Week 2: Your mop's called what?

Tracey.

No not mine, Mrs Hinch's. That's what she calls her mop. Now it wouldn't have occurred to me that naming your mop was necessary, but if that's what we cleaners do, that's what we do.

I shall call mine Jurgen.

Jurgen Mopp.

Well it is German and will be wiping the floor for at least one season (boom-tish! I'm available for Weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. But only at weekends).

So week two then and what a mixed bag. The boy (we shall call him "B" for Boy) and I caught a virus from his Mum (let's call her "Gin" because she is 90% comprised of the stuff), which left us feeling like we'd spent a week wrestling a very angry python in a muddy pit. All the positivity of the previous week fell away as he retreated to his shell and mostly his bed. I, on the other hand, continued to produce overly complex dinners (Javanese sea-bass, corn rice and spicy coconut anyone?) at the expense of doing anything much else.

And of course the potential for bother from the little virus with the big name became real. My Official Work Leaving Do became Coulsdon's first victim, and in common with all other Great Events and Gatherings, won't be reinstated until later summer. Gah.

Both Gin (Mum) and the Girl (we shall call her "G" for Girl) are very troubled by the potential closure of the school they are at (one teaches there, the other learns). Gin is deeply pissed-off that having spent two years mostly stuck at home, she might be stuck at home again in the near future. Not even the attraction of being stuck with me is enough to lighten her mood. G, understandably, is worried about the timing of her GCSEs and what happens if they are postponed. We all are. But there is nothing that we can do, other than sit tight. Or buy toilet paper.

Like the rest of the UK, our local neighbours appear to have decided that the answer to the virus is reams and reams of bog roll. What are they doing, wrapping themselves in it from head to toe to keep the virus out? The bloody thing doesn't give you the up-tempo trots for God's sake, what's the need?

Pass me a paracetamol, these shortages are giving me a headache. Wait, what? That's sold out too?

The last time we saw anything like this round here was after a poor grape harvest in Italy, with the news that Prosecco was likely to be in short supply. The queues out of Waitrose were something to behold.

I digress (again) - back to the end of the week. Aside from accidentally throwing a large, mouldy leek 15' up a tree instead of into the compost heap, that was pretty much the week done. It's still there by the way (for those that engaged in a game of "Where's Leeky" on Facebook).

There's one final mention I must make. My Dad's life-long best friend lost his fight with cancer a short while ago. His funeral was on Saturday, but the bloody virus kept 70 odd people away. Cheers Uncle Roy, we will all be getting together post-pandemic to celebrate your life as everyone would wish.

And with that, we enter week three. What will the week bring? Who knows: there's one thing in life that you can be certain of and that is you can't be certain of anything.

Love and elbow grease,

Mr H

PS As I type, Jurgen remains untroubled in the (F)Utility Room.