Read the rest of my Corona Lockdown diaries here.
It’s week 9 of lockdown, and having made the decision that unless a miracle occurs that the kids won’t be going back to school last week, we haven’t changed our mind on the subject.
The summer is stretching out before us.
Almost four more months of having the kids at home with us every day and quite honestly, from where we are now, it isn’t as daunting as I thought it might be.
At the start of this whole thing, I admit I was totally against the shutting of schools – probably because of the tragic downplaying by the government.
I was panicking primarily about how I’d manage to do any work, which fortunately hasn’t been a problem because there is basically none to do anyway, and now that my initial worst fears have been realised it emerges I’m actually I’m OK with it.
My life – the world – isn’t the same any more.
I think that my expectations and thoughts about what is acceptable have adjusted over the past nine weeks to new baselines, such as the acceptable daily alcohol units and calorific intake.
Each week, I find myself doing things that I wouldn’t have dared before lockdown. It could also be down to boredom, in fairness.
First off, dying my own hair. Not for the first time, but generally something I leave to the professionals and for good reason. Then last week I decided to cut my own hair a bit, which went OK. Then I started considering cutting myself a fringe; fortunately the people of Instagram saved me, in what turned out to be a Brexit-close vote (only the sensible people just about scraped it this time).
Changing the subject entirely, last week we had a bit of a drama in the Taylor household.
My husband woke up feeling pretty poorly in the middle of the night (non-corona related).
After trying to get him to at least call 111 and check that he wasn’t going to keel over (quite frankly we are halfway through painting a room and it would be so bloody inconvenient), he finally did so once the kids were in bed the next day. They asked him some questions and dispatched an ambulance.
The paramedics were here in minutes – I barely had to get out of the bath to answer the door.
It was really weird having people in the house after so long.
I thought it best not to get too close for obvious reasons, so I was stood in the kitchen (wishing I hadn’t just put the dishwasher on so I could hear what was being said) when my husband popped his head around the door and said he was off to the hospital for tests.
This obviously got me panicking a little bit; firstly that it might be serious which I hadn’t really considered until that point, secondly that hospital really isn’t the place to be right now, and then thirdly that, all being well, I’d need to go and pick him up from the hospital with kids in tow in the middle of the night.
The latter is fortunately what happened.
After not having driven a car for almost two months, I was a little worried – of it not starting as much as anything – but I managed to get my two sleepy kids from their beds, into the car and to the hospital to collect my husband who after a blood test and an x-ray was deemed to be alright, thank goodness. He’ll live to finish the decorating after all.
Then I drove us all home again, where the kids decided they were very much awake. Of course.
The next day we were all tired as fuck, as you can imagine.
We didn’t do much in the way of anything but mope around in our PJs and play on devices; a standard lockdown day really.
The following day we got a text message from our neighbour asking if all was OK chez Taylor… BECAUSE WE HADN’T BROUGHT THE BINS IN.
Not because the last time she saw him was being carted off to hospital in an ambulance with the lights flashing, but the bins. Of course. (If you happen to be reading this, which I doubt you are, thank you for making us both laugh).
Anyway we are now fine, everyone is healthy and happy (to an extent) and the nice weather has really picked up the mood a bit. Can’t wait for the thunderstorms on Thursday to piss all over our chips.