I can just about remember how weekends used to be a thing; separated by an invisible wall from more strenuous days. No more. The main alteration from weekdays now is that guilt is non-existent when it comes to failing our progeny’s education.
On the down side it means Mrs M and I’s vim for structure with Cerberus and Medusa is dead as a door nail. Saturdays and Sundays resemble active warfare, with multiple skirmishes taking place at any one time.
Despite Cerberus having slept a whole night in his own bed, and watched The Little Mermaid with his sister since before dawn while we, hidden away, supped coffee, when the final credits appear he explodes through the door like a torpedo screaming “I’m gonna kill you!”. This is not unusual so I hold off on contacting the Disney+ complaints department. I do take my mug and lock myself in the toilet. I reminisce that for the quivering attorney in Jurassic Park, barricading himself in the lavatory didn’t lead to safety but a mauling.
I don’t bother washing (perk of lockdown) then dash to the village shop for the weekend papers, where I face the downside of lockdown (every piece of news). Regardless, one must look for silver linings so am tickled to read the entire island of Barra has had to self-isolate due to some evil wrongdoers from the mainland attending a wedding; bringing in a spate of dry coughs. Although we prize ourself on our collective spirit as an island nation it can’t match the furry-toed egalitarianism found in the Hebridean archipelago. The islands’ MP claims “no-one is to blame” which according to Google Translate is “we found the culprit, have built a 40-foot high wicker tower and are dealing with the matter internally”.
Washing my hands of such matters, I hear a gurgling death rasp and note Cerberus is actively strangling Medusa on the couch. They are separated and Mrs M is none the wiser.
Mother sends me a text message. It reads “TWERP!!!!!”. Whilst I can understand the sentiment, I am for a moment flummoxed by what sent her off the deep end. She immediately sends another which reads “Cxxx”. That seems rather harsh. I don’t respond.
It dawns on me later that I provided answers for her weekly crossword puzzle, so assume it relates to that. Doubt lingers.
Where we live; a village which the National Trust would coin ‘idyllic’ were they not focussing on getting children to educate elder members on their historic privilege, we are blighted by cyclists. They arrive as 20 million locusts do, eating all our bacon and eggs, dribbling lard down their immaculate spandex skinsuits. With a few tweaks, they could form an attractive proposition to a village full of lustful cow-topplers at a loss for something to do, but alas. 99% are middle aged men, smell like the wet washing you haven’t taken out of the machine after two days and worse, ensure there is always a queue outside our community gossip chamber. I used to dumbly wait my turn, but now elbow past and yodel through the open window to get the my daily fix. I blow Patsy a kiss.
Of all the privations we’ve faced these past 10 months, few come near to putting up with these lunatics dressed as custard-filled stockings, gawping over our hedge and generally enjoying life. Whilst I chain smoke in the shed and mutter incoherently, lockdown has completely bypassed them.
I consider writing a letter to Scotland’s Chief of Police advocating a trade off; rather than £1000 fines for people releasing their children into a distant woodland for badger-baiting practice we should sanction all over-50s whenever they purchase lycra. I shall also write to the Council advising they increase the number of potholes in our street. I will offer our pick-axe.
That way Cerberus, Medusa and I can sit on the garden bench and chortle every time one knocks their teeth out by our front door. If there’s one thing we need more than anything now, it’s some quality family time.