Yes, I’m still here, folks; not dead yet, though I’m finding it more and more difficult to find anything interesting to blog about. When, in future times, I’m asked by my great-grandchildren, “What was it it like in the 20-21 Pandemic?”, what will I tell them? I’m having difficulty remembering much about it, to be honest. At the moment I’m not quite sure how many lockdowns we’ve had. Is it three? Things are getting a bit more ‘back to normal’ with bars and restaurants now re-opened for indoor hospitality, retail is in full swing and we’re permitted to hug and go on holiday. A traffic lights system identifies which countries it’s ok to travel to but we are nevertheless advised not to go (the UK government’s Rules and Guidance continues to confuse and frustrate this Covid19-weary country).
In telling the story to my descendants I may have to dramatise my experience of it in order not to give the impression that I have pretty much been a waste of space throughout the whole thing. I might tell them about Dotty, our hyperactive pup who grew so fast and ended up eating her mother. That would be a dramatic story, though nothing to do with the pandemic. It’s not true, either of course. This pup certainly doesn’t look like she’ll be petite and she is chewing everything in sight, including Pwdin’s ears, but she hasn’t eaten her......yet.
I can tell those future little ones how being so separated meant that we didn’t recognise each other anymore. That’s something that really did happen. My son, Richard, who has been living in the Midlands for going on ten years but still registered with the NHS here in Swansea, was called for his vaccine. Not having seen him since our brief rendezvous last August, I was excited but also disappointed that Libby and the children weren’t able to come too. Stopping at the shop on our way to Owen and Jess’s where we were meeting up, I was disconcerted by a guy walking purposefully towards me instead of keeping his distance. I almost had to step into the road to avoid him until I realised that it was my son, aiming for me with a huge hug and which caused passers-by to stare (hugs not, then, being ‘allowed’). I don’t think I’m senile quite yet, so I blame my lack of recognition on a combination of factors - myopia, mask-wearing and the unexpectedness of seeing him there (I’ll big it up for future story-telling, of course).
Maybe I can tell a story about how G (aka Gareth) wore away his bones in ‘mending’ another house; how in the 21st century house builders built matchbox homes for people from sticks and cardboard because they are cheaper and, knowing that a pandemic was coming to wipe most of us out, matchbox homes would be easier to clear away than solidly built ones. Through lockdown Gareth has been trying to fix the bad workmanship of this Taylor-Wimpey house while struggling with his second bad hip. Hospital waiting lists for routine treatments like hip-replacements have stretched way into the coming years as a result of flippin COVID.
G also took on a little part-time job with Tesco for a while, by the way. There was considerable demand for delivery drivers, of course, given the increase in on-line shopping. His experience of driving a motor-home seemed to fit the job’s requirements and so, dressed in his Tesco delivery-driver uniform, Gareth worked a few evenings each week putting food through people’s doorways. He was enjoying it, seeing faces other than mine, but it took its toll on his hip, and eventually I put my foot down (the good foot, not the bad one) - he had to give it up.
We both learned a thing or two about what it’s like for these grocery deliverers. For instance, people who live in flats tend to use the delivery service for things they’d find too heavy to shop for themselves, like big bottles of pop and water. None of the drivers enjoy seeing an apartment block on their itinerary. On one trip, Gareth had to deliver a huge order which included a crate full of wine and spirits. The old guy receiving was keen to tell him that they were having a celebration. What celebration, we wondered, given that he and his wife were elderly and supposedly isolating.
Our new respect for delivery people includes knowing how they are expected to work to a very tight time schedule while adhering to some impossible rules and regulations, and monitored by not-fit-for-purpose apps.
Let’s see......what else has happened since my last blog post? In no particular order, Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh died, we’ve had local and devolved parliamentary elections (the outcomes of which I won’t bore anyone with here), the news is full of stories about how the pandemic has been scandalously mishandled by Boris and his cronies (Mark Drakeford came out well here in Wales, though). Wars are breaking out regularly - elsewhere, fortunately for us Brits, though we have seen some outbreaks of rioting. Lots of businesses have gone under, some are hanging on by the tips of their fingers, and others have managed to get very much richer. We’ve all got bored or got eye strain with Zoom’s. Many people are finding that working-from-home is a good lifestyle choice while others can’t wait to have a reason to get out of the house. Children have gone back to school and the poor teachers are having to pick up the pieces of a fractured National Curriculum and mentally disordered kids. The News gives us regular updates of where we are with infection rates, deaths and vaccinations. We hear of the latest governmental incompetencies and some colour is provided with hyped up stories of some scandal or other. It’s all a fog in my mind.
Maybe it’s the absence of Trump that makes for a foggy news outlook. Whatever our opinions of him, he lit up the news feeds and gave us something to be astonished by. I don’t know how George Biden (is it George, or John?...Jo!) getting on with putting the US in shape as he’s of much less interest to anyone. Why Trump was so ‘interesting’ I don’t know. There are plenty of other candidates out there for the job of shocking us momentarily from our apathy.
Watching the Duke of Edinburgh’s funeral on TV was an event as I sat listlessly in our Taylor-Wimpey sitting room. It wasn’t, of course the full State funeral he would have had if we weren’t in a pandemic and having to follow the social distancing rules, but it was nevertheless a bit of a spectacle. The most moving thing was seeing our little old Queen dressed in full black, masked, bowed and sitting alone where once he’d have been at her side as he’d been throughout the long reign and marriage. For me, her small, lonely figure symbolised the sadness of these times; so many bereft families suffering loss and separation. In my own case, I’m fortunate that none of my own circle has been afflicted, though there is always the knowledge of others who have. Fortunately for Prince Phillip he died as naturally as a near-centenarian can. He didn’t have COVID as far as I know, and his family weren’t prevented from being with him in his dying days as so many other families have been. That’s Privilege for you, even if it does come with the indignities of having the ins-and-outs of family problems and tragedies splattered through the Media. I’m not sure the Harry/Meghan thing will be much to intrigue future generations unless in their history books it will have been seen as contributing to a collapse of the British monarchy.
And there you have it - my record of things I can tell my great-grandchildren about if they aren’t too pre-occupied with things happening in their own lives. No doubt my memory banks will throw up other stuff that happened but for now it’s all I can drag up. Maybe it’s my own pre-occupation with wondering what the future holds for my descendants. I would prefer not to end this post on a downer, but the Climate Emergency hangs over us like the Sword of Damocles. I hope with all my heart that I will live to see a world that is healing, full of happy, healthy, thriving descendants and in which The News is happy at last.
I can end with a happy thought for now, though. Richard and co are due to visit very soon and so is my ‘baby’ sister! I just can’t wait! It will be a banquet of hugs. Oops, I’d better get rid of my lockdown looks in order not to frighten the grandchildren. I hope my hairdresser is still in operation.
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