Day 96
When Boris, or who ever it was, but I think it was Boris, decided that we could meet in gardens, from the 1st of June it didn’t take very long for that to become a stately tradition in the Jones residence. Up to six people in the garden, at roughly 5pm somewhere time. As most of the beer has been drunk, given away or poured down the drain, there has been a slight drought in our cellar department and the boys have been forced to bring their own, which itself has added some variety to life. Having people back in our space, even if its only the back garden has had an impressive effect on Mr Jones who now looks forward to 5pm with a great deal of relish and excitement. He is laughing more, and while he is getting a bit more done around the place, it hasn’t improved his need for at least 14 hours of sleep every night. I can tell that he expels most of his energy thinking up tall stories to tell over crisps and peanuts, and to my annoyance, the one that is repeated with notable regularity, is the non existent, ‘I’ve been tucked up’, electric bike story. The EPC, standing for the empty pub club, consists of a few old boys that have weaved their way through the troubled Covid lockdown, in a similar fashion to ourselves, and for the first few gatherings they all want to talk at once so I leave them too it. There is such a thing a too much testosterone, even at their age.
Plans for reopening have been moving at a moderate pace. The governments guidance, from memory all 52 odd pages of it, is fairly explicit with regards to the ‘do’s’ and the ‘don’ts’ of the situation, and as a result new plastic appendices have been added to the precious interior of the untouched Rod and Line, as well as screens, QR codes, no smoking signs and a plethora of other signage that I don’t expect anyone to read or take any notice of. Most of the staff that we employed before lockdown are returning, but things will be a little different moving forward so we need some new blood. Racquel, despite already looking more heavily pregnant than she should be, has been undertaking a sterling job with interviews and adverts, so much so that I feel fairly redundant, and I acknowledge the slight pang of worry which is starting to develop when I think about what I am going to do when she disappears on maternity leave. I know that she’s worried too. Not about the maternity leave, but about returning to work with the threat of Covid-19 hanging over us. People will come on holiday we know that, we just have to be ultra careful about how we manage the situation. ‘Table service’ she said to me that morning, there was a long drawn out pause as I nodded. ’Oh she said and we both laughed.
I head back out to the garden where I am handed the first cold can of cider I’ve consumed since I was a twenty something at a rock festival. I look around the table at the boys sitting and joking among me and wonder who will have the lucky job of telling them they can’t stand at the bar. As it happens, its Mr Jones, who slips it into the conversation, just as a little aside, but I know that the table note it. I smile, he does have some redeeming features after all.