Week 10: Covid Catering

“I’m telling you it’s perfectly safe. It’s been cracked for years. It’s not going anywhere in a hurry”.

Ah, the confidence that a little bit of knowledge and a far larger amount of ignorance can bring. I used to be a Management Consultant and was “trained“ to make it up as I went along, sounding like I’d done it (whatever it was) a thousand times before. When I say “trained”, it was more a case of chucking you in the sea in a weighted diving suit without an air bottle to see how long you’d last with the sharks. Perfect training for dealing with practical challenges around the house then.

Gin (the Mrs, so called because she keeps her teeth in a mug of the stuff by her bedside overnight) and I are standing in front of our side gate, which has a brick arch above it. The arch has a crack in it. Been that way for years. It’s become the subject of discussion because one of the gate hinges has rusted through and the gate is half-hanging off. Having worked in Insurance for longer than Consultancy (sharks are nice to look at from behind armour plated glass, but swimming with them? Nah Bruv), I don’t like this security weakness. Baddies might Case The Joint. Something must be done.

Gin doesn’t want me replacing the gate with the cracked arch above my head.

I might be imagining it, but when I had 5 times salary life cover through work, I swear she was positively encouraging of risk taking behaviour. Not broken 50mph going down Titsey Hill on your cycle yet love? Why not? That light fitting isn’t working? Yes of course you can change it with the power switched on.

We debate the cracked arch for a bit and I decide she is Probably Right.

The plan is to take off the arch and leave the pillars to attach a new gate. Easy.

I chisel away a bit at one side of the arch to create a fracture point. Gin remains fearful, doubting my prowess. Doesn’t she know I was a Management Consultant? I decide to demonstrate to her the strength of the arch, just put her mind at rest.

At this point the Chief Risk Officer in me pulls rank on the Management Consultant. He forces me to stand on the wall to the left of the arch before demonstrating its strength just in case there is a 1 in 100 year Act of God and the arch falls on to the pusher. I know, I know. It’s sooooo unlikely. It won’t happen. A bit like an untreatable Global Pandemic.

I give the arch modest shove.

Shiiiittttt! The arch falls in slow motion into back garden. At the same time, the free standing supporting pillar on the right reveals it is fractured in 3 places and falls backwards on to the drive. Where I would have been standing.

”Bloody hell” says Gin (well, no she didn’t. She said ruder words than those, but we have to preserve her reputation with the family readers of this blog).

Quite. I’m now going to have to YouTube bricklaying skills to replace the bloody thing.

I tell you, never trust a Management Consultant. But always listen to you inner Risk Manager (or call me. I’m cheap these days).

Week ten then, and well, well well, who would have thunk it? “G” (for Girl) has suddenly become interested in Cookering. And being related to me, she doesn’t start with simple stuff (she mastered the breakfast omelette last week and has merrily cracked them out for her breakfast most days since). Oh no, we are straight in with Ricotta & sun-dried tomato gnocchi, with a piquillo pepper sauce. And then Buttermilk fried chicken with a home made ranch dressing. By day three she is making beautiful Yorkshire puds and roast potatoes to go with the lamb prepared by Gin. I’m trying to persuade her that she should start a Covid Catering Service for locked-down members of the family (me and Gin). No joy yet.

”B” (for Boy) has had a strange week; despite our best efforts he has slipped into being nocturnal again, awake all night and falling asleep at 6am. He’s also not eating much. Both are signs that he has Something On His Mind. Gin and I speculate that perhaps he is feeling uncomfortable because his mates seem to be able to tackle schooling from home where he remains too exercised by the idea to contemplate it. I ask him (which in its own right requires Careful Timing if it isn’t to result in a door being Closed In Your Face). Nope, not that. It’s football. He is wrestling with whether to play next season. He freezes with anxiety when he receives the ball in a match (this is deeply frustrating as he is pretty talented) and isn’t sure he wants to put himself through it. On the other hand, football is the only thing he does that regularly gets him out of the house. Gawd poor fella. My Sporty mates tell me that being nervous is normal in sports (the adrenaline is important to doing well), but B’s is at a level that few of us have experienced. I WISH he would accept some professional help.

Talking of sporty types, the annual dose of Athlete’s Foot has struck residents of Coulsdon (well, this resident of Coulsdon). Every year ... same time .... same place .... and each time I get it, I wait for it to turn me into an Athlete. Still waiting.

And with that we head into week 11, the week in which we might see a light lifting of the lockdown restrictions. If Farthing Downs is anything to go by, this will mean the picnickers will move onto shagging as I fail to see how they could get much closer than they already are.

Love & elbow grease,

Mr H.