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...