Category: The Covid Diaries

Day 75 LD3

It is another beautiful lockdown morning.  The sun is flashing across the wind beaten tree tops, and spring is somewhere out there happening, or at least flattening daffodils, while I sit here with a coffee, feeling frankly, a bit yuck.  The dogs have taken one sniff at the air from the doorway, just as the sky turned from a beautiful dawn coloured blue to a dark snow laden grey. Unsurprisingly, they promptly returned to their allotted beds, and instead of doing something productive, like attending to the mound of dishes I can see on the side, which I am sure are waving gleefully in my direction, I’m writing this. Let’s face it, mainly so I can wallow in my yuckness, while consuming large amounts of coffee, but also because it is about time I wrote something. Anything to pull me out of a descending cognitive darkness, which is rendering work on the book virtually impossible.

Downstairs, (its before 8am) two strapping young lads are skimming the ceiling they put up earlier this week, and I can not believe how refreshed I felt momentarily, to talk to another human being that was not the husband.  Not only that, but these two particular human beings were full of the joys of said spring, which I cannot yet manage to capture. Now please do not panic about the ceiling.  It is essential maintenance, unless any of you fancy a bit of plaster with your pint or crab sandwich, in which case you may not agree.  However, you may or may not be pleased to know, this is the entire extent of husbands planned changes to the Rod’s precious interior…

On the subject of interiors, those dishes are not going to miraculously wash themselves. As much as I pray for a fairy godmother, I feel that I will ultimately, be disappointed.

Day 64 LD3

I haven’t had a gin and tonic since the day before the last day we came out of the first lockdown in 2020.  It’s a summer drink, one to sit on the roof with, and contemplate existence while watching the sun go down.  The sort of thing that serves as an aperitif before you open a rather nice sauvignon blanc, deigned to complement whatever is on the bbq, and to submerge the rest of the evening in loveliness before you retire for a pleasant cup of camomile tea. Tonight, despite the weather, I am indulging in a G’n’T, pink, with ice, lime and a fantastic fever tree tonic, I can recommend the Mediterranean.  I had forgotten until I went to look, but along with our staff and customers, we drank almost the entire bar dry the night before new years eve, so I had to go searching for this little bottle of Tarquins in the cellar.  On my return, I can hear the news blaring from the lounge, despite the hearing aids.  It’s the same news that I heard blaring out at lunchtime, meaning that no one else is sharing in my excitement, or my celebration.  At times like these a little celebration goes a long way, but judging from what I can hear, Mr Jones is instead drowning in the most ridiculous load nonsense the media is capable of producing.  But that’s his lookout.  I leave him be and settle down to write. 

You may well ask why I am drinking Tarquins on a school night, well it’s a tiny, one person, personal celebration, to celebrate a lot of big things.  Firstly, the book is progressing, 60,000 words, and counting, I think its really getting there which is exciting, I can feel those daydreams of Hollywood coming just a little closer, day by day.  There is still a way to go, and I’m not counting my chickens, but everyone has to dream.  Secondly, I picked up a bit of freelance design work today, which is always a joy and an absolute bonus considering that we are still where we are – closed – and just a little sad about the world. Then, finally, there is this.  Which you must have found if you are reading this – the new website.  The bane of my life for some considerable time, it has been picked up and put down on more occasions than I care to remember, but finally it is finished! I think it looks good, and just to add a bit more pomposity and self praise to this small attainment, which really requires far less than its getting, the cream on top of the sugared bun moment occurred because Mr Jones is happy.  

I’m saying that last part, about Mr Jones being happy in a whisper, because the G’n’T rather distracted from last nights task of finishing this blog, and yesterdays magic finger press that would have moved the site from draft to live, so in any moment, Mr Jones may decide to put a disheveled head around the door, to ask what I am doing in the office at 6:30am in the morning if I have actually finished the website.  Websites, in my experience, are things that always seem to need constant tinkering with.  As it really is the launch today, and not yesterday as planned, I want to make double sure that its as good as it can be, before someone emails and tells me I’ve made a mistake somewhere. Normally, its my mum and normally it’s with a spelling, which isn’t quite as serious as a calendar over site, which could leave to double bookings.  Never a good thing in my experience.  

Anyway I am rambling on somewhat, not overly helpful for the first blog entry people will come across at lunch time but there we are.  I must get on and make sure the autocorrect hasn’t made some terrible error of judgement as is its wont, and corrected dimples to nipples or something equally as terrible… 

Day – I’ve lost count (about 62 days)

It’s 3:30 in the afternoon and from downstairs there is the sound of something being attacked. Something loud, and the resulting sounds of plaster falling worry me and the dog, who is fretfully running from one door way to another looking for the burglar, while the large dog pays no attention whatsoever and continues to snore, even though the floor is vibrating. It’s not a burglar, it is the lesser spotted Mr Jones, attempting to take down a ceiling. I’m a bit worried about going down to have a look, but I am sure he knows what he is doing, I just hope he is more careful than I was the last time I attempted to make a hole in something.

Today is a beautiful day. Cold, yes, but the sun is shinning for the third day in a row and I feel like we haven’t see it in such a long, long time it makes all the difference. On Sunday there were more people on the beach in shorts than there were in coats and hats, I think someone should have pointed out that it was February and bikinis were a little extreme, but I guess anything goes at the moment. I’d like to be outside myself, but I’m finishing a website project, this website project to be exact. This website, this particular one, where you find this particular blog has been about a year in the making.  Mainly because it’s been done in between everything else, lockdowns, gardening, writing a book, maintenance, beer testing and drinking, dog walking, cooking, cleaning, in fact any activity I could employ to put it off!  It’s all the systems and processes that worry me. Will they sync correctly? Will I get over bookings, can I actually manage to manage it?  I know I can, but it seems easier some how to think I won’t. There is also the bit about finally publishing some of these lockdown diary entires.  I’ve been plugging away at it on and off for almost a year, and while it isn’t complete, there are lots of bits to add which aren’t finished, I think it gives a flavour of what lockdown has been like for me and for husband come to that.  That’s not to say its any worse than anyone else’s probably very similar in some respects, but there’s still that thing about allowing people to read it which blurs the boundaries between business and pleasure to the point that they become like a potato membrane.  So we will see what happens tomorrow, in the meantime I’d better go and have a look at this ceiling…

LD3 – Day 10

There is something about shutting yourself in the kitchen and playing with your Thermomix that for some reason generates such aesthetic pleasure and sensory enjoyment that it makes everything else seem rather insignificant.  I’m particularly fond of making bread, mainly because all I have to do is find somewhere warm to let it rise and then stick it in the oven.  Although I must admit finding somewhere warm is actually quite a feat at the moment!  The bathroom thermometer this morning read 2.2 degrees, and it is not a lot warmer anywhere else unless you actually sit on one of the oil filled radiators I have plugged in, but even those aren’t quite man enough for these sub Siberian temperatures.  Yes I probably do protest too much but I don’t like being cold and neither does my bread dough! 

Other than the cold its lock down business as normal.  The book is progressing at the fast pace of a snail travelling to Australia, and I think we have taken out shares in the programme ‘A house in the Sun’, or at least we should do because it gets more air time on the TV than anything else.  Other than that it is what it is, a waiting game, a rush for the phone every time the BBC post a news update, because the app makes its own distinct sound, and several hours of rewatching things like Vera.  There is something about murder which makes one feel slightly better off, although it has made me think perhaps I should change genres and start to write a crime novel.  The happiest people in the house at the moment are the ones who have four legs, because they have constant company, their own radiator and a long daily walk.  If there is such a thing as reincarnation I hope that I get sent back as a spoilt pooch.  Anyway I must go, because I need to feed the chickens…  

Day 2 – LD3

What a way to start the new year! In bed by 10am, I cannot remember when that last happened.  This strange phenomenon was caused first by the fact that we were shut, and secondly by the fact that I seem to have accidentally and prematurely, celebrated the coming of this new year a day early.  We really do have to stop having these lockdowns because my head the morning after the last night of freedom, is akin that of a banging walking bass drum, accompanied by a crashing cymbal and a tuba.  This time it was that bad, I had to get in the sea and have a swim.  I can only describe it as cold, but then it was snowing…

This lock down is not like the last, probably because it feels like an annual blue January, which of course it is. But this, coupled with a prolonged sense of isolation, is made all the worse when you add a little sprinkling of cold weather, and before you know it, you find yourself berating your behaviour, because you can’t actually get up much enthusiasm to do any of those jobs which seemed so easy in the first lockdown. There is of course the cash flow issue, as I’ve attempted to explain to people before, and this mixed in with everything else, well its not a recipe that I would rely on when inviting those you wish to influence for dinner. Trading for us like everyone in the sector was patchy in 2020, we were closed for 142 days in total, trading at half mast for at least another 100 and now it’s that dreaded tax return time, the vat bill is due and for some unknown reason, it appears to be the time of year that everything else needs renewing.  Whatever anyone says all these things add up not just for us but for everyone who has to pay money to someone when they don’t have any coming in.  I feel like Boris hasn’t got it right, after all the early promise of his swift actions, he seems to be waiting until we have already met the final hour before he makes any decisions, and look where that’s got us.  I’m not going to mention the vaccine either, the jury I feel is still out on that one.

So what to do in this new year? Well there’s the normal lets drink less, at least that’s going quite well so far, due to the fact I think I still have a semblance of a hangover.  Then there is the usual ‘let’s work out a plan of attack for 2021?’. Well that’s on the back burner, because who knows when we will be able to open again, and let’s face it, if the sector survives this pandemic then that is an achievement enough.  So instead we sit here in limbo, and in the case of Mr Jones, in front of endless hours of ‘A Home in the Sun’.  At least we can still dream right? 

Lockdown take two – day 16

Today, Husband said, after emerging from a steaming bathroom, I am doing nothing. He puts his pyjamas on, lights the fire, and settles down for some rugby with some cheesy biscuits. Part of me is relieved, yesterday was quite traumatic for a number of reasons, and I said a few things I might like to retract if I had the courage. He isn’t bothered, he knows me better than that, but still I’m repentant. I make some pizza dough and bring him a beer, and he knows that’s an apology without me actually having to voice it.

Yesterday is a day that I would like to forget. Although I can’t because it taught me too many valuable lessons. In my infinite wisdom I decided to apply for a job. I think that was on day ten, although it could have easily been day nine. It was part time, would have involved a 106 mile round trip from door to door three days a week, and didn’t pay particularly well. I got an interview, and diligently spend a good chunk of last week researching, interviewing myself while I paced the kitchen delivering my answers to the dog, and making sure that I could answer any questions that were thrown at me. The last time I had an interview online we were using Skype, and I was in Portugal. It was for a job that I would have loved, unfortunately I had a head full of sand and ears full of salt water, having spent the morning in the surf, needless to say it wasn’t a success. So this time I was taking no chances. First of all there is the dilemma, about what to wear. Can I really get away with pyjama bottoms? Do I need to have a shower? Where shall I sit and what should my background be – I mean how much of my house do they really want to see? At least it broke the monotony, and as my friends said afterwards, its great experience. But actually it wasn’t. I have no idea if I have the job, but I certainly don’t want it, so if they invite me to attend the next round, I will politely decline. Now before people start shouting at their screens or phoning to say that there are people who actually need a job, I realise this, and I am not writing about this just to inflate my ego, neither have I decided to pull out of the running – assuming I get through to the next stage – because I applied just to fill the time. I actually really thought that I wanted the job. I sat, nervously, rereading my notes, getting my thoughts into a positive mindset, waiting for the host to let me into the meeting hoping that I had covered everything they might conceivably ask. Everything started well, there was that question I’d been expecting, and a few others followed easily answerable and I’m getting into my stride. Twenty minuets later however, I’m feeling a little frustrated. The questions, which are pretty relentless are too similar, and not only that but they are becoming slightly obtuse. The feedback is facetious at best, not everyone one the panel has a great poker face, and I’m feeling less sure that things are going the way I had planned. I sign off by adding some things that had come into my head during the process, namely that actually running a business gives me far greater credentials and knowledge than simply understanding how to run a business, in my mind they are two separate things. I am not sure that was the best lasting impression, but it was an honest one.

We lit the fire last night and sat in the bar, its bottled beer this time around, and a collection of random ales and lagers later the real truth of the whole episode comes tumbling out. I’d had a run, which I’ve been struggling with since having COVID, and I was tired, I’d hardly eaten all day due to nerves so I wasn’t in the best condition, but I was angry, or disappointed or something I couldn’t put my finger on, and I needed to run it off, adding quite a few beers to that was perhaps not the best solution. Husband and I had sat in companionable silence for a while, then we dialled in some friends, shall we eBay someone he said, thankfully this time I didn’t have to worry about the background. We had a great chat. For once there were no inner ear shots, no talking over each other, no drive to ask pointless questions or give equally pointless answers, there were simply four very successful, extensively experienced business owners (and I’m not including myself in that) talking openly and rationally about how we all move forward, and how much they miss our harvest festival, our company, our beers and food and our little pub with its massive friendly fire. I sit and listen for a long time, until someone asks me a question that I do have an answer for. What shall we do about the hospice this year? And a few suggestions were thrown around. There has been no harvest festival, no packed auction where people pay ridiculous amounts for pens and cakes and peoples homemade gin, so we don’t currently have a massive cheque for the local primary school or for Children’s Hospice Southwest. Husband, being the type of chap he is, has been having sleepless nights about this. He is a better person than I can hope to be, at least when it comes to supporting CHSW if nothing else. It turns out he isn’t the only one. As I sat watching the fire crackle, poking it occasionally with my boot, I realised that it doesn’t matter if you don’t wear a suit during the week or shop at Waitrose on a Sunday only so you can read the weekend papers because you have nothing else to do. The real things, the things happening that mean anything, the things that keep the cogs of the world moving forward are happening in this little room, in front of a exceptionally ridiculously sized fire, which dwarfs two people and two sleeping dogs, and they are happening over an iPad with a few beers while we are all shut up in our own houses. These are the conversations that matter, these are the things we can be proud of when we open our doors again.

We said our good buys an hour later, and I must admit last night it didn’t make me feel any less upset about the amount of time I had wasted this week on an exercise that now seemed pointless. I said that beer on an empty stomach, coupled with this enduring tiredness is not a good combination, its not great for emotional stability either. Today in the harsh light of 5am, when I lay reading a plethora of news articles it seemed like a lifetime ago, and after a brisk walk on the beach, and a lengthy tug-of-war with two dogs and some seaweed I feel like I have been taught a valuable lesson, the grass isn’t always greener, and more to the point it isn’t always as you remember, and more often than not what is important is already staring you right in the face, all you have to do is reach out and grab it.

Lockdown take two – day seven.

Husband is stressed. Which actually I am quite enjoying. Every year when it gets to the time to decorate the pub for Christmas, which is a massive undertaking, several weeks of collecting, composing, working in short bursts before we open and eventually, in desperation, around customers, where we attempt unsuccessfully not to drop bits of leyladii into their scallops, as we staple things to the ceiling, husband disappears. Normally this disappear every coincides with a day at one of the local estates where syndicates and individuals go under the direction of a game keeper, to find pheasants. It is a pastime I am not sure is condonable, but as the pheasants are an ingredient in our game stew, it is slightly less pointless. Inevitably he arrives back, ruddy faced from the cold, only to find fault with our current efforts, and the next day we move things about again and attempt to move forward once again. This process as I mentioned can take weeks. This year he is undertaking the decorations himself. I am terribly busy and completely absorbed with what hair cut I might have when we finally get to go back to the hairdressers, otherwise disguised as having paperwork to complete and obviously I have a huge amount of paperwork. It’s not a complete fabrication of the truth, I have the vat return to do, at least I do until I have to submit it.

Anyway, before we got locked down for the second time, we had the bottom part of what used to be the car park and now has extended seating, covered with a new layer of tarmac. Husband dose invariably have a lot of ideas that sound ridiculous but are often excellent, and had the foresight to ask the tarmac guys to drill a large, deep hole and fill it with a huge bit of pipe. This done, they covered it with a manhole cover and completed the tarmac. Husbands extension of this idea came with a sparky who painstakingly cut through the new tarmac, to run an external power cable and socket from an existing one into another pipe which eventually linked up with said hole – I hope you are following. If you haven’t guessed already, the Christmas tree which came from just around the corner at Tartan Down Nurseries, and was their first Christmas tree delivery arriving as it did today on the 11th of November, has fitted into the said hole drilled into the ground in the aforementioned car park. Not only has it fitted in and is super, super stable, which is great as it is super, super, windy, it looks brilliant and the piece de resistance? There is power, super close and super weather friendly. There are a lot of super things about this tree – as you can see.

I must admit at this point to not being a Christmas lover. In fact I’m sitting here slightly annoyed about the new face mask I purchased especially for the festive period which reads ‘Bah. Humbug.’ It is sitting on my desk looking at me as if enjoying rubbing salt into an open wound. Why? Because it was clearly made to fit an elephant, not an actual human face, and the chance of me being able to wear it should we reopen next month is slim. But I digress. So Husband, tree, car park, hole, electric lights. Not to mention several bits of long large rope and two pairs of extra hands, who just happened to belong to two villagers who were passing the scene at that time. To be frank, (perhaps I should be Francesca?) this was nothing other than highly amusing carnage, (so much so that I made a cup of tea and sat down to watch), involving a tree gallantly falling from left to right, but as the spare hands rushed to the aid of an ageing landlord in distress, maintaining social distance – hence the long large bits of rope, the spectacle became wondrous, and there in all its glory stood our chosen, our special, wonderful charismatic Christmas tree. I left him there and with a grin went back to my deliberations about purple or grey for a new hair colour.

Later that evening, a wind bashed, tired cold and terribly grumpy shape made its way into the bar. I had assumed the evening position, lit the fire and opened him a bottle of beer. He slumped down beside me, nice tree I said. He gave me one of those looks that should be accompanied by an Arnold Schwarzenegger gun from nowhere, and remained silent. We sat in that quiet tranquility, but even the dogs had sensed that this was not a time to try and beg a crisp, and as they silently retreated to the relative comforts to be found under a table, the most brilliant thing happened. There was laughter. Outside there was laughter. We looked at each other for the briefest of moments, and then he moved from that seat as if he was a greyhound in the trap just let loose to chase a rabbit, before I could blink he was outside and down the stairs. There in the dusk of the evening were two little girls, one just walking, the other a bit taller and far steadier on her feet. They were laughing, pointing, pulling on the hands of their mum as she tried to prise them past, but children at christmas are always in charge, so they stood instead, stock still looking up at the lights and upside down red buckets that were adorning our Christmas tree, and laughed.

If Christmas this year is a short affair, and if we can only open for a few days at worse, I know that it wont matter, because everything has already been worth all the effort.

Day 6

I’d like to say ‘you won’t believe it!’ in the voice of Victor Meldrew but you probably will. The first click and collect slot I can get at Tesco isn’t until a week on Friday, and if I want delivery that will be the 22nd of November! By that time I will be out of isolation and able to shop for myself! The most immediate problem seems to be the lack of coffee. That and the fact that I am being forced to listen to the Dubliners, but not just any sort of Dubliners, this is live from Scotland.  That apparently is excessively important.  Yes, I’m afraid the worst has happened and Mr Jones has learnt the mastery of the wireless speaker system downstairs.  I’m not sure who more morose, me with my lack of coffee, him with the lack of customers or the Dubliners with their death dirge… Anyway don’t tell him, but I’ve found a bottle of beer which is due to go out of date on the 22nd of November about the same time as I could get some shopping, so I’ve decided to drink it. Yes there is still beer in the tap, but he’s doing a good job at that all by himself!  

Today has been a bit of a catching up day, doing those things I seem to remember doing when I had an office job. Clearing out the email clutter, a bit of electronic filing, quite boring. But its better than watching another episode of bargain hunt in your pyjamas.  The other thing I find soothing is to make a list. So I’ve made several, none with anything other than the immediate necessity, (coffee), but plenty on the back burner for the next few weeks. On that note I’m off to see if Amazon can deliver me a grinding machine by tomorrow – anything is possible.