"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...
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