What to do if your loved one gets Covid - and other top Dad tips...

 "Look Sarah, I don't want you to panic.  I want you to stay calm when we get the result - whatever it says."

I am pacing up and down the bedroom whilst Sarah struggles to get her breath and is gasping on the bed. 

Secretly I am thinking that she might just have this Covid thing after all.  I mean, she has been wiped out in bed for days and days now.  I point out she is lucky that I decided we really needed a tv bed in lockdown but she is too sick to throw anything at me.  Not even a tea cup.  I know this must be pretty serious then. 

I'm hoping she'll get the all clear and me and the kids can head off to hockey.  But the clock is ticking.  It's been 72 hours (so much for Boris' world bloody class test and trace system in under 24 hours!)  

We call the NHS track and trace number and speak to a really chilled out caring Scottish lady, who unfortunately can't give us any update whatsoever.  However, by a fluke of the known laws of the universe (which also govern buses travelling in packs of three and computers always appearing to be fixed the moment you actually get an IT guy to come and fix them) - an email pings through on Sarah's phone. 

We hang up and because Sarah is a). Totally sick and b) can't find her glasses. I grab the phone and manically scroll down. In my head, I repeat the mantra in a Dad's army Clive Dunn staccato voice "Don't panic! Don't panic!"

I need to keep the patient calm and not worry her.  Show no fear. 

I read the message.  "Shit Sarah. Shit.  You've got it..." I yelp.  Dang. I had hoped for a casual Sean Connery like air of calm.  Epic fail. 

I give Sarah a hug and head downstairs to update the kids. 

"Declan. I don't want you to worry.  But mummy has Covid.  But she's going to be ok." I say as solemnly but upbeat as I can.  This is a difficult act to pull off with my limited range. 

Declan looks me square in the face with fear in his eyes.  "But she kissed me! On the LIPS!"

Declan has now consigned himself to certain death or a fate worse than that. 

I give Fintan the bad news.  He actually takes his ear phones out to concentrate (which is appreciated) and then goes and checks on Sarah.

Caitlin is sitting on the couch watching minecraft - dogworld on You-tube, whilst simultaneously building a minecraft "Dalmation station" on her Nintendo.  This appears to be a mind-numbingly dull exercise.  But given the situation - I don't push it. 

"So Caitlin...Mummy is ok...but she has that bug," I say. 

She stops building her Dog palace and looks at me.  I am not sure whether she is going to burst into tears or what. 

"Does that mean we don't have to go to school or do any work and stay at home?" She asks hopefully.

"Yes.  It's back to Daddy homeschooling again!"  

Caitlin climbs up on to the top of the couch and leaps back down onto it. Face planting straight into the cushions.  She then proceeds to do the 80's dance "The Worm" for the next five minutes before then opting to run up and down repeatedly shouting "Wahoooo!".

"Bloody hell Caitlin - I can only imagine how happy you'll be if both your parents get it!"

We do our "Covid Time" and come out of our isolation after 14 plus days.  On my first foray outside walking the dog, I swear they have repainted all the lines on the road.  The markings are soo so bright.  I realise that most people would be more taken by the trees and the wildlife...but no - it's the tarmac that most amazes me. Which is a worry.  

We have a cracking weekend.  Spotting a Kingfisher on our canal again and I get to play a game of hockey at last.  The crowning moment of the weekend being able to play with Fintan and Declan on the same team as me as we huff and puff around the pitch and have a whale of a time. 

Later, we carve our pumpkins.  My god, their innards are disgusting.  It felt like slopping out a giant babies nappy full of liquid mulch - with the consistency of baby shit. Horrific.  How have I managed to avoid this for my entire life?   I carve the pumpkin that a 3 year old might carve and feel that this is at the height of my artistic prowess.  Even Bob Ross would disown me.  And that dude loves everything, he is so chilled (but possibly very dead by now).

I dress up as a Vampire, Caitlin becomes "Toothless" the Nightfury dragon from How to Train your Dragon. And I stick a witches hat on Sarah (although some might say - I stick Sarah's hat on her).  I'll pay for that later. 

Caitlin races up and down the road.  Swooping back and forth and shaking her tail and wings. Every time we see a house with decorations, we put sweets that we brought with us into her plastic pumpkin bucket. This is a very strange Covid Halloween indeed. 

On the way back down the road, I realise that we need more coconut milk for our Indonesian curry as the last tin of milk was so out of date that when I opened it up it came out in a big lolloping solid splat of rancid curdled coconut milk (I was intrigued whether the use by date actually meant use by...and the answer is - it Does!).  So  - not being a total moomin - I hand my black and red vampire cape to Sarah and Caitlin and head off to Aldi. 

I wander round Aldi and cannot find the bloody coconut tins anywhere.  In the end, I ask an Aldi worker who is stacking shelves. 

"Scuse me mate...where is the coconut milk?" 

He looks at me like there is something strange about me. And then points at the enormous crate of Coconut Milk tins next to him - stacked four foot high. This is rather embarrassing.  I worry he might think I fancy him or am lonely but decide to move on and grab 2 random cans.  Later, I realise his odd looks and the strange way the three girls outside stared at me and the way the check-out dude looked at me was probably more down to the red and pink blusher covering my eyes and face. I had forgotten the vampire make-up Sarah had applied.  I wonder if they thought I had fangs beneath my face mask too?

Release the inner cheese poet!!!! Exorcism complete...

Ok...I've gone full poet...and wrote this. Its got more cheesey sentiment than Beaches.  But here it is anyway.  I might also post me reading it out loud but I only read poetry when I am drunk or on holiday (the two are usually combined). So it could be a while.

Covid Wishes

These are the things I’d like to do – probably just the same as you

I’d like to hug friends once more

Instead of chatting 2 metres at the door

I’d like to kiss a friend on both cheeks

I haven’t done either for thirty weeks

I’d like to hear a group singing and dancing together

I haven’t seen that since it seems like forever

I’d like to see my mum, my dad

See what kinda Covid they’ve had

I’d like to see my sister in the Disunited states

Where Black Lives no longer mattered

And cops sealed their fates

I’d like to see a new city

Across a sea

To hear new words

To feel abundantly free

I want to climb a mountain if I like

Race down it on a mountain bike

I want to laugh in a theatre

Stand and Ovate?

I want the crush of the football crowd

The surge when we score

The bottle of beers flying

Across heads…and the roar!

The glorious wild screaming when the sport is won

The wonder of life of what can be done

I want to see the sun from a never seen shore

Cram it all in before

There is no more and my body is done

I’m not ready for Covid life on Hold

There’s so much more that has to be told…

 

 

The Tree kangaroo of enormous virility and the smell that nearly killed us

"So the conservatory roof needs a bit of a clean and the gutters," I say wisely to my dad.  From the levels of moss growing on it - it looks more like Bilbo Baggins' holiday home.

We have been busy chopping back trees and doing odd jobs ever since he arrived.  Jobs have been building up over this lockdown!

"You know there's a dead magpie on your conservatory roof," dad says.

I look out of Fintan's window.  So there is.   This is karma you black and white winged devil bastards!  Karma!  Sitting outside my window 4am every morning! Eating grubs off my roof!

I know the incident.  It was Thursday morning and there was an awful squawking match going on outside.  I assumed it was some young upstart crow (literally) gate-crashing their territory.  But I'd never heard screams like this.  Either way.  It has been peaceable ever since.  And now the reason is clear.  The young pretender is dead.

Sarah comes up to inspect the situation.

"You'll need a broom or something.  Bring it in the window..." and she wanders off.  Dead birds, dog shit on buggy wheels. Why do dad's always get these jobs?

I opt for a "gravity assisted magpie removal" operation and grab a big massive stick from the garden (I keep big massive sticks for these sorts of purposes).  A few are propping up Caitlin's impromptu indoor tent camp.

I stretch out the window and get a good launch angle beneath its body and flick.  For the final time, the magpie launches briefly into the air before landing in the gutter.  Up the ladder I go - and a few minutes later.  Job done.

In between these events - we enjoy walks with the dogs to the river and watch the sail boats back on the water at last. We walk through Christleton fields and seeing as it was the great July 4th Covid beer independence day.  We chanced our arm at the Ring of Bells.

We're the only people there (well - it is still very early on).  The kids run around the playground and we sup on our first cold pints.  It feels good.

Later in the week, cricket is back on the Friday night.  We're only allowed 8 in the nets - but it's great.  I decide it is best to coach the under 11 team tactically from 400 yards away at the bar.  This sort of high-level coaching is sure to be adopted by the ECB any day now.  I am quite put-out that neither Cook nor Stokes has given me a call for tips against the Windies.  We meet up with friends and it feels amazing to see them all again.  Even if we can't hug.

The sun is shining, the kids finish off the day with pizza, burgers and a tonne of ice cream and run 'til they drop on the fields.  Kicking a ball 'til their chests ache and their legs don't work.  I feel the same - but suspect this is probably just a minor legacy of these past few months of covid - or an imminent heart attack.

My mullet and 1870's sideburns are finally attacked by the barbers.  The place is pretty cool, with Breaking Bad movie posters and retro Star Wars nods.  But I know I'm getting old when the conversation moves into unchartered territory.

"Eyebrows sir?" he asks.

"Yes.  My eyebrows?"  I am scared now.  What is happening?  Is this a statement or a suggestion?

"Shall I shave them too?" he suggests - clippers in hand.

Now - I have been sporting the Liam Gallagher monobrow for many decades now.  So it's too late for me.  But what did he have in mind?  A couple of funky indents?  I may never know, unless I pluck up the courage next time.  First time I've worn a mask whilst getting a haircut (apart from the gimp mask at that party one time...).  I am well chuffed with my haircut though.  I am sleek and thinner and at least twenty years younger (Christ - the mirrors are great in the barbers these days!).

The kids have an outdoor jamming session with their mates on Saturday.  Their new song "Ventilator Escalator" is actually pretty decent.  I am well impressed.  A solid riff and topical lyrics.  I am still holding out on being their band manager but suspect I am gonna end up as a roadie. And not even the chief roadie.

Yesterday we head to the zoo and see Sarah and Chris and the kids there.  It's ace to see them.  We have a picnic in the Chinese Garden area near the Cedar Tree (does anyone remember that Cedar Tree tv soap from the 80s? - I loved that tree in the opening credits and always make a beeline for them wherever possible).

We wander over towards the Tree Kangaroo's.  They look pretty cute and cuddly up in the tree.  Big bulging eyes and all.

I point one of them out to Caitlin.

"Look!  Look Caitlin.  That one has babies in its pouch.  Look two of them," I proclaim sagely.

The babies are pretty big.  Huddled up there right up between its legs and chest.  "Ahhhh..."I say.  "So cute," I think.  I tell all the kids and point it out to Chris and the Sarah's.

"Shut up you eejit," says Sarah.

"Wha?"

"Is that her babies?" I ask the Zoo keeper who is ensuring we stay 2 metres apart and don't slobber all over the glass.

"No sir.  That kangaroo is a male..." he says.  Trying to keep a straight face.

"Wow!  That has gotta hurt.  That is not normal!" I say.

I wondered why the babies had no discernable features, such as eyes or legs or feet. It had cojones the size of bowling balls.  I swear! Totally out of proportion to the rest of it's body mass. An easy mistake to make.

After some more marsupial ball admiration, we moved on.  Although embarrassment can follow you for hours...like a bad smell. 

Which brings me to Sunday night.  We listen to Frank - "You make me feel so young" is playing as I carve up the chicken.  All is great in the world... except for that weird smell from the kitchen.

"Tom - do you smell it?" Sarah says. 

"Oh God yeah.  What is that smell?  Has the dog killed something?"

"There must be something rotting under the sink maybe?"

We then do what any exhausted parent would do and shut the kitchen door and forget about it...until today.

6am - I am awake.  It's light outside, but something evil has awakened my slumbering senses.

I open the kitchen door.  Daisy bounds out - happy as only a simple, possibly inbred canine can be.

The smell is horrific.  Declan wakes soon after.

"It smells like dead cat," literally. I last smelt that smell when our cat Juliet died under the floorboards in Beckenham.  She never did find Romeo.

"I'm gonna puke," I think to myself. 

Declan opens his bedroom door and points at the floor.  "It's there!  The smell!  It's there!!!" and he points at specific points like he is some sort of human smell locator.

Fintan leaves his room with a t-shirt around his mouth.  I kid you not.  This was a level 5 bio hazard incident. I consider calling Porton Down.

I open my mouth like a guppy fish and mouth breath (yep - I'm officially a mouth-breather) and enter the warzone. 

This is when I notice the "Vegetable soup" that Sarah started making last night and a light-bulb moment hits me like a rotting kipper.

"My god.  It's Sarah's vegetable soup in the slow cooker!" I remember her fatal last soup-related words.

"I'll just add some parsnips to the soup..."  And there you have it.  The odor of ammonia cat death mixed with acrid burnt rubber - all in one. Or as we all know it - "Mum's home made soup".  Now I also know where that bloody dead magpie ended up.

I do the only sensible thing and grab a can of Lynx Africa and begin fumigating the house, the way they fumigate the plane when you land in Dengue fever territory. 

"You can't cover a smell with a smell!" she will remind me.  But even she knows that sometimes you gotta do something or we'd all be dead by lunchtime.

I bin the whole sloppy dead mass outside and fear for the lives of those poor sweet blueflies.

We eat breakfast in the living room whilst I watch Match of the day 2 and What we do in the Shadows.  A dose of Vampire and footie always cheers me up of the morning.  And then I take Declan to school.  I am glad of the fresh air...

The daring rescue of Mr Nibbles and the curious development of Elf ears

So. It's day whatever.  My hair is so big I can no longer see my ears.  I could be an elf for all I know. On the plus side, I am seriously looking forward to my haircut on July 10th.  I will lose at least 3 pounds in weight by my reckoning.  My hair is so massive, I look like a fat dumb version of Einstein. That said - once I get it cut, I shall still be fat and dumb - but no Einstein lookey-likey.  Caitlin on the other hand - gets a Covidcut...

The highlight of the past few weeks has been a socially distanced trip to the cricket nets - once the government deemed this was ok.  This at least allowed the boys to throw / bowl small projectiles at each other until they inevitably gave up to kick a football at each other instead.

Meanwhile, hidden away in a small bush nearby, a small triumvirate gathered 2 metres exactly apart and partook in some home brewed beer tasting.  My good friend is still experimenting with his kits and bottling process, but so far the results have been impressive.  I am thinking that we could possibly start a moonshine operation and smuggle these beers over the border into darkest Wales.

After a few...I regaled the lads with stories of my dad's own brew and wine - some dating back to the fabled golden years of 1977.   Or the carrot whisky, Pete's Grandad at uni would make for us.  This was essentially paint stripper mixed with essence of carrot and left to ferment for many months. 

The last 6 weeks seem to be a gradual decline into groundhog day total dullness.  It's like slowly sinking in the most boring quicksand ever.  This is what it must be like when a spider sucks you to death from the inside out over a period of months. Or what its like to find yourself becalmed in the Pacific Ocean with only a few tac biscuits left and Captain Ahab has just eaten the last Galapagos Tortoise for dinner. (Apparently they were the ideal mobile dinner for those long painful whaling journey's into the great beyond).

There have been brief highlights. Lanterns of flickering light in the covid storm.

The fence was nearly taken in an unusually breezy early May.  So there was some improvised chainsawing to save the garden wall and fence.  We managed to fill the entire garden with tree.  And I managed to chainsaw my metal stepladder a little too vigorously.  But we now have enough firewood to survive the upcoming winter apocalypse.

More recently, Caitlin noticed a small brown creature loitering around our outdoor drain at a less than 2 metre distance to ourselves.  The little blighter seemed totally oblivious to all the various hazards in our household.  This ranged from Fintan and Declan bouncing a critter busting basketball near it's head, the bastard magpie's overhead and the silent ninja cat death that lurks behind every garden fence.  In the end, it was dozy dung for brains daisy who decided to investigate and gave it a test "pat" with its front paw.  Well - that's pretty much like Mike Tyson punching a small child.   So things were not looking good for "Mr Nibbles" (Caitlin named him).

The next few hours involved no less than 2 calls to the local animal rescue service and the creation of a mobile "Mr Nibbles" paramedic field centre made from an old shoe box and filled with newspaper. I grabbed some sunflower seeds and porridge oats and we commenced "Operation Save Mr Nibbles from certain death."

"I think he is in a torpor," I told Caitlin knowledgeably - having just googled it.

"By the way Sarah - if this is a vole - it is officially vermin. are we now harboring vermin?" Although I would rather harbor vermin than a rogue Dominic Cummings (what a twat).

"Oh My god, he's eaten all the carrot, and the banana, and the oats, and the seeds, and the water."  Literally, this thing was about twice the size hours later.

"Into the secret garden kids!" I declare.  The secret garden isn't really that secret, it's the bit by the canal.  But it always sounded better when they were younger.

I turn the shoebox on its side and shoosh the little rodent out and on it's way.  He seemed pretty chilled and scurried off into the undergrowth. God bless you Mr Nibbles.

Since then, we've mainly survived on pool tournaments and dreaming of what restaurant we will go to when the world re-opens. I have a new found contempt for shit broadband. The bane of home schooling and working from home. The nation has reached peak Zoom and fallen off a zoom quiz precipice, no-one sends funny memes any more cos life isn't quite as novel and funny any more and motivation levels have reached levels that would embarrass a sloth.  (Apparently the sloth at Chester zoo once fell into the turtle aquarium in the land of the jaguar exhibit.  I cannot confirm if this is just some anti-sloth campaigning going on - but I hope it is true.  Dang they is lazeeee!)

We have met friends and shot hoops at the basketball courts nearby and found frisbee to be an excellent and well suited socially distanced sport between friends.

Declan has at last started back at school (the other two suffer at home with our homeschooling attempts).  Declan seems well happy to see his friends once more and their comedy haircuts and colours (there are greens and purples and all sorts of Covid surprises lurking upon their return).

I took Fintan up the travellator in Waitrose to pick up my new laptop, just so he could go inside a supermarket.  Never has the mundane seemed so exciting.  He dined out on that story for days. 

"What was it like Fintan?" asked Declan.

"Alright I guess,"

"You wanna play fortnite?"

"Yeah."

"Ok"

"Have you seen those new skins...they're sick..."

Hug a tree, drink from the damned gravy boat and grow a mullet

Phrases I never thought I'd say until Lockdown:

"I think I have a mullet"

"I'm too hung-over to risk the chainsaw today... or this week"

"I've started drinking from the Gravy Boat - and I don't care who see's me!"

"I miss licking the whisk...I really missed that"

"Caitlin come quick - your friend is here...in a canoe!"

"Pass me the feather duster"

"What the hell is an integer?"

"What's Kaboodle?"

"MyMaths is shit"

"If you're going to rollerskate in the house - you need to wear a bike helmet"

"Daisy - stop licking my feet!"

"Are you still eating roadkill then Paddy?"

"What does Squirrel taste like?"

"No...I don't know the name of the bar in Deep Space 9"

"You are sooo Joe Exotic"

So - apart from the general collapse of the world economy and all our jobs being on their arses.  This has been a good time for birds (well - except for chickens. Chickens always get a raw deal. Specially on a Sunday in our house).

 So far, I've been leaving bird seed and some out of date porridge oats outside for 7 weeks now.  They're not big fans of the oats, but the rest is going down a hoot.  I've taken my bird feeding to a second level and have invested in a massive bag of "Fat Balls" which is apparently like crystal meth for our avian friends.  My next step is to buy a heavy duty catapult so I can see off the magpies on a permanent basis.  They are no friend to any other bird.  My life literally consists of working in my small office and staring out the window at - you guessed it - the birds.  Sometimes a delivery man arrives.  At least this provides the dog with a purpose.

Last week - we had crap sleep.  Three in the morning. The dog somehow breaks out the kitchen (I suspect she has retractable opposable thumbs) and is going batshit crazy.  Barking and howling at the front door.

I am too tired to pick up any weaponry and instead stumble down the stairs to confront any attacker. I turn on the outdoor light and spot a fat smug-looking fox sitting by our car.
Daisy - get in your basket! I order her.  She carries on barking.

The next night.  About 2 in the morning.  "Wooooo wooooooo wooooo!!!"

Full volume fire alarm is going mental in the kitchen.  Daisy appears totally unphased (I suspect she has moulded some carrots into rudimentary ear plugs and is sleeping through the whole kerfuffle).

It takes me a few minutes to unscrew the alarm from the wall and rip out the battery.  There is no fire.  But there is a faulty alarm. This makes me mad.  It never went off on the previous seven hundred occasions that I genuinely burnt the toast or set fire to the grill with the extra fatty bacon in it.  It just bided it's time and waited...waited hundreds of days, thousands of minutes to strike.  What a bastard.

I binned him the next morning (despite the warranty still being valid I might add!).

I can tell this lockdown is getting to me.  I'm lowering my standards - and they were excessively low in the first place.  I mean - I've eaten pizza that has already been put in the bin.  I've reheated Chinese take-away 4 days later and thought nothing of it.

However, I've always drawn the line at drinking from the gravy boat. There is something sacred and sacrosanct about the Sunday dinner.  We still lay out the placemats which great grandad gave to me many years past (maritime themed pictures of epic naval battles).  The image of HMS Victory is the most prized placemat.  Although I have a secret fondness for the Temeraire - The Fighting Temeraire no less.

Anyway, we've enjoyed the Roast Beef, roasties cooked to perfection and the tenderstem broccoli.  We've saved the near tragedy that was the slightly char-grilled home-made Yorkshire puds and washed it all down with some Cote Du Rhone and Frank Sinatra in the back ground.

As we tidy up, I carry the white gravy boat with the thick as treacle-just-the-way-I-like-it gravy back to the sink.  The sink where it usually gets washed away down the drain (where Daisy then heads outside to lick directly from the drain). I am careful to make sure the coast is clear before I take an almighty slug straight from the boat.  Now - don't judge me.  There is no greater hidden pleasure than drinking straight from a piping hot gravy jug.  I can tell you...right up until Caitlin walks in and catches me mid slurp.

"DAD! What are you doing!"

"I will deny everything Caitlin.  There is no need to take this any further.  This is between you and me..."

"MUM! Dad's drinking from the gravy boat! It's disgusting!"

"I'm being food economical.  We can't waste anything in the lockdown!" I tell the family.

I feel slightly ashamed but also slightly liberated.  Try it.

Meanwhile - we are now becoming zoom pub quiz legends. Meeting up with friends on Friday's and Saturdays for grown ups and kids quizzes still.  It's great to catch up - even with the 40 minute break on zoom before redialling back in (obviously no-one actually pays for the service do they?).

And during the week - and in between the shed-tonne of kids school work - the children are baking Victoria Sponge cakes, Banana bread and heavenly treats with their Auntie Karina.  Wow - they taste amazing.

On Saturday we do our 5K hour exercise for the day in our hockey tops so the club can post all the pics online.  I pick a new route for us that brings us into Chester, past Eastgate Clock then left at the Cross and down to the Bear and Billet and the river.  Back via the Grosvenor park.

It is so strange, seeing a high street shuttered down.  Each with their little A4 Covid-19 sign letting everyone know they are definitely shut (like we'd been hibernating on Jupiter for the last few months).  I wonder how the hell the restaurants and pubs will ever get round to opening. I pass each one and reflect on fond memories - but mainly long held grudges.  Why do the bad memories stick when the good ones fade?

Hello sweet Nando's  - where it took nearly 2 hours (with a crying baby!) to feed us once.  Hello The Falcon - where the locals tried to attack us on a work night out many many years ago.  Hello Cross Foxes where my friend Jon was the chef and we would meet with the babies and sit in the no smoking section and feel like bad parents!

But strikingly - I find that I am looking up at the sky and the buildings a lot more now.  Some of these old buildings are magnificent. They are still here - five hundred years later.  So I imagine there will be shops and bars and gatherings in them five hundred years from now and this will be but a footnote in history.

The walk is invigorating.  Caitlin runs free through the park.  Arms behind her like a Spitfire.  Like Captain Tom's spitfires on his 100th.  The boys climb trees in a rolling pincer movement through the park.  I even hug one.  It's actually quite rewarding and cathartic.  That and the gravy boat - don't knock it till you try.

Quarantine Holiday - My wife was blonde but now she's brown...

Well - this week I was determined to be a little more creative and bond the family together.  Like a hybrid of the Von Trapps meeting a bunch of dysfunctional hillbillies somewhere just outside of Mold.

Armed with only red wine, some Doom Bar and no parental talent whatsoever. I reworked (destroyed) the Oasis and the Royle Family theme tune.

Have to say - really enjoyed it.  Those especially hard of hearing will get the most out of this.

The full album lockdown medley is surely only months away...

The week in which we had to race to Hospital, draw Rainbows and Tigers work out how to beat the Covid19 testing queue

So what have we learnt this week?  Day 7 of lockdown and we have reached a serious turning point.  Not only has Caitlin's fever been 39 plus for over a week and a nasty choking cough has developed.  We are down to our last two bottles of red wine in the house and we are in lockdown. We have also learnt that kids are great at painting rainbows and Australian Astrophysicist's are inherently stupid and prone to sticking magnets up their nostrils.

I spend 3 hours on Saturday night devising a fiendishly intelligent virtual pub quiz for later.  My kids round of questions goes down ok (I mean - surely everyone knows the name of the dog in Annie?).  However, apparently not everyone makes the connection between Back to the Future and Horatio Nelson.  Admittedly, it's a tenuous link.  But surely everyone knows the date of the Battle of Trafalgar and the date plugged into Doc Brown's DeLorean?  Sarah calls me a "Feckin' Eejit" at least twenty times.

By ten at night the families on the virtual pub quiz agree that all question setting duties are taken away from me.

My sports questions equally hit a brick wall.  I thought everyone was familiar with classic channel 4 sport Kabadi?  Although the first sending off in the FA Cup final is met with hazy reminisces from past cup finals of our childhoods.  I still remember that Normal Whiteside goal. Same match I think.

Next morning is strange.  Normally I would be randomly shouting this at the kids:

"Where's your bloody gumshield?!"

"Kids - where are your shorts?"

"Fintan - where's you stick bag?"

"We are leaving in 2 minutes!!! 2 minutes!!!"

To which the reply would be total silence mixed with possibly faint groans of acknowledgement.

But today.  There is no hockey.  It's weird.  Not moving.  Not being able to move. And this is from someone who has been borderline fat bastard for about twenty years now.  Squash and hockey are the only things that vaguely kept me active - and I miss my post match pint in the pub after (for hydration purposes only).

I receive a call from Aussie Steve (he was on the Zoom pub quiz the night before and knows how precarious our wine situation is).

"Hey Tom, you want me to swing by with some cordial for the kids and some wine for you guys? I can come round now or later?"

"You are a life saver mate. Is it okay if we wait 'til this afternoon.  It'll give the kids something to look forward to".

Life in isolation, without direct human contact with other humans is just downright bizarre. Hats off to Robinson Crusoe and Tom Hanks. Although Hanks did end up making friends with a Basketball.  I assume if was plutonic or perhaps there was an X-rated version out there.  One where Hanks takes it to the next level with Wilson.  Once you've held that cuddly naked little ball in your hands and played on the beach with it for months on end.  Things are bound to head that way. How else did it stay inflated all those years?

So later on Sunday afternoon. Steve, Lou and their kids arrive and stand at the end of our drive with the wine and cordial deliveries.  They break the news that there is no Diet Coke left in the whole of Christendom to Sarah (Sarah cries small ickle carbonated cola tears in her grief) but deliver the red stuff (Boom!).

The boys come out and then quickly race back inside for a football.  The two families kick a ball on the grass between us for five minutes.  At one point the ball falls short.  In no-mans land.  Stuck neither 2 metres here nor there.  It reminds me of the scene in McCartney's Pipes of Peace video when the Germans and British troops hop out of the trenches and play footie.  Strangely, its quite emotional and odd, the notion of kicking something as simple as a ball between friends.

Declan tries to pick the ball up and throw it to the kids.

"Nooo!" we warn him.  We don't want to give them the virus.  It is pretty clear now that Caitlin has it.  She is not great and her cough and sputtering is getting worse.

I continue to work from home which is great and keeps a sense of rhythm to the week and pays the bills!  But the pressure is immense when you are worried about your child as well.  But like everyone, we just have to keep heading onwards.

Day 11 and Caitlin has a terrible night of coughing, sputtering and fever.

"That's it. We are calling 111,"I say in the morning and Sarah fully agrees.  We don't want to be a burden on the NHS but this is day 11 and she is not getting any better.

We dial and wait in the queue.  Eventually we are assessed, then assessed again.  Then we are told to make a Doctor's appointment (which we duly do).

"Has your child been diagnosed with Covid19?"

"No - we're in self isolation and unless you happen to be Prince Bloody Charles or a feckin' Tiger in Brooklyn you can't get a test for love nor money!"

I mean how the feckin' hell can they be testing Big Cats in New York Zoo's whilst there are Doctors and Nurses on the frontline waiting for vital tests?

However as Sarah points out.  "They're an endangered species....and sadly humans and Caitlin is not."

So unless anyone is thinking of adopting a pet liger at home, can we focus on the human to human transmission (And I love the Big Cats as much as the next guy).

The doc assesses us and then calls Paediatrics at the Countess of Chester and we're told to come in.  Aunty Deborah had also done a facetime medical assessment for us, so I was hoping we were ok to stay put (Doctor Deborah is very clever).  But I guess they need to observe her directly now.

We peg it to the hospital in the Nissan (the bloody new Skoda lies dead on the driveway and we couldn't get anyone to fix it whilst in isolation).  Ahh the irony.

The roads are 28 days later empty. They are Royal wedding empty.  Christmas Day empty.  They are Covid19 empty.

I am in a slight daze.  My brain registers the yellow speed camera.  It flashes at me.  I thought I was doing the speed limit.  But maybe a few miles above.  I pass that camera almost every day but fear and panic does strange things to you.

I race into the hospital and we find the Covid19 entrance for children.  I park in the yellow hatches with the big sign saying no parking and wonder if I'll get another ticket (the yellow sign tells me this is so).  But hope there is lee-way for these abnormal emergencies.  Today is not normal.  For anyone.

I kiss Caitlin and Sarah goodbye and send them into the ward whilst me and the boys head home and wait.

We pass the time by watching Mindhorn on the BBC. If you like stupid.  You'll love this  Any show with a lead hero with a bionic "Eye of Truth" and comedy cameo's from Sir Kenneth Branagh and Simon Callow gets my vote.  Did you know Simon Callow - the guy who died in his kilt in four weddings - went to the same Pimlico school as my mum.  Apparently they kissed once.  Which always surprised me as I think he's married to a man. We have a much needed dose of genuine laughter.  It takes my mind off things whilst Caitlin is having bloods and being generally prodded.  Blimey those medics are brave!

Eventually she is checked out, they are treating her as if she has the virus.  But as I say, unless you are Royal or a Big Cat there is zero chance of a test.  Her breathing is ok and I collect them later that night.  We are mentally wiped out.  What a night.

I ditch my usual after work cycle and we have a drink.

By the weekend, Caitlin is improving.  I am so happy.  In celebration I start to clear the woods by the canal and begin to burn all the old deadwood out there so we can clear a space.  Daisy keeps me company and barks across the canal at the passing dogs and their walkers.

I spot a couple with a grey dog and a kid in a buggy.  So far, so lovely.  They are throwing bread for the ducks. Again.  A nice gesture in these times.  I prod the firedrum with my new found "fire stick" and watch as they repeatedly throw bread at this strange floaty upside-down fluffy clump.  They move on after a while with their baby.

I look out to the canal and spot a dead duck, it's white belly floating upwards and some guts spilling out.  It's head is clearly underwater and it's apparent it's not playing peek-a-boo with any of its mates.  This duck is no more.  It is a dead duck.  It's tiny little orange feet are sticking out, Rigor Mortis style.

How the feck did that family not notice they were feeding a dead duck?  Maybe they did and this is the new zombie norm?

We order a Chinese take-away of the night and I am gutted that despite the tastiness of the meal (it is glorious in all its fatty co-agulated chemical glory).  But there is no quarter crispy duck left on the menu.

I rue the chance on the canal...maybe there's still time to grab that little blighter and mix him with some sweet little celery and hoisin...maybe...

Here's Caitlin's latest rainbow...

Lockdown-Aggeddon, Missing teeth and Mission "Hide the Roots" - A Strange Mad Max vision of the Present

Last week started fairly normally considering the entire planet has gone into total Corona-virus implosion quarantine.

Rest of the planet they're shutting schools, pubs and businesses.  In good old blighty we're still sending our kids off to school, playing our hockey matches, heading to work.  We're a little bit jittery cos the football has been temporarily shutdown - but this could just be a giant Everton conspiracy to wind up the Liverpool fans.  That's where my money is at.

Still - Declan has his birthday party.  9 kids bouncing around a giant trampoline park.  They literally hand out plaster casts at the front door here but miraculously none of the kids we are responsible for get injured...there.

We ferry them all home and they go berserk.  One of the lads hands Sarah his tooth and this is early doors - not even 9 o'clock.  I take the night watch and make it to about 1.30 before finally losing the will to live and running out of beer and wine! (Responsible parenting at its best!).  I start the kids off with the new version of the Lion King (so dull) but quickly lose the room and regroup with Godzilla.  I read them the riot act and head to bed.

I wake at 4.30 in the morning to the sound of 9 crazed 11 year olds "creeping" into the kitchen for midnight rations.

I bounce down the stairs, vaguely awake and prepare my best "angry dad" voice.

"What the feck is going on here guys! No Way!"

"We've not had any sleep. No sleep at all!" they all tell me.  Eyes wide and buzzing like Jack Nicholson when he sticks his head through that door with his axe.

I can believe this.  I stare at the pillow I genuinely find stuck in the lights in the conservatory.  It is carnage.  I leave the pillow hanging sadly from the lights.

I go back to bed.  Wake up at 8 and make them all a massive round of bacon butties. As they are leaving, one of the lads pipes up.

"I had a nose-bleed in the night. Do you wanna see it.  It's on my phone."

So Sarah and I review the evidence which clearly shows 9 kids battering seven bells out of each other with pillows, pool cues and any other weapon that came to hand.  It's like watching an amateur WWE match.  Brutal but strangely compelling.

Bye kids.  We wave them off one by one.  Not quite realising that social distancing is only a day away.  Followed by the bombshell on Thursday that school was shutting.  Basically forever.

"Don't worry kids.  It'll only be for a week I reckon." I say with the wisdom of a total incompetent moron.

Boris goes and blows it out the water and takes us all by surprise. No exams.  No more school.  Just like that?!  Suddenly, the world gets a little smaller and a lot more serious. Holy crap.

Never mind the run on the bog roll.  I can easily go native.  There's plenty of space to dig a hole in the garden and start using up all those dock leaves.  But I am distinctly worried that my marmite supply might be hit hard by this pandemic.  Although - I could possibly combine the two and find a corner in the market?

I buy an emergency 250g of the black yeasty stuff and rest easy. I can survive this head-on now.

I wander round Debenhams on my way home.  Curiosity, nostalgia and a strange and terrifying mission getting the best of me as they dismantle all the perfume stalls and pack everything away.  Note to everyone - I don't make a habit of loitering around perfume counters in Debenhams.  But I have been sent on possibly the most important mission of this entire pandemic.  My mission is to buy blonde highlights.  Never has one man been so out of place in such a task.  Stupidly, I ask a man to help me. He is scared.  I see it in his eyes. Eventually I realise I am in the wrong shop.  I have to facetime Sarah to navigate this dangerous hair path.  I buy three packets of hair dye and highlights in a variety of colours.

It feels quite spooky in Debenhams.  Like a twisted version of Home Alone or Elf in the department store.  It is possible that pandemics feel more joyful at Christmas?

I am the only one in there. It is Sunday and Armageddon approaches.  I am so disorientated that I actually walk down the up escalators and nearly kill myself in the act.  I carry alcohol gel with me and use it liberally.

Then on Monday, it all changes.

"I'm 2000 in the queue," says the missus. This is after all, Day 1, of the Bojo Lockdown.  We were already ahead of the curve by an hour with Caitlin falling sick with a fever.  But - even 1 hour feels a long time when you can't go outside.

"What queue?" I ask.  I can't see any great queue's forming down our eerily silent street. Except for the bloke who just rocked up in a clapped out red motor carrying a laminated sign.  (Turns out he's closing our playground down on orders of the government).

"The queue to get an online delivery next week!" Sarah seems pretty determined to ensure a supply of bread, milk and red wine for my cornflakes.

We have a chat.  I tell her we have enough noodles with curry powder to feed a small battalion for an entire Winter campaign during the Napoleonic war.  (This is where my Brexit stash from the garage is really coming into its own.  It's now been relabelled as a Corona-stash).

By the time we umm and ahhh, the decision is taken out of our hands.

"Damn," she says.  We missed our slot in the queue.  We're now 21,000 in the queue.

Hmmm.  This thing is turning serious.  But I am not as yet overly worried.  We live by a canal.  I have seen people fishing in this canal.  Mainly there's these kids who fish for metal.  But there are also real fishermen. The kind that wear commando khaki and have a giant tub of wriggling maggots and a twenty foot pole (no pun intended). I can easily turn my hand to fishing? And I can easily divert part of the canal and set up some sort of water wheel to make fresh bread (anyone know how you make bread?).

The metal fishers are better though.  They've dragged out about 3 bikes along our stretch and further down towards the Cheshire Cat Pub they lobbed in their giant magnet on a rope and dredged up a grenade.  A bloody grenade! I secretly think they love dredging up old second world war weaponry.  But it must be really pissing off the local bomb squad. This happens every few months.

Day 5 of lockdown and Caitlin's fever. Last night was a real doozy.  Caitlin's fever was 39 plus and her hacking cough took a nasty turn.  She kept doing these really scary chokes - as if she had a chicken bone caught in her throat.  Holy crap - I don't think I slept at all with worry.  I picked her up and plonked her in our bed and mainly checked her temperature and felt totally useless.  Luckily she had Pikachu with her.  I have never met anyone with such a Pokemon obsession.   Did you know that Pokémon stands for Pocket Monsters?  Ahhhh - so many wonderful life-enriching pointless facts about those fun-loving guys.

I'll keep you posted on how Caitlin is going, but I know there are many many people out there in the same boat.  We just need to be sensible and keep positive. The NHS are doing an ace job.

In the meantime, I have a serious fear that by the end of this my BMI will have hit treble figures (is that humanly possible?).  I will literally be a giant fatberg held together loosely by cheese, marmite, beans, gama ray beer, shiraz and possibly the dog.  The longer this thing goes on - the more likely it will head South by June.

If this happens, I am prepared to cook Daisy.  Her usefulness teeters on her ability to provide a day pass through these months in terms of outdoor dog walking.  If not, she's a gonner.  I nearly took her to the local kebab house last week when she ate the bloody candles off Fintan's birthday cake.  I wouldn't mind but she puked them out a minute later. Bright pink and white vom all over my dining room.  What a twat that dog is.  Honestly.  Total twat.

Bet she tastes good in a bun though!

This is Caitlin's Thank You to all the hard working Key Workers out there - now on our front door!  Thanks everyone!!!