It is 7:30 of a Wednesday evening. My hands are covered in glue and some orange paint, as I am helping the Small Child with her āBook in a Boxā (donāt ask, F*@king World Book Day as itās now known in our house). The Older Child is writing her 500 word story (still) and LSB has been called down to start typing it out. He had been upstairs āworkingā but when I passed earlier with a load of laundry his screen was showing no evidence of this and he was chortling away to himself about a fella stealing a live octopus from a market on Reddit.
The kitchen is an abomination, and even the cat looks on judgementally. Then the phone rings. Itās Herself.
āNow I MUST talk you. Itās a matter of some urgency.ā
I sigh. It is not a good time to chat, when I am trying to fashion a pair of glasses out of pipe-cleaners for a 3 dimensional squid.
āIām worried about the children. Tell them to watch who theyāre sitting near in school, and if theyāve been away over half-term or the likes, to ask to be moved to another table. I donāt want anyone coughing or spluttering over them. Your fatherās after telling me that the Six Nations, hang on a minute āRONNIE? WHAT IS IT THATāS BEEN CANCELLED?ā Yes, I was right, The Six Nations in Italy has been postponed. Ā Now those rugby ones, they wouldnāt be taking measures like that if this wasnāt bad.ā
My mother hasnāt drawn breath. Nothing wrong with her lung capacity anyway.
On she goes: āFar too much gallivanting, if you ask me. Skiing in February, the Canaries at Easter, I think the worldās gone mad. Itās like the last days of Rome.ā
āThey should be putting an end to air travel. Germs spread fast on a plane with that recycled air. Oh, itās disgusting.ā
āMum,ā I say. āI canāt go ringing the school. Children are always coughing and spluttering. Including my own.ā
āWell at least you know where theyāve been.ā
(That I do- we were at Druidās Glen and then a wee farm in Wicklow. It was very pleasant, apart from the fact that it rained incessantly. Foundered we were.)
āWe donāt know who walks amongst us,ā she goes on dolefully, āand thatās the sorry truth of it.ā
āWell I canāt just not go into work,ā I say. āOr keep the children off.ā
āI was up at Bloomfieldās earlier and it was desperate altogether.ā
I gesture to LSB that Iām away for a sit down for this conversation. I sense it could take a while.
āI said to your daddy, will we have a scone, because I have a hunger upon me.ā
(Iām not making this up, this is how my mother actually speaks.)
āSo we were in the queue at Marks and Spencer, and Iām not OVERLY found of their scones because whoever is making them is too heavy handed with the baking soda, but I said to your dad that perhaps we could share one, because with his blood sugar he shouldnāt be having a whole one anyway.ā
Dear Jesus.
āAnd there we were, the pair of us, in the queue, and this well-dressed woman, nice coat and all on her, well doesnāt she start to cough, all over the place. And not a hankerchief, nor even a tissue. This coronavirus has, Ā I think, been upgraded to a PANDEMIC, and STILL the cakes and buns are all sitting out. Now as you know, I only ever take the gluten free scones because theyāre quite tolerable AND they come in a packet, thus germ-free. But then, the fellow in front of us, Iād say he was in his sixties and a sensible looking sort of a person, but doesnāt he lift a custard slice that your womanās only after coughing all over?ā
āI said to your father, youād need to be quare and hungry before you would eat the like of that. ‘Weāll just go on home,ā I said. āSafer that way.ā
āGood for you,ā I say.
It is Ash Wednesday and Iām trying to channel my Holy side but feck me, Ā am I gagging for a big fat glass of Malbec after that.