Not going Out

May 2020

A few days ago my elderly belligerent mother received an information pack from her doctor.  Inside was her new inhaler plus a heap of information explaining why she must not, under any circumstances, go out.  Her lung condition, poor diet, drinking habits and advanced years meant that she was classified as being at very high risk.  The merest wiff of the virus and she would drop dead on the spot. 

As with most old people she took the hump at being told what to do and last week said she would be changing nothing, no matter what the medics said.  She had been walking her manky dog every morning for years and not come to any harm and she wasn’t going to stop now! 

At the weekend she revealed she had indeed continued to follow her usual routine, but when out with the hound had started wearing a balaclava to hide her identity.  This was because she didn’t want anyone grassing her up to the doctor.  I can imagine the conversation in the houses she passes every morning: 

“I say Mary, who is that mysterious figure?” 

“I don’t know Gerald!  We usually see Margaret at this time of day.  She is wearing Margaret’s coat, carrying Margaret’s bag and is walking Margaret’s dog, but due to that balaclava her identity is a mystery!” 

I do hope she doesn’t get reported to the police and arrested for acting suspiciously. 

Once the government gave the word, both myself and the Domestic Manager spent three weeks working from home.  As I needed a lot of IT kit to do my job I got the box room or ‘office’ as we rather grandly call it, whereas the Domestic Manager had to use the wobbly kitchen table where she repeatedly complained about how cold it was. 

On Monday 20^th April I started three weeks of furlough leave and I have to be honest, if I stand back and take the longer view, I struggle to see the downside.  It is a lot better than being made redundant and you still get most of your pay.  Redundancy might still be on the cards of course, but in the meantime I’ll make them most of what is essentially a paid holiday. 

Having said this the first week being off was a real struggle, what with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky and the temperature being in the high teens, but I somehow managed to battle through.  I quickly discovered daytime TV is so bad it make you feel worse than suffering the virus, so I whiled away the hours in the garden and with long bike rides into the country. 

I also packed my stuff away so the Domestic Manager could use the office.  It seemed the fairest course of action.  Not only would it be a bit warmer, she would only have to look out the window to have the pleasure of seeing me in the garden, in the sunshine, not doing a lot.  When I pointed this benefit out the reaction I received was less favourable than I had anticipated. 

It has not all been fun in the sun though.  On the first day at 9:00am the Domestic Manager informed me the office was “cold”.  So I went round the house and shut all the windows. 

By 9:15am it was “stuffy”, so I opened them all again. 

By 9:30am the temperature was again lower than acceptable, so some of the windows were shut and some left open.  And so on. 

I now also have to suffer the indignity of the Domestic Manager calling herself “the main breadwinner now” and referring to the box room as “my office”.  Be in no doubt, the latter is a topic for future discussion. 

The child is meant to be doing her National 5 exams next month but as we know all school exams have all been cancelled.  This was most disappointing for both of us.  The child was keen to improve her marks after her prelim (mock exam) grades were not to her satisfaction.  I am left to rue to many hours wasted assisting with revision.  I may never have a use for my recently acquired knowledge of radioactive isotopes, but I had hoped she might. 

Keen to ensure we do not demand a refund of this terms fees, St Junipers School for ladies of Distinction are running all their classes live online.  This includes a morning assembly where the singing of hymns is encouraged, but to date we have yet to hear the strains of Kum Ba Yah waft down the stairs from her bedroom.  Fall out of bed 3 minutes before lessons start, login, then come down for a leisurely breakfast of bacon and egg muffins is the form most days. 

She has a long held desire to join the medical profession, but struggles to tell the difference between left and right.  If she makes it to the top I do hope she doesn’t specialise in amputations. 

The two instructions against which every action is now judged are: 

a.stay at home and 

b.don’t go out 

as demanded by her majesty’s government.  Under pain of death, if you’re really unlucky.. 

To ensure I meet both these requirements, I have limited my weekly exertions to a couple of bike rides and the horror that is ‘the big Saturday shop. 

Spend ten minutes looking out our kitchen window and you will see half a dozen cyclists hurtle past, their bodies encased in specialist cyclewear with a brand name emblazoned down one leg.  Occasionally they are alone and pass at high speed, eyes glued to the road, their mind focused on how quickly they can complete the remaining 83 miles. 

Most often however they appear in packs, strung out along the road, silent but for the shouts of their aggressive leader as he provides swear words of encouragement to his struggling disciples.  Being close to the notorious Cairn O Mount, a well known challenge for the serious cyclist, we often eat our lunch watching red faced overweight amateurs puff past the window, rueing the moment they agreed to a “quick 20 miler over the Mount”. 

At present I rarely do more than 8 miles each trip, all of which are completed on the car-less backroads.  Speed is not measured and time is not checked, as every trip involves numerous stops to take pictures of pretty flowers, rare wildlife or humorous beasts in the field. 

My favourite route takes me through a large fruit farm, where poly tunnels full of ripe strawberries and cherry trees create an avenue of amazing aroma.  The closest strawberries are only 10 feet from the road and in the evenings I will sometimes stop and steal a fruit.  In the day however I keep going, fearful of being chased off by an angry pitchfork wielding Albanian. 

This week a small team of eastern Europeans have been moving from field to field picking thousands of flowering daffodils.  I fear they have their work cut out as there are usually  about 600 of them at this time of year, but they seem very thin on the ground. 

I sometimes go past when they are on their break, sitting by the side of the road in near silence.  Occasionally I’ll try a cheery Hello, but rarely get a response.  They look up and stare with either mild curiosity or deep irritation.  I suppose if I were sitting by the side of the road in Romania and a fat, sweaty, middle aged man encased in black lycra so tight it affected his breathing said “Hello” to me, I’d probably not answer back either. 

Compare and contrast the joy of cycling with the nightmare that is every Saturday.  The Domestic Managers charitable demeanour means we now do the shopping for four people.   

In addition to ourselves we purchase goods for my mother, the Domestic Manger’s work colleague and the work colleague’s sister who I have never met and have started to believe doesn’t exist.  All are considered highly vulnerable so it is only right we do our bit, but I am sure the implications of what this entails are lost on them. 

The outward journey requires a detour to pick up large shopping lists, an inadequate number of shopping bags and to receive instruction on replacements and the suitability there of.  

On arrival at the supermarket two trollies are required which we then spend the next 4 hours filling.  This does not include the time spent queueing outside to get in. 

As the weeks have passed I have noticed the shopping lists get ever more demanding.  ‘Eight Sprouts’ was one entry that made me want to get eight bags of the things, then on delivery say “Well you weren’t very specific were you?” 

Going through the till people clearly think we are hoarding and look at us with daggers.  I always smile and say gaily “This isn’t all ours!  It is actually four people’s shopping!”.  However this cuts no ice with the stony faced, joyless souls unlucky enough to find themselves queueing behind us. 

The boot and back seat are filled with the now overflowing bags.  Escapees items are re-captured and returned to the car.  the homeward journey is then completed in reverse order with goods being delivered on route. 

This whole exercise may sound simple enough, but people write shopping lists in the order they remember things, not in the way the supermarket is laid out.  Then there are the requests for things you can only get in one particular store.  What do you do – substitute it for the closest equivalent or get nothing?  It a minefield!  We all know how twitchy old people can be when it comes to their diet and their numerous bowl related problems. 

I remember many years ago when working part-time as a home shopper for Asda Wallmart one of my colleagues substituting an electric kettle with a toaster.  They sent it back apparently.  Can’t think why.