Louise as “an insult” so they gave us another) and told to find something to do in Lanzarote until the giant ash clouds in Iceland dissipated, which was going to take a while.
These 3-week lockdown stretches are a similar idea to that queue. You’re given something to aim for but, when you get there, you kind of know nothing much is going to change. Hopefully, the government handle things better than the Ryanair staff who, at one point, just fucked off so we were essentially stood in a queue to nothing (we stayed put though.) There were, at least, better socialising opportunities in Lanzarote airport. You could, for instance, stand right next to a man whose week-long hangover was kicking in while he told you “this is a fucking joke, mate.” Different times.
That analogy went on considerably longer than planned.
So, week 4. How’s everyone faring up? We’re trying to get Jacob to sleep somewhere, anywhere, that isn’t on us. Preferably in his cot. I took him up at 7 pm a couple of nights ago and, after a lot of rocking, a bit of vomit (him) and a few tears (me), successfully got him to settle in the cot for the first time in weeks. He stayed asleep until Louise came to bed at 9.30 pm. I went to brush my teeth and returned to the room expecting a hero’s welcome, a whispered “well done for getting him to sleep” at the very least. Instead, I tripped over a bag of nappies, smacked my knee on the window sill and dropped a cup. He woke up.
“For God’s sake, Andy!” Louise whisper snapped (I live with two whippersnappers and a whisper snapper.) I was upset at what I perceived to be unfair treatment. Sure, he’s awake now but why aren’t you showering me with praise for getting him to settle in the cot for over 2 hours, eh? In my head I planned to storm off to the spare room to get my point across but, before I’d decided how loudly to tut, I fell fast asleep.
I am no stranger to the spare room. My doghouse days, typically post-stag do, first acquainted me with it but I was back in a couple of weeks ago in happier circumstances. Louise said she thought I could do with a full night’s sleep (which may or may not have been a thinly-veiled way of saying she expected more energy around the house.)
“Andy, I was thinking, do you want to..?”
“Yes.”
I was met with this:
I am pleased to report, since the breakthrough, Jacob has slept pretty well in his cot for the past few nights. You never have a spell where everything is going smoothly with babies at once though and I am currently finding it nigh-on impossible to feed him from the bottle. He squirms around like a distressed worm and with my long, bony limbs flailing and failing to get him comfortable, it’s stressful. I also have a cricked neck due to writing last week’s blog on my phone while perched up in bed between 2–4 am one night, which doesn’t help matters. Not one bit.
At the 2006 World Cup, David Pleat referred to the German defender Per Mertesacker as “an uncoordinated spider.” Pleat was ridiculed at the time but, if you saw me feeding our son, you probably couldn’t find a more fitting description. I am the uncoordinated spider.
On the topic of football, I am missing it dearly. Obviously, there are more important things going on but you can still miss it, right? You’re allowed to talk or think about things that aren’t coronavirus occasionally, aren’t you? With no football on TV, I’ve sunk to new lows and Louise caught me watching a live stream of the Leeds United striker Patrick Bamford playing FIFA the other day. I didn’t tell her that I’d been checking the odds before the match and seriously considered putting a real money bet on it. He lost 3–0. Wasted a hatful of chances. Typical Bamford. The other spectators commenting in the sidebar seemed to flit from talking about the match as though it was real to horrendously insulting one another’s mothers. This was my first dip into the world of e-sports and I don’t think I’ll be returning any time soon.
Of course, it’s not just football I am missing about normality. My dad came around the other day (to drop off some medicine, by the way, he’s not a #COVIDIOT) and it felt weird and shit having to talk to him through the window. As good as FaceTime etc. is, it will be brilliant when Joshua and Jacob can see their grandparents and aunties and uncles again. Also, I would love, really love, to spend the afternoon with my mates in a beer garden; a pint of ice-cold Peroni in a frosted glass, an overpriced sharing platter, a hint of taxis into town later? Someone has perhaps won some money on an e-sports bet and, with a glint in his eye, presents a tray of espresso martinis? A text arrives from Louise saying: “I’m happy to put the children to bed tonight. You stay out as long as you like, dear husband. Have one on me. xxx.”
Ah, man. This will all be over eventually, won’t it? To revisit my too-long analogy and conclude with some hope; after all the stress and uncertainty at Lanzarote airport, we got a taxi to another resort, blitzed our credit cards, and essentially just had another 5-day holiday. It was fantastic.
Thanks for reading and I hope everyone is doing okay. If you’re looking for a lockdown read, my book The Thing Is is available here!
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