Week 13: Stop the Pigeon!

“I bet that bloke has a Thomas-a-Becket”.

Gin (so called because of her love of swigging the bloody stuff morning, noon and night) looks at me blankly.

”No wait, I mean a Sir Henry Moore”.

She looks more confused.

“You know, when you have your willy pierced?”

A Prince Albert. That’s what I’m looking for (the name, not the piercing. No one is going anywhere near Little Mr H with a stud gun!). Not a dead Archbishop. Nor indeed a famous sculptor.

Gawd my memory has gone from “Can‘t remember your name, sorry” to “Can’t remember my name either”. It was getting pretty iffy before lockdown, but now? Siri thinks my mobile phone is called “Now where the bleeding hell is it?”, the car keys have become used to being frozen, the microwave is an onion store, and the kids are used to their Dad wandering into their rooms to Do Something Useful, But Can’t Remember What?

There’s only one thing for it: drink to forget that I keep forgetting. Now where did I put the bottle opener?

What was I saying? Oh yes, Week 13: the week in which people gave up Clapping for Carers and started Bar-B-Queing For Britain. At least that how it seemed to me as I made my way up Box Hill on the Carbon Steed on Bank Holiday Monday (yes there really was one. A Monday. And a Bank Holiday). I’ve never seen so many cars parked there, ever (and I’ve been there a lot). As I approached from the Direction of Dorking, I thought the hill was on fire, smoke wafting upwards all over it. Confused that the Zig-Zag road was still open despite the obvious bush-fire, I turned onto the hill and started upwards. And then it hit me - the smell of charcoaled sausages and under-done chicken. Bugger me, it’s thousands of Covid-Catchers all partying and cooking in the sun. Thank God the virus doesn’t like heat; judging by the sun-burn on display, any virus floating about will have been irradiated. Still if the Covid don‘t get ya, the Salmonella will.

But what sort of week have Gin and the kids had Mr H? Well, it's been a bit of an episode. I'm in the bathroom, sans troos, when I hear a muffled "Naarrgghhh" from the kitchen. Gin doesn't like Flappy Flying Wotsit Thingies, so I assume something as threatening as a butterfly has strayed in and is terrorising the poor woman. I continue abluting, when a strangled cry of "Al, help, Al!" wafts up the stairs. Blimey, it must be a big one, like a Peacock or Red Admiral. Best pull up the trousers and go help. I saunter in, butterfly net (OK, one of the kids' old fishing nets) in hand, ready to catch the beast. But what is this? Why are there feathers floating to the ground? Why is the dangly bauble light rattling? Why is the Mrs curled in a ball on the floor?

"Pigeon" she says. "PIGEON".

But there is no pigeon.

Helpfully I point out that it's not in the room. And not for the first or last time that week, I'm told "to go live with Nana". Which is unusually polite. Ah she can't mean it ... we might give them The Covid.

G (for Girl) has had a strange week. Her brand new laptop, replacing her tea-soaked device, failed under the strain of downloading 20 SIMS games and all of her back-catalogue of buildings. Back to square one then. I'm pleased to report though that a replacement replacement is now with us, and thus far is working. And dry. Still, whilst she was computer-free, she devoted her time to making a big "Black Lives Matter!" poster to put in her window. Splendid. Except Measuring Things is as alien a concept as Picking Things Up From Her Bedroom Floor. Which is a shame because her poster is too big, is partially occluded by the window frame, and from the street seems to read "BL...IVE ... TER". Still it's giving the locals something to guess at on one of their "as many times a day as you like" walks.

B (for Boy) has once again been unable to hold on to a pattern of being asleep at night and awake during the day. This has caused a significant amount of Frustration for yours truly and resulted in another Sending to Nana's. This is so fundamental to his wellbeing and development, we can't let it go, but it's bloody tiring trying to get him to want to do it. As he says, "I like being awake at night because any problems I have come from the day time". Try arguing with that logic; he sort of knows that it's only OK in the short term, but any discussion about The Future causes him real distress and messes up his sleep pattern. Arrrgghhh!

And with that we enter Week 14, in which Gin will be back in school for two or three days to help prepare for a full time return the following week. It's all about to change again isn't it?

Love and elbow-grease,

Mr H