Storm Diary 45 – Outcrop

Storm Diary 45 – Sun 19th April

Still ploughing and plodding my way through Mary Webb’s Shropshire. Liaising with a mythical golden arrow, beats a spell in the company of Harry Potter’s magic wand any day! J K Rowling, stand aside – the late author, Mary Webb, is making a comeback!

Not that I’ve really got anything against J K Rowling, but she’s not, to my knowledge, related to me – even by proxy; whereas I have plenty of Salopian Webb folk on my family tree. Okay, so Mary Webb only has that surname by her ill-fated marriage to the roving Henry Webb, but that’s no matter, because I also have numerous ancestors going by her maiden name of Meredith.

But besides any of this, then a day with my head in the cloudy mists of Shropshire’s craggy outcrop, the Devil’s Chair, has got to be an improvement on 24/7 updates about our Boris’ state of health. He’s had Covid-19, he was in critical care, he was coaxed back into existence by the lovely nurse, Jenny,  from New Zealand (and someone else), and now he’s recovering at his holiday retreat in Chequers, i.e. flouting his government’s lockdown restrictions. What else do we really need to know about it? Boris is allowed to go his holiday home, miles and miles away from 10 Downing Street, without criticism, and I have to make do with a time-travel journey into the world of fiction. Reckon I’m the one with the advantage, here, so I’ll say no more … Grrrrhhhhh! Boris. Grumble. Bumble. Buffoon.

In the absence of Boris, I take my anger out on Mary Webb’s character of Stephen Southernwood instead. I mean, why the heck (not allowed to say ‘hell’, being a daughter of the clergy) does that dopey Deborah fall head over heels in love with such a controlling moron as Stephen? Surely she can see past his if you love me, you’ll do whatever I say manipulations. Am I supposed to cry along with Debs, when Stephen abandons her, or am I allowed to celebrate? And why does she burn up all that good furniture? Is any man worth such waste? Why can’t she just stay on in their cottage on her own, let her hair down – for herself only – and begin to enjoy life? I only hope that Stephen’s gone for good.

Sadly, I don’t get to find out whether the lovers are reunited, because Hubby pulls me back to the reality of the present (is this lockdown really real?) by suggesting I partake in my ration of daily exercise. Seeking reassurances as to the length of said walk, I agree, reluctantly, to abandon the lovers to their fate.

The flatlands of Suffolk take precedence over the fantastical hills of Shropshire.

To give Hubby his due, then the walk turns out to be an eye opener. The wild flowers of Salopia give way to the very beautiful weeds of Suffolk.

And I really like the geometric patterns provided by our local factories, offices and warehouses.

In my mind, I see a Picasso-style masterpiece taking shape. I’m sure I can do something with a few old watercolour paints. I just need some more art boards.

Once back in my clifftop prison-home, I Google up some art supplies. Cheap art supplies. I want a 40 X 50 inch art board. No such luck. Neither Works or The Range are able to provide me with such, seems every Pip, Squeak and Wilfred (Tom, Dick and Harry? Such sexism – why no girly names?) is suddenly into art during a lockdown, and there’s no way I’m paying the prices for the so-called genuine articles of quality. One bit of canvas stuck to a bit of cardboard is the same as another.

New lockdown project abandoned, I get back to Stephen and Deborah. Surely she’s not going to take him back, is she? Why can’t she just tell him to **** off?

By Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk

UK’s coronavirus-related deaths in last 24 hours: 888
Boris Johnson’s state of health: whatever

Storm Diary 44 – Black Death

Storm Diary 44 – Sat 18th April 2020

Sore throat in morning – again. Starting to think I really do have the milder symptoms of Coronavirus. Yesterday’s pangs of the digestive system not so bad.

Tragically, the pangs returned on cue, when Hubby and Eldest Sprog suggested going for one of their mega-long walks. They went. I stayed in. Middle and Youngest Sprogs stayed in, as always.

Got stuck into the rest of Dorothy Wrenn’s ‘Shrewsbury & Shrophire’. Fantastic read. Very pleased to find out that my mid 17th century female ancestors of Wem ‘put on military cloaks and joined the men on the walls’ fending off the attempted recapture of their town by the Parliamentarian, Lord Capel. Always knew I descended from fine stock. Used to love that game called ‘British Bulldogs’ – was always a fabulous opportunity to get aggressive with one’s enemies. And being a redhead, as with all gingers, I had lots of foes to fend off. Shame about today’s Health & Safety Laws!

It’s not so great, however, to travel further back in time and read about the Black Death pandemic of 1381; it killed a third of Shropshire’s population. Enough of my ancestors survived that one (including, my Great-Something-Grandfather, Humphrey Kynaston the Highwayman of Nesscliffe) to guarantee my own arrival on this planet, so if it’s a case of survival of the fittest, I hope it’s a sign that my living relatives, and myself, of course, can survive the current Coronavirus crisis. Just so long as I don’t end up hiding out in my cave long enough for some undeserving passer-by to fall prey to my hunger. And, no, Humphrey was not a cannibal, but he did enjoy robbing the rich to feed the poor, i.e. himself.

By the time the walkers return, I have finished devouring the county of Shropshire. Middle and Youngest Sprog are still ensconced in their respective bedrooms, heavily involved in really important things like YouTube videos and rap battles. And I have a momentary thought about getting one up on the idle, by going for a jog-walk. No, I’m too ill. I still have a sore throat, and my stomach pangs have made a second comeback.

Time for seconds. I pick up Edmund Vales ‘Shropshire’ and go for gold. But barely have I finished the first chapter, before I become distracted by Mary Webb’s novel ‘The Golden Arrow’. Reading about young lovers courting amidst the mountainous terrains of the Stiperstones and The Long Mynd is, to my frame of mind, just as healthy as a daily dose of exercise.

And who knows what I might catch from any of the kissing gates in my locale of Suffolk? If I climb over a gate, I will inevitably have to park my bottom on it, in order to swing my ageing legs over to the other side. My bottom does not wish to carry Covid-19 back into my home and onto my settee.

I do, therefore, remain in the hills of Shropshire, have a cup of tea, and carry on with tending my flock of sheep. A cloven hoof appears to have ‘fut-rot’ (p.150, Webb).

By Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk

UK Coronavirus-related deaths in last 24 hours: 888

Storm Diary 12 – Celebrity

Tuesday 17th March 2020

Second day of Non-Sick Sprog’s home-schooling.

That can wait. Today can be a late start. First, I must get to Aldi before all the shelves there are empty. Tesco has run out of tomatoes. And I need tomatoes. Tinned, boxed, tubed or free-fall – I need them!

But, before I risk my good health, by mixing with the cough-all-over-everyone locals who frequent Aldi (okay, so I’m a snob!), I don my face mask. I’m the only person in Aldi wearing a face mask and it makes me quite a celebrity. And the strange thing is that everyone seems to think I have ear plugs in:

‘First I’ve seen, that one!’

‘Stupid, isn’t it?’

‘They don’t even work!’

‘Yes, I agree!’

‘A complete waste of time!’

‘Anyone would think this is the apocalypse!’

I hold my head up high (I know that I look beautiful in this shade of grey) and proceed to make my purchases: six cartons of tomato passata. But – I’m stopped in my tracks, as the Cashier (the person who just said I was ‘stupid’), tells me I’m only allowed to buy four of them. This is fair enough, I think, in the circumstances; so, in spite of being ‘stupid’, I decide not to argue and put on my best smile. Then, I remember, she can’t see my smile. I sneer. She can’t see my sneer. I stick my tongue out.

The mask tastes disgusting.

Once, out of Aldi, it feels good to take the mask off and get some fresh air (how long do droplets of other people’s spittle last in an open-air carpark?); the downside being that I’ve only managed to secure four cartons of tomato passata. Will I be recognised if I go back in for a second round?

I drive to Sainsbury’s.

It helps to be slightly taller than the average lady shopper. At the back corner of the top shelf, I spot one last box of tomato puree tubes. Climbing up on the lower shelf (I’m not Miranda Hart tall!), I manage to hook a claw around my prey.

‘Well done!’ another shopper exclaims.

How many tubes of tomato puree am I allowed?

I take two and suggest to my audience that she might like to grab a couple too. There are no more where these came from!

As I leave Sainsbury’s, I reflect that no-one made any comment about the only face-mask wearer in town. Clearly, the folk in Sainsbury’s recognise a great beauty when they see one!

A better clientele altogether (no, I’m not a snob – I usually shop at Tesco, and I didn’t pay a visit to Waitrose, did I?)!

Home.

Home-school home.

Non-Sick Sprog might only be in Key Stage Three, but all such categorisation labels are a thing of the past, now that we’ve gone post-apocalyptic. And, anyway, all three of my Sprogs are geniuses – I get her started on a Foundation GCSE textbook. Who knows, by the end of our imprisonment, she might be up to Grade B standards, and then she can start on the Higher Paper stuff! Or maybe even the AS Level!

Grade B? I’m out of date. Old. Past it. The grading’s changed from letters to numbers, hasn’t it? Stuff the numbers! I liked the old system, and this is home-school – my home-school! I could even change the whole grading system thing again, if I wanted to. How about colours? Purple for >90%?

Non-Sick Sprog whizzes through a load of arithmetic, and we move onto English Literature, i.e. she moves onto English Literature (I get on with other important tasks like knitting and napping). She’s reading ‘Holes’ by Louis Sachar. I would tell her to stop after Chapter 1, but she seems absorbed, so I let her carry on. Before long (not sure of exact length of time due to said nap), she’s halfway through the book. Might as well let her carry on to the end, whilst I catch up with today’s news.

How many cases of Coronavirus? How many deaths? How close is it getting to my home territory?

The news is all pretty depressing, but my spirits are lifted by ITV’s Piers Morgan. It’s all very entertaining to watch him talking over the protests of his Co-Presenter; she’s trying to convince him that he ought to let the guest speak for long enough to respond to at least one of his non-stop probes. Rather amusingly, Piers then goes on to bemoan the fact that no Tory MPs will deliver themselves up to him for interrogation. Piers, I love you!

And I do, of course, love our Tory PM – old Boris. Sadly, some young bird called Carrie, got to Boris first. And now she’s up the duff, in the midst of a pandemic. Not great timing! For a moment, I almost feel sorry for the old geezer. I mean, he’s just heard he’s going to be a new dad, all over again (i.e. an old dad), and he’s somehow, at the same time, got to man up and be a figurehead for a load of stressed out Brits, struggling to come to term with simple instructions about coughing into crooks of elbows and washing their hands for 20 seconds.

I don’t spend too long feeling bad for Boris; Non-Sick Sprog’s put her book down – she’s bored!

Now what?

I tell her to select three characters: to draw and label them with personality & character traits and how they relate to others (not well, in Boris’ case, but I guess he’s not a character in Holes) and to find three quotations that provide the evidence.

Two hours later, and Non-Sick Sprog is still in the process of drawing the first character! Not a label in sight! Still, who cares about all that vigour, rigour and pace stuff – this is home-school – and my house is completely devoid of Senior members of staff and OFSTED inspectors. My teaching is, therefore, by my own certification, outstanding!

I decide it’s time to check up on Sick Sprog. Found out, yesterday, that he doesn’t have Coronavirus, but must still finish his 14 days of isolation. He’s not so sick after all. He can, and will, join my home school! I give him some Higher Maths stuff to do. My care and attention is not gratefully received. He completes a few easy sums and then comes to a standstill, telling me the next question is too hard, and he’s not even going to attempt it. I give him some creative writing to do.

Not-So-Sick, Sick Sprog doesn’t do any creative writing. Tells me he doesn’t want to be behind the others when he goes back to school, so he wants to do the work set by his teachers. He looks online. His teachers haven’t set him any work. I am a teacher, I tell him, and I’m setting the work. He tells me he doesn’t want to be ahead of the others when he goes back to school by doing work that they won’t have done. I give up on the circular arguments.

I’m an ‘outstanding’ teacher, so it’s his loss!

Somehow, in between the prevarication stuff, I’ve found time to keep checking my mobile phone for text messages and emails, and things are not good. Two of my cousins, I’m informed, may have contracted Coronavirus, and one is seriously ill with pneumonia. This is terrible news, and my relaxed and laid-back approach to the day is fast dwindling.

I text my Adult Sprog: ‘Come back home, now! Stop socialising with your friends. You need to be here under your Mother’s watchful eye(s). And, when back, get yourself signed up online for Jobseeker’s Allowance; the catering industry’s about to go down the pan. Your job is about to go down the pan. Come back. Don’t touch any hard surfaces on your return journey and wash your hands the second you enter my disinfected abode!’

‘If I come back,’ she replies. ‘Will you ever let me out of the house again?’

‘No, I won’t!’

‘See you tomorrow, then! I’m staying at my friend’s for a sleepover!’

‘No. No, don’t do that. Boris says no-one is allowed to socialise. Come back!’

‘I’m not at the pub. I’m with a friend. One friend. One friend who lives in the middle of the countryside.’

‘Oh, well come back anywhere. There might be cows around there. I’ve heard that cows can spread Coronavirus. Come back!’

‘There are no cows, and no pigs and no sheep!’

‘Come back anyway!’

‘No!’

‘Oh, okay then!’

Gone are the days of my dictatorship. It seems that I’ve brought up a Sprog who, as an adult, has a mind of its own! What is going on here?

Have I failed?

‘Boris, help me!’

 

By The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay 

UK Coronavirus News update : 71 deaths, 1,950 diagnosed cases

 

Storm Diary 11 – Home-School

Savvy-Storm Poem – Priorities

Storm Diary 11 – Home-School

Monday 16th March 2020

Keep calm and carry on.

Due to my mistrust of the government’s advice, with regards to limiting (accelerating!) the spread of Coronavirus, I’m choosing to withdraw Non-Sick Sprog from school for the time being. But, if she thinks she can have a lie-in, she can think again. Three yells from me, and she’s up, and ready for home-school.

‘Just what subjects can you teach, Mum?’

‘English, Maths, History, Geography, RE, …..’

‘What about PE?’

‘We have a WiFit!’

Luckily, she doesn’t ask me about Science. This is as well, as I know very little about the subject, and fear (know) that this may (will) be a gap in the planned home-school curriculum.

Planned?

Don’t be silly! The decision to home-school Non-Sick Sprog only happened yesterday. No time for planning; I’ll be making it up as I go along. No sweat!

First lesson: Write a Coronavirus diary.

‘What do I write about?’

‘Being home-schooled. And I want 500 words minimum.

The work gets done, amazingly – I had expected more resistance – and I give my feedback: Avoid starting too many paragraphs with ‘I’. Use the mnemonic EDINGLY – start with a word ending with -ed, -ing, or-ly.

‘What? Expect me to know that? I’m only in Key Stage 3. I’m not doing GCSEs!’

‘It’s basic Key Stage 2 stuff!’

‘Oh!’

But all is not lost. It turns out that said Sprog is quick on the uptake; I set her some History work about the slave trade – a recount about life on a slave plantation. I see some EDINGLY sentence starters and am chuffed to bits. A student who listens to advice and applies it. Wow!

Non-Sick Sprog is learning something; something more than she’s learnt in eight years of schooling. Now she just needs to get to work on eliminating my pet hate – the comma splice! And then …

All is well and good, except that in the school day, we only get through two subjects – English and History. I had hoped to do some Maths. Still, it’s all about quality not quantity. No matter that they do five subjects a day at school!

Tomorrow, we’ll do the Maths.

Overall, I reflect, this first day of home-schooling has been a massive success; whilst Sprog was writing about slavery, I was having a well-deserved nap. Paid, or not, this could be the best employment I’ve had to date!

But besides my new sense of worth and purpose, the highlight of the day has to be when I receive a call from Public Health England to inform me that Sick Sprog’s Coronavirus test was negative. That’s good, isn’t it? But, I’m told, he still needs isolating for 14 days. Oh well, at least I can now deliver meals to his room without having a heart attack every time I’m coughed upon.

But then I ponder: If one had Coronavirus and recovered, would one then be immune?

As things stand, Sick Sprog could still contract said virus, and then be sick – more dangerously sick – all over again. I click through various Google searches and find a news article claiming that some victims have contracted Coronavirus twice. ‘Herd immunity?’ Come on, Boris – what are you playing at by leaving our schools open? Close them down!

I watch BBC news. Fifty-five people in the UK have now died of Coronavirus. All people should now avoid social contact and any unnecessary travel. Families are to self-isolate if any member has a cough or high temperature. Everyone should work from home. Avoid clubs, pubs and theatres. Over 70s should self-isolate for three months. No-one should go shopping. But – DON’T STOCKPILE! AND, AS CHILDREN RARELY BECOME ILL WITH CORONAVIRUS, SCHOOLS ARE TO STAY OPEN!

When is Boris going to start talking any sense? What if the teachers become ill? Are the children expected to teach themselves?

I tell Hubby to get himself to Tesco and secure a supply of tinned tomatoes and red wine. Okay, so I’m not supposed to drink alcohol with my anti-depressant drugs, but the way things are going, there won’t be any more drugs available for me to take. ‘Get some wine too!’ I tell Hubby.

No tomatoes left – not even puree or passata! Hubby informs me. But I got the wine. I examine his purchases – just three bottles of wine and three cans of beer! What good is that going to do?

I just hope that Aldi’s shelfs aren’t empty. Tomorrow. Home-school can start a little later than usual. Tomorrow (I try not to think about the coughing customers), I must pay a visit to Aldi.

An early visit.

‘Life as we know it is changing forever!’ states an ITV newsreader.

Cheers, I think. Love you too!

I text Non-Sick Adult Sprog who, is some distance away from home – visiting a friend. ‘Cut the social contact. Come back home. No-one’s allowed to visit restaurants. You’re out of a job as far as the catering industry is concerned. You need to sign on for Jobseeker’s Allowance!’

‘Yes, Mum. I do watch the news.’

‘Good. Love you and see you soon. XX’

But it won’t be soon enough. It’s too late to catch a train back now and, in any case, she’s not due back until tomorrow.

Come home, Eldest Sprog. Youngest Sprog needs a Governess. You can teach Art and Music can’t you? And PE?

Unpaid.

And, before you get on the train, grab some tinned tomatoes! And, once on the train, don’t sit anywhere near anyone else – and don’t touch your face, not even to pick your nose, and don’t sit down!

The seat might be contaminated.

And don’t ….

By The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Image by Xandra_Iryna from Pixabay

Storm Diary 10 – Business

Savvy-Storm Poem – Priorities

Savvy-Storm Poem – Priorities

This poem is based on a painting I created during the Coronavirus lockdown – as, unable to go beyond the boundaries of my family and garden and home, I sought to marry up the mish-mash of colours outside and within.

 

Priorities

Locked in, I find myself,

in the place that is the part of myself

that has always been there

waiting for attention

waiting

to reach out with tentacles of colour

to make its mark, to mark its place, upon the canvas of a life

raced through from

start                  to                    end

as I come back to the middle

to gather in my

laundry.

 

Copyright of image and poem owned by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

 

Storm Diary 1 – Pathetic?

Storm Diary 2 – Zealot!

 

Storm Diary 10 – Business

Storm Diary 10 – Business

Sunday 15th March 2020

British.

Business as usual.

I check to see whether Non-Sick Sprog’s football match is still on. It is. We’re British, so why wouldn’t it be?

Does a kids’ footy match count as a petri dish? Probably not. Lots of shouting and running around in the open air – at close proximity, hopefully, only with the football. And the football in close contact with the goalpost and net.

Still, I don’t fancy hanging around gossiping with the other parents, when the mums of other European countries aren’t even allowed to step foot outside their own homes. So, instead of doing the pretend-to-be-interested-in-football thing myself, I send Hubby.

Hubby has no qualms about mixing with the riff-raff and indulging in a bit of cross-contamination. He’s been at work for the last week collecting up viruses from keyboards, hard-drives, mice and all manner of leads, plugs and switches, so what difference will an open-air football event make?

In any case, Sick Sprog ought not to be left alone. Alternative Sick-Sprog Sitter, Old Non-Sick Sprog, is off to do a long shift at Pizza Express. Personally, I’m not sure I’d want to take my chances in the food industry, during a Coronavirus outbreak but, from her point of view, she may as well get paid whilst she can. With dwindling customer numbers, she’s almost certain to be laid off within the next few weeks.

Hence, here I am – soaking up the latest news and stats about Coronavirus. Rapidly increasing cases, more deaths, and more prevarication from our Government; all demands for some scientific evidence to persuade the public that the UK’s ‘herd immunity’ approach is going to be effective, falling on deaf ears. No sighting of Boris. No sighting of any MP to give us any reassurances. No-one is interested in appearing on ITV’s Breakfast TV to explain themselves.
Why is the UK being so laid back? Why are we keeping schools open with the purpose of the deliberate infection of our young? And, if our over 70s are to be put into self-isolation for four months, or longer, why are they still roaming around freely picking up viruses today? Why not isolate them immediately?

I do a Google search and find an article criticising the herd-immunity approach. Apparently, 70% of us would have to catch Coronavirus for this to work. But if 70% of the free population are infected, once the oldies have been released from confinement, that percentage will be much decreased. The maths doesn’t add up!
I have the solution to all ills. I have an urge to knit. Haven’t done any knitting since my teenage years, when I concluded, several lovely jumpers later, that it was, really, a rather a boring activity, and exchanged it for dating. No chance of going on any dates now, not even with Hubby. Why spend money on food out, when even Hubby’s paid employment is in question? Why contract a virus from the chefs in our local restaurants, if one can eat my speciality – rice and peas (burnt onto the pan) – in the comfort of one’s own home?

In the absence of a dinner date, take up knitting again. Didn’t I chuck my knitting patterns in the recycling bin during one of my mass clearouts? No matter! I get onto Google, and soon find what I need. Casting on 90 stitches, I begin to knit 2, pearl 2, the pattern of events for the next 6 cm. Before I even reach 2cm, I realise I’ve gone wrong somewhere. Should have focused on the knitting, rather than the TV! I unravel the lot and start again.

Knit 2, pear 2, knit 2, pearl 2 …

I fail to get to even 1cm of the re-knit, before Hubby returns with Non-Sick Sprog. And I am told that a miracle has occurred. Sprog scored 3 out of her team’s 9 goals, and the opposition scored nil. It’s a first – we always lose! I await the slow reveal … The opposition were playing their first ever match. A start-up team? What is going on here? Why start a new football team up at the beginning of a pandemic?

Why not?

We are British.

Keep calm and carry on …

Or don’t carry on.

I talk to Hubby about the possibility of home-schooling Non-Sick Sprog. As a redundant teacher, I might as well do something useful, other than knitting, with my oodles of free time. Hubby is persuaded (either that or it’s not worth his bother to disagree with me).

Non-Sick Sprog is informed that tomorrow – she will be home-schooled. She looks pleased. But then I tell her she still has to get up bright and early, ready for a 9am start. Home-school will mimic the timings of a normal school day, and all National Curriculum subjects will be covered. ‘What about PE?’ She asks.

No, not PE. I’ve never taught PE, in any of my previous incarnations, and I’m not about to start in this one. But we’ve always got the WiFit! And, failing that, some fine motor-coordination exercises. Non-Sick Sprog’s going to learn how to knit. It’s an essential skill during the apocalyse, isn’t it?

Knit 2, pear 2, knit 2 …. drop a

stitch.

Copyright of photo, & text, owned by Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Please also read:

Storm Diary 9 – Cancelled

Silly-Savvy Story: Lockdown

Savvy Poem – Questions for Rishi Sunak

Storm Diary 9 – Cancelled

Saturday 14th March 2020

Cancelled.

Forced myself to get up at 8am on a Saturday morning to take Non-Sick Sprog to football training, only to be trapped at the gateway to the F.C. grounds, by a car attempting to reverse back into the road (back into my precious DD (Daredevil Dacia)). This should have been the warning sign, but no, undaunted, I dodged the retreating traffic and pelted on up the driveway and parked up. At which point, Sprog pointed out that the playing field was devoid of life (okay, so I’m not counting the grass and the worms).

Football training cancelled.

respiratory-protection-4991354_1920

At least I made my exit the correct way, thinking it wise to turn around and use my forward gears rather than the reverse. Some people! Other mothers – what a strange breed! Only this mother can boast of perfection.

The world is changing. Reckon I was ahead of the game, with regard to my recent voluntary redundancy. With Coronavirus on the rampage, soon, I’ll be one of many millions of mothers confined to the home. How herstory repeats itself –  the adjective of ‘voluntary’ is about to be wiped out!

I return, complete with Non-Sick Sprog (of course) to our home-isolation unit and enter the domain of the Sick.

Middle Sprog (the Sick One) is still coughing away, but is being the model patient – his only requirement being a regular delivery of Cheerios!
‘Mum!’ comes the call.

‘Yes!’

‘I’m fed up of Cheerios! Is that box of Cocoa Pops I saw hidden in your study being kept for our isolation? Or can I have Cocoa Pops today?’

We are in isolation. Sick Sprog is awaiting the results of a Coronavirus test and, for the rest of us, all social events have been cancelled. I open the box of Cocoa Pops.

Sick Sprog is happy.
_____________________________________________

Couldn’t believe it. I’d just completed yesterday’s diary entry and settled down on my disinfected settee for my afternoon nap (lots of sleep will stave off the virus, won’t it?), when I got the call. Usually, I ignore the phone ringing, but in present circumstances what alternative did I have but to answer it?

‘Are you the parent or guardian of Sick Sprog?’

‘Yes, I think so!’

‘Can you bring him to Freshmarket Hospital now for his Coronavirus test?’

‘Freshmarket?’

‘Yes, Freshmarket!’

‘Err, well. That’s quite a long way from here! (And I’ll likely catch his virus, if I’m cooped up in my Dacia with him!) Might take me a while. Let me Google it. It’s going to take 50 minutes.’

The reality was quite different. It took me an hour and a half, the last half hour being spent driving round in large circles, looking for the Hospital Entrance. And the other extra ten minutes, spent driving round in smaller circles, within the said Hospital grounds looking for a drive-through pagoda.

On finding the pagoda, I found it unmanned. Well, I guess I did arrive rather later than predicted. As I parked up and tried to work out a plan of action, I got the fright of my life. Looking over towards a distant doorway, I saw some alien-monster thing from an episode of Star Trek. It registered the invasive presence of DD, donned a visor, and emerged from its spaceship, with cotton bud in hand.

How come the nurse got to wear fancy dress? I was the one who’d been trapped in a car with an infectious sprog coughing everywhere! Really?
____________________________________________

Sick Sprog is happy. (Can’t hear him coughing from down here!)

And I’m happy.

Hubby has just delivered my brunch: eggs and beans on toast. Hope he isn’t infected. (Noticed an empty bumper-sized box of Lemsips in the recycling bin earlier! Is Hubby hiding something?) I decide to leave the Coronavirus-symptom interrogation until after I’ve eaten said brunch.

Delicious.

‘Hubby, why have you consumed 10 sachets of Lemsips in the last week? Are you ill?’

‘I’m always ill! Wake up every morning with a headache,’ he says.

This is probably a plea for man-flu sympathy, but then I recall how many times he went out with his workmates for a pint (or two) last week, and all semblance of sympathy vanishes.

Ill indeed!

May as well make use of my time in forced isolation. Take up a new hobby, advises the BBC. I continue with the old …

Ancestry.com!

I get to work. Must be another line of my family tree that I can take back to my Lots-of-Great-Grandfather-via-many-lines-of-my-tree William the Conqueror, surely? And did one of my own, old Will, really murder that many Brits?

‘As the British death toll rises, airlines cancel flights to mainland Europe!’ announces an inappropriately-excitable voice (probably an undercover French spy) from the BBC News.

Is old Will back?

He’s here. Somehow, Great-Something-Grandfather, obtained the last one-way airline ticket from Normandy to Heathrow, and is here – ready to take back his own, ready to reclaim his land and properties from this undeserving fruit of his loins. And, this time, there’s nowhere to flee to. All exits blocked …..

Written in haste, by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Storm Diary 8 – Somethingness

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Image by Capri23auto from Pixabay

Silly-Savvy Story: Lockdown

Lock-Down

Three weeks, the British authorities said. Just three weeks to stay indoors, keep safe and protect others.

It’s just a teeny-weeny virus, they said. Against our forces, and our willpower, it’s got no chance. We’ll corner it, and once it’s got nowhere to go, it’ll clear off, just disappear – poooffff! Like a bubble, gone in a jiffy!

We weren’t convinced, but we did what we were told: followed all the rules, kept up with the news. Everyday an MP, an NHS rep, a celebrity, a fitness guru and everyday a perfect mother, and all of them, all of the time, telling us, showing us, feeding to us, just exactly what we wanted to know, just exactly what we needed to know and all the time with us knowing, and with them knowing, that in China the people weren’t being told anything about anything worth knowing.

And now, eighteen months later, with the daily briefings having stopped, with any TV transmissions at all having stopped, I realise that there is no we. There is no we and I am no longer listening to the advice, to the rules, to the restrictions, to the lies that are no longer out there, to the all that is no longer out there and no longer coming in to be listened to.

And I?

I am going out there. I have to go out there; I ran out of rice and lentils a week ago, and the flour and cooking oil a long time prior. And the chocolate? Did I ever have any bars of chocolate? Why didn’t I think to stock up on cocoa powder? I need to eat, don’t I?

It’s time.

It’s time, but I’m weak from eighteen months of sitting, and from days without food, and my front door won’t be budged. I call for assistance, for the weight of a man, but no-one replies. Then I remember: there is no more we in here than there is a we out there – just an I. Hubby ventured out five months ago, went looking for cheese, for milk, for meat, for eggs, for all that a man , such as a man is, might require. Guess he found what he was looking for. Why share?

Another shove. No movement. Nothing. It’s dark, very dark, in here. Something blocks out the light. Something is here, with me; something with me, but not with me, something on the other side of the door, wedged up against it, pressing in on it. I can feel it wanting – wanting to force its way in, and I can feel my own wanting, my own generosity, my own wanting it to come in.

But I’m no pushover, so I press my right eye against the peephole, the tiny window of glass that allows me to check out the postman, the salesman and the conman – all men, all a threat, and none of them welcome. And it’s then that I see it. They lied. The teeny-weeny virus is massive, as high as my third storey windows, and as wide as it is high, and it’s armoured up with hundreds of foot-long spikes.

They told us that once cornered, with nowhere else to go, the virus, it would vanish – pooofff!

But now that I see it, I see the truth, and I know what the virus wants. And I know that it won’t be going anywhere until it’s got the last of everything that it came here for.

I let it in.

 

By Jay Cool

Image by Prettysleepy from Pixabay

 

Please check out Jay Cool’s Storm Diary 1 – Pathetic?

 

Savvy Poem – Questions for Rishi Sunak

Written in response to the UK government’s daily press briefing, 8th April 2020, as delivered by Rishi Sunak MP.

 

Sir?

Can you level with us, Sir?

Can you spell out your intentions, guarantee retentions, put in more preventions,

end asphyxiations, exceed our expectations?

Can you, Sir?

 

By Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian

 

UK deaths from Covid-19 in last 24 hours: 938

 
Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke from Pixabay 

Storm Diary 8 – Somethingness

Friday 13th March, 2020
Gave Non-Sick Sprogs lifts to school and work, avoiding all temptation to stop for a shop; have no wish to be coughed upon by the folk of Sudbury, whether they be the clientele of Aldi, Sainsbury’s, Tesco, or Waitrose!

Returned home and washed my hands.

Delivered Sick Sprog’s usual breakfast of Cheerios (was not coughed upon – phew!).

Settled back into my usual position, parked in front of the TV, with laptop at the ready. Listened to lots of like-minded views. Seems the only person against closing our schools is Boris!
Noticed that the BBC newsreader has a crooked mouth just like mine! Is she a relative?

Pitied the BBC Presenter, Victoria, when she was coughed over by a guest speaker. Funny how someone can argue so vehemently for school closures (everyone knows how quickly viruses spread amongst children!), whilst failing himself to follow simple hygiene rules; the said guest did not even cough into a tissue, or the crook of his elbow, preferring instead to use his fist shaped into an open tunnel – a tunnel, through which and around which, the virus took its aim!

Could still hear the beast coughing as he left the studio.

Somehow, I suspect that the Victoria will need a substitute for tomorrow. Emailed my concerns to victoria@bbc.co.uk. Received the usual automated reply. Is she out of office on sick leave already?

Read a couple of excellent poems from a writer friend. Thought about whether I ought to follow her example and churn out a poem, or two, myself. Decided against it.

Feeling a little weird. Coronavirus? The side effects of my anti-depressant meds?

Or just my own general somethingness?

The latter.

By The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Image by Prawny from Pixabay