We're Not Complainers ... But ...

 

 

This trip has been planned for months.   A sumptuous five course lunch aboard the luxurious Belmond British Pullman, weaving our way around the garden of England and all the while, stimulating those little grey cells as we attempt to solve a murder most horrid.   

 

But that’s tomorrow.  Today, the hotel.  

 

We arrive at Kings Cross surprisingly well lubricated thanks to our first class LNER carriage.   Given the tube strike, we have pre-booked a taxi to take us to the hotel.   No need as it turns out.   Hundreds of London cabbies are lined up like industrious ants eager to whizz weary travellers to their journey’s end.

 

‘Where’re you from, ladies?’

‘Scarborough.’

‘Scarborough?  Where’s that?’

‘North Yorkshire.  On the east coast.’

‘Near Huddersfield?’

‘Near enough.’

 

Paula and I have stayed at this hotel before.  First time for Mum.   It is a beautiful, five-star hotel, the rear of which conveniently adjoins Victoria Station, thus making the trip from room to the Pullman platform all the more civilised.  Particularly when one is dressed to the nines and sporting killer heels.  

 

The palatial hotel lobby is worthy of visiting royalty.  Its lavish staircase sweeps elegantly upwards leading to an ornate gallery adorned with classical statuettes and elaborate cornices.  The entire cast of Only Fools and Horses could swing easily from the immense and sparkling chandelier dangling from the exalted ceiling.

 

We check in.  It takes a while.  We learn the hotel re-opened only yesterday, having been closed since November.   We assume for refurbishment, as it all looks rather marvellous.  

Unfortunately, the cocktail bar Paula and I remember well from our previous visit, despite the alcohol we consumed, is not yet ready.   Shame.  Not to worry, there’s another bar.  And restaurant.

 

Paula, the appointed leader of our party, orders a small breakfast to be delivered to our rooms at 8.00 am.  She explains we are embarking on the British Pullman and indulging in a five-course lunch; therefore a full breakfast would be just plain greedy.  Coffee, tea, juice and toast will suffice, whilst we get ready for the main event.

 

‘Shall I get them to add a couple of pastries?’ says our helpful receptionist.

 

Go on then. 

 

Unpacked and refreshed, we gather in the beautifully appointed, exceedingly comfortable bar for pre-dinner drinks.  

 

Politeness is one of Mum’s many exemplary qualities.  She would have kept silent a tad longer.  Not so Paula and me.  We do our best, but after an hour and a half, we can stand it no longer.

 

‘This bloody music is driving me mad.’

‘What is it anyway?  House?  Garage music?’

‘Belongs in the sodding shed if you ask me.’

‘Bit bloody loud.’

‘I’m glad you said that,’ says Mum.  ‘I thought it was just me.’

 

OK, I accept, me and sis were born in the fifties, Mum a little sooner.  There aren’t many patrons in the bar and the only people under forty are the staff.   

 

When we can no longer tolerate being beaten on the temple with a lump hammer, we have to say something.

 

Any chance of changing the music?  Background music?  Any background at all other than this?  Tamla?  Rat Pack?  Sixties to noughties and everything in between?  Slade’s Noddy Holder screaming ‘Come on Feel the Noize?’  Something equally melodious?

 

No.  Not possible.  The playlist is beamed along intergalactic rays directly from Mars and cannot be changed. 

 

The volume then!  There must be a volume button?  

 

We then discover this is also the restaurant.  We are to eat here?   Amid this racket?   Perhaps there’s a dance floor.  We could book a table right in the centre of it.

 

Paula demands the concierge find us a restaurant nearby – a relaxing restaurant – not a bloody disco.  He obliges.  The Ivy is a mere ten-minute walk.  They have nothing for the next for two hours.  Mum’s starving and I’m contemplating biting the waiter.   We have no choice.

 

Miraculously, the volume is turned down to just about bearable whilst we eat our starter, but creeps back up to deafening once the main arrives.  Paula hasn’t brought enough omeprazole to combat the indigestion she already has; Mum looks like she might cry and I’m toying with the wisdom of slicing off my ears.  

 

We can’t eat.  We grab the wine and flee to Mum’s room to drink instead.

 

Never mind, we say, the following morning.  This trip is all about today.  The Belmond British Pullman.

 

Eight o’clock.  No breakfast.  Give it till half-past.   Half-past.  Still no breakfast.  Paula phones reception.  A miscommunication.  Obviously.  Ordering breakfast is a complex matter for a five-star hotel such as this.

 

A very nervous waiter arrives at ten minutes past nine.  It’s not his fault.  We’re nice to him.  It may be difficult to believe but we three are not normally given to complaining.

 

So, the coffee is cold.  And I mean cold.  Not tepid.  Not aired.  Clap cold.  There is no tea.  The toast is not toast.  The bread has been held under a lightbulb for a couple of minutes and can still be folded in half.  (I take photographs with my phone to prove it.) There is juice and a couple of pastries.  Hurrah!

 

‘We’re not paying for that!’ we bark, in true Yorkshire style.

 

Paula explains as such to the shocked receptionist in a manner ensuring there is no possibility of miscommunication.

 

All is well once we‘re seated in our luxurious carriage on the Pullman.  Silver cutlery, delicate china and exquisite glassware are precisely arranged upon the crisp white table linen.  The scent of fresh flowers permeates the cabin, along with tantalising aromas filtering from a kitchen where the chef probably knows how to make toast.   

 

This is not an environment where one places one’s napkin upon one’s own knee or deigns to pour one’s own champagne.  This is the responsibility of the carriage’s personal steward, smartly bedecked in finest Pullman livery, whose very reason for being is to indulge the whims of us Poirot-esque murder mystery detectives.

 

The disruption caused by the tube strike means the train is an hour late leaving Victoria.  We don’t mind.  We have champagne.  And hors d’oeuvres.

 

The next five hours is a delight of the senses.   Exquisite food in taste and presentation befitting of the most outstanding professional MasterChef Champion, accompanied by entertaining scenes depicting a murder most foul. 

 

And … no music.  Nothing but the occasional clink of champagne glasses and the subdued murmur of polite conversation.

 

Bliss!

 

All too soon we must leave the train and return to the hotel.   What to do?  Do we venture to the bar?  No.  We can hear the music belting from the bar but opt to remain in the lobby where a settee and two armchairs are arranged next to a radiator of gargantuan proportions, more than well equipped to heat this cavernous but chilly foyer.    It’s off.  

 

I wander down the lengthy corridor from foyer to bar where I’m obliged to shout my order three times to the barman until he hears what I’m saying.  Must be my unintelligible Yorkshire accent and the peculiar way I articulate ‘bottle of pinot.’  Couldn’t possibly be the uproar.   

 

Different playlist tonight, astonishingly.  In fact, the music would have been more than acceptable had they not played garaged-up versions of the likes of Fleetwood Mac, Van Morrison and even Dolly Parton.  I mean, how can you spoil that kind of talent?  

 

Anyway, Paula asks the concierge to arrange for a taxi to take us to Kings Cross the following morning and also books breakfast in the restaurant, not the room, for 8.00 am.

 

The next day, as we walk through Reception towards the restaurant, we are informed the taxi has cancelled.  

 

We make our way to the restaurant for breakfast.  No booking. 

 

Yet another miscommunication.

 

Much more of this and we’ll be sufficiently provoked to write a letter!

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mountains. Glens. Rocks and Lochs.

 

We travel through the mystical scenery of the Scottish Highlands - unspoilt rugged mountains, castles round every corner, deep blue lochs and empty glens - until we reach the venomous mountain, the giant of the land: Ben Nevis.  

 

Sensible tourists start their quest to climb the iconic ‘mountain with its head in the clouds’ by following the relatively easy pony track from the Visitor’s Centre in Achintee, which steadily winds its way along the slopes for the first 2.5k until it reaches the main path.  

 

So, we don’t bother with that.  

 

We opt to commence our ascent of the highest mountain in the UK – 1345m above sea level - from the Youth Hostel.  This provides a nifty little short-cut.  17km up and down the Achintee route, 13.7 km up and down from this point.   Why wouldn’t you?   

 

Consider our party.   Daz and Becky, serving RAF personnel, fit, strong and disciplined.  Me, an experienced dog walker, gym avoider, Great Grandma.  Oh, and three miniature schnauzers.

 

Whilst not quite vertical, the scramble – I use the word deliberately - to join the main path, is up a steep rocky seam of haphazardly plonked boulders.   Within minutes I am compelled to question the wisdom of donning boots which, though comfortably old and battered, have never stepped upon a mountain.   My backpack, bearing little more than a sandwich and small bottle of water seems unduly weighty and I can hear my glutes – at least I think it’s the glutes – could be any one of the many muscle groups, screaming for mercy.  

 

‘Head for that clump of trees,’ says Daz.  ‘That’s where the path starts.’

 

Starts!  We haven’t even started?

 

Oh well, onwards and upwards as they say.   Well, no, upwards and upwards is what they should say.

 

Bodger leads the way like a nimble mountain goat.  Thankfully, those miniature muscles are honed enough to help haul his clumsy lady owner over some of the more treacherous stones.   Becky is dragged up by Milo -  fiercely intent on confronting one of the many grazing sheep, and Silva, the precious pooch even older than me, is gently encouraged by the ever-patient Daz to put one foot in front of the other.

 

We reach the path where the track from Achintee and the clamber from the hostel combine.   We pause.  Draw breath.  Wait for the thud of our hearts to calm a little.  Remove a wholly unnecessary ‘just in case’ layer, wipe the sweat from every portion of our bodies where it is seemly to do so and gulp greedily from the magical elixir otherwise known as water.  

 

Having focused entirely on the safe positioning of my feet, the unexpectedly spectacular views of sweeping glens and dramatic, undulating hills partly shrouded in magical, swirling mist, comes as a reward for the effort so far.  

 

Our trio of desperately panting dogs are revived by a little rest and water and we intrepid mountaineers are eager to carry on.   

 

‘Come on,’ says Daz, ‘let’s go.’

 

OK.  Upward and upward.  We can do this!

 

I can’t help but feel for those ponies as we trudge further up the endless zig zagging vein of perilous rocks.  The zigzags make it easier.  Apparently.   One could be forgiven for thinking this track, laughingly regarded as a path, was the spiteful work of a disgruntled devil, or the result of a volcanic explosion millions of years ago, where The Ben spewed its stony guts all over the grassy glens and the foraging dinosaurs crushed the gigantic boulders into a jumble of jagged rocks snaking its chaotic way to the summit.  But one would be wrong.  It’s man-made.   And maintained.  We see such a maintenance man, armed with pick and plastic bucket, as bronze as a Scottish penny and as rugged as the mountain itself.   Imagine waving him off to work in the morning.   

 

‘Where are you bound for today, Jamie?’  

‘There’s a wee bit of tidying to do at 1000m.’

‘You’ll be needing an extra wee dram then.’

 

After an incalculable amount of thigh-searing, lung-ravaging zigzags, we pause for another rest.  Purely because the dogs are knackered, you understand.   

 

‘How’s Silva doing?’ I gasp.

 

‘Not looking too great,’ says Becky.  ‘I’m worried.’

 

Determined walkers tramp by as we pour blessed water into and onto the sweltering dogs and ourselves.   Those who can still speak – usually the ones equipped with walking poles – proffer a cheery ‘good morning,’ and those who can’t, grunt, nod, or blank us completely.

 

The cooling mist swirling about the summit is still frustratingly far away and following yet more zigzags I’m convinced those too-tight dresses in my wardrobe will now, in fact, be a bit on the big side.   

 

When Silva belly flops into the gravel, Becky calls a halt.  I could kiss them both.  That’s it.  Daz must reach the summit alone, whilst Becky and I accompany the struggling schnauzers on the descent, which let me tell you, is no easier on the knees than on the way up.

 

The prospect of a beer at the Ben Nevis Inn at the foot of the mountain makes dodging the Youth Hostel and hiking the additional 2.5k along the pony track, worthwhile.   This oasis comes into view just as we hear Daz has made it to the summit.   Two beers it is!  Maybe three while we wait for him.

 

The pub’s shut.  COVID.  

 

Forced to make do with the Visitor’s Centre, which sadly does not sell beer, I treat Daz to a I climbed Ben Nevis T-Shirt.   I consider one for myself, but my catholic roots forbid the lie.  Shame there is no I climbed ‘a bit’ of Ben Nevis, or I would have made it to the top if it hadn’t been for the dog T-Shirt. 

 

‘The Youth Hostel has a bar,’ says Becky.

‘Let’s go.’  

 

What’s yet another 2.5k? 

 

SHUT!

 

****

 

We leave the mainland and cross the bridge to Skye, or Isle of the Mist.  On a good day, it only rains every twenty minutes, but is generally more inclined to stick around for twenty-three hours or so.  The dramatic Cuillin mountains dominate the landscape of rocky slopes and vast rolling plains, dotted here and there with white painted houses. Sparsely populated – unless you’re a sheep.   More than 100,000 sheep and only 10,000 people.  Should have no trouble nodding off here. 

 

Becky’s in charge of the ‘must see agenda.’  First stop – Fairy Pools.  A series of waterfalls tumbling into crystal clear blue pools on the River Brittle.  A short walk, obviously, is required to reach them, but after the Ben, this is a breeze.  An hour’s steadily inclining tramp along a gravel path, bit muddy in parts and only two points where one is obliged to cross the river.  Helpful, if erratically placed, stepping-stones ease the crossing.   Crazy Milo ignores the stones and splashes across the river like his bum is on fire.  Princess Silva demands to be carried and I discover Bodger, in his determination to keep his feet dry, is an accomplished boulder leaper.   I succeed in tripping into the water and consequently discover my boots leak.  We fail, however, despite much peering into sparkly pools, to discover a single fairy.    

 

The next day I get a bollocking from my phone for having walked 9,700 steps fewer than the day before.

 

By way of apology, we head for the Old Man of Storr.  This large pinnacle of rock, part of the Trotternish Ridge was created by a massive ancient landslide and can be seen for miles around.  The steep rocky hill it stands upon is a paltry 719m.   

 

Piece.  Of.  Cake.

 

It’s early.  We need to get to the top, photograph the views and race back down before the sky falls in.  Then we’re off to the pub. 

 

The gravel path at the start is as close to decent as any I’ve seen.  But this is still a hill and the way is steep.  And muddy.  When the route changes to zigzags I get a little worried.  More zigzags?  

 

‘You OK Mum?’ says my thoughtful daughter.

‘Yes, fine,’ I lie. 

 

Having failed at Ben Nevis I’m not giving up on this.  We keep going, needing only to stop for the dogs.  True! 

 

As we approach the Old Man, we’re forced to scramble over rocky, uneven steps.  Where there are gaps in the steps – and there are many - we squelch through furrows of well-trodden but soggy mud.  I envy those clever sods with the walking poles as they glide effortlessly by me.   Maybe I should have grabbed some when I bought the new mountain- climbing boots.  Had it not been for the boots and my trusty schnauzer-come-husky I may not have made it to the top.  But I did. 

 

Daz captures the fantastic views, looking out over the sea to the mainland on one side with the islands of Raasay and Rona in between.  Storr Lochs and the Cuillin Hills on the other.

 

I appreciate you can’t demand a T-Shirt when you climb to the top of Old Man of Storr, but how about a badge?  Fridge magnet maybe?

 

But, the sun has hogged too much of the morning, and, clearly vexed, the menacing sky launches its vengeful dance.   With the fury of Zeus, the heavens churn above us.  The blackening sky swirls and twitches like a nest of writhing serpents and swoops at the prey below, swallowing us in seconds.   Driving, horizontal rain pelts our faces and makes us blind.  The dogs are drenched before we even leave the ledge.  We flee as quickly as we dare, stumbling past the now invisible Old Man of Storr, along the treacherously muddy track, utterly consumed by the smothering mist.

 

‘You’d be advised going down this way,’ says a man with walking poles.

 

We opt to follow him.  Men with poles probably know what they’re doing.

 

We make it down.  We make it to the pub.  The smell of wet dog hangs around all day.

 

Tomorrow.  Loch Ness.

 

Will I be expected to swim with the monster I wonder? 

 

Puddled at the Proms

  

 

‘It won’t rain,’ declare the optimistic few amongst our party as we head towards the magnificent palace of Castle Howard on a typical blustery August afternoon.  ‘And even if it does, it won’t last.’

           

             OK.  Let’s go with that.  Who takes notice of the iPhone or BBC weather app anyway? 

 

            This iconic stately home, nestled within 1000 acres of exquisite parkland, is rightly conveyed as a haven of peace and tranquillity, offering extensive woodland walks, impressive 18^th century temples and elaborate fountains creating spectacle and theatre amid the serenity of the great lakes. 

   

But today, it is humming with the buzz of hundreds of excited Prommers, tramping across the grounds in search of the perfect pitch.  Armed with camping chairs, picnic tables, cool boxes, brollies and a lorry load of alcohol, we join the throng heading towards the stage.  It’s not difficult to spot those seasoned festival goers, whose extensive, ready for anything kit, is wheeled effortlessly along in custom-made trolleys.  Some mark the boundaries of their home for the next five hours by planting lines of union jacks whilst others construct their outdoor room within a circle of fairy lights.   We Scarborough lot are content to find a spot of hill offering a reasonable view of of the stage and big screen, with the house providing an elegant backdrop for the photos to be later posted on Facebook.  

We set about making ready for the concert with anticipatory zeal.   Folding chairs unfolded, picnic tables erected, booze extracted from boxes.  ‘Never been to the Proms, before.’  ‘I’m really looking forward to the main event.’  ‘Lovely place this isn’t it?’  ‘Wonder who the first act will be?’  ‘Prosecco anyone?’  ‘Do you think they’ll play Nessun dorma?’  ‘Bound to.’  ‘Red or white?’  ‘Always makes me cry, that.’  ‘Me too.’  ‘Can’t wait.’

Then, Satan stubs his toe.  

Joviality vanishes.   Gloom descends.  As one, we look back at the house.  ‘My God,’ somebody says.  ‘Shit,’ says another.   As menacing as scenes from The Day After Tomorrow, the blackening sky looms above the glorious building like a sinister phantom, plunging all below into darkness.

‘Quick, get the lid on the box!’  ‘Cover the salad!’  ‘Watch the wine!’

Fay, our party’s Fairy Godmother, has just enough time to issue each one of us with a bright yellow emergency poncho, before the skies unleash a deluge that would worry Noah.  We scramble inside these flimsy sheaths with a great deal of haste and varying degrees of efficiency.  Becky, fiddling to secure the poncho hood neatly over her cap, forgets the plastic wine glass gripped between her teeth and succeeds in tipping pinot right in her eyes.   Daz delays plonking himself into his unfolded chair by two seconds and is consequently obliged to sit in a puddle.  I fail again and again, as I sip my wine, to prevent torrents of rainwater gushing up my sleeve.  

So, as sodden as having swum two laps of the lake, with water dripping from the tips of our noses and splashing unchecked from our lashes, the concert begins.  Well, once the orchestra has warmed up and the river has been swept from the stage.  Then it begins.

Our host welcomes us to this brolly fest.  Indeed, despite the website stating no golf umbrellas, a sea of these offending objects floods the grounds.  Becky and I clutch our wholly inadequate pieces of kit, a mere step up from parasols, close to our drenched backs and long for the massive brollies we dutifully left at home.

            Ah well.  Make the best of it.  Pour another wine.

            Two lads from Leeds, The Forever Tenors, open the concert.  As a virgin to the Proms, I am no expert on this type of music, but the guys interact easily with the audience and fusing classical with an Elvis number is impressive.  When they do a similar fusion with Wet Wet Wet, I can’t help wondering if they’re taking the piss.

            Victoria Joyce, soprano, is next to weave her magic, and as the rain turns to drizzle, we manage to stuff a sandwich and a pork pie in our faces.   Food requiring a plate remains untouched – my dainty picnic of salad, coleslaw, potato salad, selection of meats and cheeses confined to the box - any attempt to free them would be simply stupid. 

 

            Despite the weather preventing the planned Spitfire flyover, our patriotic spirits are lifted as thousands of people wave their union jack flags to the RAF March and Dam Busters.    By the time the orchestra has us jiggling about to Trumpeter’s Holiday, the crowd is divided into three groups:  those with soggy bottoms; those with dry bottoms and those universally hated by all – snug and dry in full waterproof suit complete with golf brolly.    

       

            Tenor Wynne Evans has us laughing as he sings the Go Compare song, then reduces us to tears performing the duet Time to Say Goodbye, with Victoria Joyce.   Tears are never far from spilling as the rousing music from Swan Lake – or, if you don’t know your classical ballet – that bit at the end of the film, Billy Elliot, stirs the soul.  When the heart wrenching Nessun dorma is performed, you can no longer feel the water pouring down your neck.  Once the fireworks start, 7000 sopping revellers wave their soggy flags in time to Land of Hope and Glory.  If you haven’t got a flag – you just wave.   The concert surges to its glorious crescendo with the theme from Superman, and I swear, having been profoundly moved by the music, you fully expect Superman himself to burst through the fireworks and  soar over the entire Castle Howard estate.

That doesn’t happen.  Obviously.  Perhaps that’s the wine talking.  As soaked now inside as I am out.  

Oh, did I mention the rain?  

            

 

 

 

 

 

Any Sunday Morning after 21 June 2021

Four Miniature Schnauzers: Milo, Bodger, Silva, Chilli, roaming about the house, somewhat neglected.

Bodger:

Do you think they’re dead?

Chilli:

Dunno. Might be. They’re not moving. They look a lot like Pepper did when she actually died. All slack mouth and stuff. Eyes rolled back in their heads.

Silva:

Should we go and kiss them?

Bodger:

I don’t do kissing.

Milo:

Well, just pant dog breath in their faces then.

Silva:

I heard one of ours grunt, so maybe they’re only nearly dead.

Chilli:

How much longer do you reckon?

Milo:

Could be ages. Ours have at least three coffees before we get to go on a walk.

Chilli:

Bit worried about an accident. I mean, I can hold it a bit longer, but ...

Bodger:

I’ll sit at the door. That always works. I just need to look through the glass. Stare. It will open.

Silva:

I’m starving. Did they forget to feed us last night? I can’t remember having any tea. 

Chilli:

Try some of that curry. There’s a bit left.

Bodger:

What? Some left after you’ve been at it?

Chilli:

Yes, well it’s horrible.

Silva:

Where is it?

Chilli:

Under the table next to that puddle of beer.

Milo:

I’ve got an idea. Let’s bark at the window.

Bodger:

The blinds are down. Can’t see out.

Milo:

So?

Bodger:

Ok then, let’s try. Let’s all go bark.

Lots of barking.

Chilli:

That plan went well.

Silva:

Shut yer gob, Chilli.

Chilli:

Just saying.

Bodger:

I’m going back to the door.

Milo:

What the bloody hell for?

Bodger:

For when it opens. It always does. Always. Especially when I tap it like this. Or sometimes, I just gently stroke it. Then, magic. It opens.

Chilli:

Yeah, right.

Lots of gentle stroking.

Silva:

Any sign of them yet?

Bodger:

No.

Milo:

Silva, can I lick your face?

Silva:

Have you been at the beer?

Milo:

No.

Silva:

OK then.

Lots of face licking.

Chilli:

Er...

Bodger:

What’s up?

Chilli:

I’ve had an accident.

Bodger:

Oh no! What’ve you done that for?

Chilli:

I couldn’t help it. It was that curry.

Milo:

Idiot.

Chilli:

Well, what was I supposed to do? Wait for the door-opening fairy to show up?

Silva:

I’ll get the blame. I always do.

Bodger:

It will open. It will! So long as I sit here and don’t move. And maybe tap again.

Lots of tapping.

Silva:

Someone’s coming!

Chilli:

Oh no, we’re for it now.

Milo:

It’s OK. When they get here, all we have to do is look to the left.

Chilli:

What the ... ?

Milo:

Look to the left. Especially you because you did it. Looking left makes you invisible. They can’t see you.

Silva:

Alright you clever bugger, we know what invisible means.

Milo:

Oh, right. Sorry.

Silva:

So you should be. I’m older than you.

Bodger:

You having a laugh bro?

Milo:

No. Honest. It works. Come on, they’re here. Look left!

Door opens.

Bodger:

See. I bloody told you!

Milo:

Bollocks. We’re invisible! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The year 2020 - as seen through the eyes of Bodger, my dog.

It’s turning out to be a funny year, don’t you think?  

I mean, it started off normal enough, with Mum putting all the sparkly decorations and cuddly Santas back in the garage.  I think it’s the garage.  It used to be.  But Mum’s started calling it the utility.  I don’t know why.  I like the Santas.  I like to rip their insides out.   She threw the Christmas tree away this year.  It was massive.  Nearly touched the ceiling.  Mum said it was driving her mad because there were bits missing and it stunk of damp from the garage.  Sorry, I mean utility.

Then she went on holiday to somewhere hot.  I didn’t mind because I got to stay at Paula and Tom’s.  Paula cooks me special dinners and always gives me treats.  They live upstairs, but Paula does the washing in our gar … utility … and she’s up and down a lot.   I always come downstairs with her just to check that Mum’s not hiding from me in our place.   I can still smell her, you see.

            Well, she came back, like she always does.  I don’t know why I worry so much.  Mum says I’ve got issues.  And then the weather started getting nicer and suddenly, everything got weird.  

            The tele was on all the time.  A man with fluffy white hair was telling everybody what to do.  He didn’t look very well.  

            Chilli stopped coming.  Ellie used to bring her every day and the three of us would go on our walk, while Ellie went to work.  Me and Chilli played all day until Danny came to collect her.   Apparently, Ellie has to work from home now.  So, I’ve nobody to play with.  I miss Chilli.   And I haven’t seen Milo – he’s my brother - and Silva for yonks because Becky and Daz are stuck somewhere and not allowed to come and visit.  I miss them too.  Craig used to come every day and talk to Mum while he had a cup of tea.  But we don’t see him much now and when he does call, he stays in the garden and won’t have a cup of tea because he says he doesn’t want to give Mum something horrible that will make her die.  He says a lot of people are dying.

            Mum’s been doing a lot of cleaning.  She’s even sorted out the doggy cupboard – washed all my harnesses and coats and put my treats into special plastic boxes.  And, believe it or not, I’ve got a new toy box.  I’m sure Mum will get me some toys to put in it soon.

            She started doing strange things on the floor every day.  Well, maybe not every day.  Stuff like lifting her legs up in the air and trying to sit up.  She was making scary noises and I tried to help her.  It didn’t work so I licked her face instead.  I think she was pleased.

Our walks have been much longer than they used to be.  Mum always used to say ‘good morning’ to people we met on our walks.  Especially if they had a dog too.  But people have started crossing the road when they see us coming.  Maybe they don’t like Mum’s smell.  It must be that.  I don’t care – I bark at them.  But not Joe.  I love Joe.  Joe’s a Labrador and Mum says I fell in love with him at first sight.  I’m not, like, well – you know – I’m not anything anymore.  Not since they had my bits taken off.  Since they had me, what’s the word?  Neutralised.

            I spend most of my time on the back of the settee, looking out of the window onto the square.  It’s my job to guard the house and bark at everybody and everything that walks past.  Us schnauzers are excellent guard dogs.  It’s been a bit boring this year though.  The square is usually full of kids playing.  Sometimes there’s a bouncy castle and families have barbecues and parties.  But nothing much at all has happened for ages.  One morning there was a lady doing something.  Yoga, Mum said.  I think the lady was trying to copy my morning stretch when I push my front legs forward and stick my bum in the air.  I do it better than she did.

            A big fat dog with a matching owner walk round the square twice a day.  I think that’s the only walk it gets.  Then there’s that horrible cat.  Marmalade, Mum calls it.  It has the nerve to come in our garden sometimes, but mostly, it wanders into the square like it owns the place.  Should be spread on a piece of toast if you ask me.

Dogs aren’t allowed in the square.  I think that’s why the cat looks at me so cockily. 

Anyway, Dad took me in there once.  He was always doing naughty stuff was Dad.  Mum called him a bugger.  He loved this square.  Somehow, he always knew which tree would be the first to get its leaves.  He would park his chair thing, that moved on its own, in the bay and let me sit on his knee.  If it was cold outside but the sun was shining through the window it was exactly like sun-bathing.   He always fell asleep.   But I looked after him.  Kept guard.  One day that bloody Marmalade turned up and I barked so much Dad nearly bounced out of his chair.  I didn’t get to sit on his knee after that.  I don’t know where he is now.  He’s been gone for a long time.

            I’ve been groomed!  First time in months, although it feels like years to me.  I’m glad, I thought I was going blind.  Mum’s had her hair cut too and she says things are starting to get back to normal.  Or, the new normal.  Whatever that means.    We’ve had gatherings.  Becky and Daz have been back home with Milo and Silva and we have met up for walks on the beach.  All the family has been together again at last.  We’ve had fun and been happy.   We’ve even been to the pub.

            But things are not quite like they used to be.   The man with the fluffy white hair says we still have to be careful.  Everybody has to wash their hands a lot, wear masks and stay away from each other.    ‘Hands, face, space,’ is how you remember it, says Mum.  Craig’s got a black mask with a big yellow smiley mouth on it.  He looks really odd, especially when his eyes are angry.  Mum’s got flowers on hers.  

            Mum won’t leave me outside a shop anymore in case some thieving bastard comes along and steals me, she says.  I’m precious, she says.  Not that Mum goes to the shop much.  A man usually brings everything to our house.

            Things have changed again.  The man has made a new rule.  Rule of Six.  Mum got really cross the other day. What’s the point of six when there’s around fourteen of us at Christmas time?   She says he might just as well cancel Christmas.  

‘Pan-fucking-demic!’ she said.

I’ve never heard that word before – demic.   

I wonder if she’ll bother getting a new Christmas tree?  Or if the Santas will come out of the utility?  I hope it isn’t cancelled, because it’s not just the cuddly Santas in the utility.  That’s where Mum keeps all the leftover food.  And all the beer and wine.  Somebody always gets drunk and forgets to close the door - and Chilli – she’s the brave one – sneaks in and grabs whatever she can.  Last year we had a whole gammon!  

            Oh, it’s got worse.   Nobody is allowed to go to anybody else’s house.  It’s banned.  But it’s OK for Paula to still come to ours, I heard Mum say, because we don’t live in a house.  We live in a bubble.  I didn’t know that.  But Mum can’t go to Craig, Ellie or Becky’s house and they can’t come to us.

            Mum’s on her own a lot now.  So am I.  Our bubble is very quiet.  She doesn’t have the television on anymore.  She says she can’t stand it.  She sits for hours at her lap top thing.  It’s not too bad because I have a nice bed behind her chair and she keeps talking to me.  I’m lucky, I’ve got three beds.  One behind her chair where we spend a lot of the day, one in the kitchen where Mum drinks wine in the evenings, and the big one in our new room - the room that used to be Dad’s.  I remember he spent almost all his time in that room. When he was poorly.  It’s ours now.  Sometimes I think I can still smell him.

            I think Mum can too.

 

 

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

21 September 2024 - A glimpse into the future

There were extraordinary scenes in the Commons today, when Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, swept aside the Despatch Box and dashed into the outstretched arms of Labour Party Leader, Sir Keir Starmer, where the two adversaries embraced in a massive bear hug.   Parliamentarians from all parties scrambled over benches in their haste to get to the front to shake the hands of colleagues and opposition members alike.  There was a great deal of back slapping and an astonishing degree of cheek kissing.  Ed Milliband had tears in his eyes as he grasped Boris’ hand in both of his in an energetic and heartfelt handshake.    The Speaker launched a flurry of MPs questions into the air as he gleefully jumped up and down on his chair, while Nicola Sturgeon danced the Highland Fling on the central table.  The hallowed Chamber resounded with joyful cries of ‘hurrah!’ ‘bravo!’ and ‘well done!’ The House, united in jubilant celebration of its unparalleled success.  

Covid 19 is dead!  Conquered!  Defeated!  Done!

Of course, triumph over the deadly coronavirus does indeed warrant expressions of jollification unprecedented in the House’s history but what, four years from the onset of the pandemic, has become of us.  

            Suicide rates have more than doubled.  From 11.2 people per 100,000 in 2019, the figure now stands at 24.  Average life expectancy has fallen from 81 to 69.  Only one in four people aged between 20 and 35 have a job.  Homelessness has quadrupled. Hordes of homeless people are crammed into deserted shopping centres with just a few ghostly mannequins for company.  They are fed once a day.  Wetherspoons, the only surviving pub chain, now granted charitable status, is expected to provide one free breakfast – so long as everybody obeys the rule of four, remains two metres apart, and eats outside.

            In 2021, the government introduced the rule of one.  This means that no family is allowed more than one child and no child is allowed more than one friend.  Parents are allowed to hug their children once a month, but only after testing negative for the virus, all must be wearing full PPE and must be outside.  Grandparents can see grandchildren every three months – wearing full PPE and behind a glass screen.  They must adhere to the rule of three – one grandchild to two grandparents or two grandchildren to one grandparent.  

Unless it’s for work, nobody is allowed to travel more than five miles from their home and can only do so on foot or bicycle and in accordance with the rule of two – no more than two people may be allowed to walk or cycle together.  Pets, with the exception of dogs, are banned.

            Children under the age of eleven attend school every seventh day and are taught in groups of five, according to the rule of five, unless a child has a twin, in which case the rule of five and a bit applies.  All secondary and further education is delivered remotely, and all homes must install a sterile bubble in which learning can take place.  No parent or teacher is permitted to enter.

            Schools and universities offer a limited curriculum specifically designed to support essential key sectors, the most essential, heading up the list:

·      Politics

·      Design and manufacture of face masks and PPE

·      Warehousing and Distribution

·      Science

·      Police and Security Services

·      Armed Forces

·      IT

·      Funeral Services

Tens of thousands of nurses have been made redundant and surgeons play poker in redundant operating theatres.  Airline pilots have ditched the skies in favour of the roads, where the average delivery driver earns more than the Prime Minister.   DPD is listed amongst the top ten companies in the UK.

            We have, as a nation, worked tirelessly in our determination to rid our shores of this dreadful disease.  And this determination has paid off.  All that’s left for us to do is address the catastrophic collapse in the economy and see if we can reverse our plunging fortunes over the next ten years.  Or possibly, fifteen.

Some of you, on reading this, may remain sceptical.  You may not believe everything written here.   You may decide it can’t all be true.  And you would be right.  

That bit about the jubilant scenes in the Commons – 

-       I made that bit up.