Week 42: The Tiers of a Clown

You put the whole of London in.

The whole of London out.

In, out, in out and bugger everyone about.

You do the Covid-cokey,

And shut the restaurants down.

That’s what tiers are all about.

Oh do the Covid-cokey.

Oh do the Covid-cokey.

Oh do the covid-cokey.

Christmas canned.

Mixing banned.

Ra Ra Ra.

Welcome to Tier 4 fellow Londoners and Surreyites. After repeated assurances from Bojo the Clown that Christmas would Definitely Be Going Ahead, he’s cancelled it. And cancelled it so bleeding close to the day itself, most of us are sitting with a turkey for eight in our freezers with no immediate prospect of being able to use it. This has got Right On My Thrupennies. It was pretty obvious weeks ago that the infection rate was rapidly heading in the wrong direction, but like so many others, I made the mistake of believing our mop-haired plonker of a PM when he said Christmas would go ahead regardless. Had he said two weeks ago that it was likely that Christmas would have to be canned, I would be a lot less irritated about it. But ... well, here we are.

We had already decided to severely restrict Christmas this year because of the risk of transmission, agreeing with Gin’s (so called because she’s worked through so many bottles this year, we have a personal recycling glass smelter at the bottom of the garden) twelve family members that coming for Christmas dinner was too risky. We were though expecting Nana and Pops, and all looking forward to seeing them, particularly as Nana‘s Big Birthday (starting a new decade) bit the dust when the Borough was put into Tier 3, just as they were due to visit. Our first reaction to the Tier 4 news was to try to find a legal way around it, but there isn’t one. Then I hit upon the idea of smuggling them in on Christmas Day. My car’s rear windows and dark-tinted; no one would be able to see them hiding in the back. But in reality, none of us are much into rule-breaking, and the last thing we want to do is to contribute to the spread of the disease (especially to Nana &n Pops), so abide by the regs we will and Christmas dinner will have to wait. Gah.

The new rules also put paid to walking the hound (Milo the spaniel) with several sets of chums. When I say “walking”, it’s increasingly the case of wading, sliding and squelching as even the chalk downlands are now mud baths. They don‘t tell you this when you get a dog. The White Bathroom is now mottled brown with spatter patterns where the little tyke shakes himself whilst the bath is being run. Again.

Talking of the dog, good news! He has started eating from bowls again, and in the case of his wet food, with a new found gusto. Of course this means that the dry kibble he so loved before, he is now not very interested in. Unless it has a splash of marmite gravy poured over it. But he is eating out of bowls! Admittedly they have to be porcelain of some form, but eat from them he will. And why is this? Because we’ve worked out that he doesn’t like metal bowls that his recently new dog tag jangles against. What a sensitive little sausage he is.

More good news! We had a virtual parents’ evening with GT’s (Girl Teenager) three A level college teachers and she is doing fabulously well. The only area for improvement: spending less time on homework and more time doing stuff like Going Outdoors. Naturally this means she has spent exactly the same amount of time outdoors as previously. Bar one dog walk. In her Mum’s knee length boots. Which gave her blisters.

BT (Boy Teenager) has also been outside as much as his sister. His sleep pattern has shifted once again, and is currently mid early hours of the morning to sleep and then late morning to wake (meaning he misses Milo’s main walk of the day). We’ve tried everything we can think of to wake him up earlier (in a bid to stabilise his habit of sleep times gradually working their way around the clock in a continuous cycle), but somehow he contrives to find his way back to bed or back to sleep. Even having Milo chucked under his covers only results in BT waking temporarily (amazing really ... all those sharp little puppy teeth would have me leaping out of bed just in case something tickles his fancy). In truth I don‘t think he is bothered by his shifting sleep times, but I am and this has caused another round of Words Being Said. He is though suddenly getting much more adventurous with food and has picked out chicken enchiladas and an authentic Goan Vindalho to try in the next few weeks. This is good.

Talking of recipes, in a moment of boredom (and rather than clearing the Dining Room, which currently has in it a bike, all the shoes and boots, several electric fans, four puzzles, shopping bags, school books, bags of clothes BT has Grown Out Of, and God knows what else) I worked out the number of new recipes I’ve cooked since I became House-husband & Carer on 1st March this year. And that number is 149. They are all logged, scored and recorded in a spreadsheet. Blimey that’s quite sad isn’t it? Still, we know which ones not to have again. If it don‘t make at least a 7/10, it is consigned to history.

And there we go - week 42 bumbled by until the end, when thanks to the Tiers of a Clown, it fell off a cliff. I wonder what week 43 will bring, other than Christmas?

Love & elbow-grease,

Mr H

x

PS Here, can Santa enter Tier 4? I can get him in in my illicit pensioner-smuggling wagon if needs be.....