Month: January 2021

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Lockdown with Oscar: Day Five

Lockdown with Oscar: Day Five

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After a very successful walk yesterday, it’s both raining and blowing a gale outside. Oscar has made a few forays into the garden to do the needful, and a quick trip up the road, but apart from that, he has decided against the outside world today.

When he doesn’t want to go for a walk, Oscar actually drags his paws. You wouldn’t think a Labrador could do that, but in fact this is the second one I’ve had. Joey, our old yella fella, would stride out in any weather regardless but Toby, our first black Labrador would get to the end of the driveway and freeze in position if he didn’t like the look of the weather. Nothing shifted him. I tried bribery, training, yelling and tugging on the lead. Toby would do his business against the gate post then turn back towards the house in a purposeful manner.

I don’t bother to argue with Oscar. He’s so active that the odd day without a long walk doesn’t hurt him. I’m not so keen myself today either. I had a poor night last night and after a reasonably productive day work wise I hit a serious afternoon slump at about ten to four. I’ve officially given up now and I’ve lit the fire and am dozing on the sofa with Oscar as I’m not cooking tonight.

One of the good points of my son working from home and being unable to go out with his friends is that he’s almost always willing to cook. He’s an excellent cook who can produce restaurant quality food and it’s quite a nice break for me. Steak is happening in the kitchen and it smells good.

I’ve almost finished chapter two today. I don’t yet have a sense of how long this book is likely to be. My last couple were fairly long, but the Tarragona campaign itself was very short. Still, there are several plotlines running through it. More to the point, I will actually get to spend a bit more time at sea during this book. Both my previous naval books have been joint campaigns featuring both the army and the navy, but this one is purely from the naval point of view, so I’m doing a lot of background reading. Oscar is doing less background reading and more snoring, but he seems happy.

“I’d be a lot happier if you’d move that laptop, Mum. That clicking is disturbing me.”

“You mean my typing?”

“Yes. So noisy.”

“I do apologise, your Lordship. I was trying to do some work.”

Lockdown is odd, because my own routine doesn’t really change that much, but because my family is all at home all the time, my schedule is very disrupted. I quite like them all being around though, it’s very social. Oscar adores it and spends the day going from one workplace to another so that none of us feels left out.

The Man I Married is a bit obsessed with the news at the moment. Mostly, I try to avoid it, but when we meet up for lunch, I get my daily rundown of the latest from the USA. It’s like watching a really weird version of the West Wing but without a lot of the witty remarks. Still, it does take your mind off the UK.

My daughter has finished her essay. The pain is over. The trauma is gone.

“Mum. I’m bored.”

“When does your new reading list come out?”

“This week, I think.”

“Why don’t you e-mail them?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Not permanently, love. Just until you’ve got something else to do…”

In the middle of all this, I find myself thinking about people with kids who are both working and trying to home school during this chaos. I remember how I was when the kids were young, and I was utterly devoted to them both and couldn’t wait to get them out the door to school or nursery. They needed the stimulation of mixing with other kids and adults and I needed some time away from them. It’s much the same now.

“Mum. I’m so ready to go back to York.”

“I know, love.”

“Bet you’re ready for that too…”

“Mmmm.”

Evenings are nice, though. Generally, we have a tendency to drift off to do our own thing, but without the social aspect of work or seeing friends, our youngsters are more inclined to hang around the kitchen or living room watching TV, playing games or just listening to music. I’ve heard a few parents with teenage or adult kids saying the same. Ours are quite lovely generally, but very busy, so this is a bit of an oasis.

I’m also very happy that my son’s girlfriend has chosen to isolate with us again, and grateful that her poor mother doesn’t mind. She’s a joy to have and I don’t know how either of them would have coped apart. It does make me think about all the couples who weren’t at the point of living together who must have struggled with very tough choices through this.

We’re lucky. We’re lucky to be able to be together, even though we can’t all be where we really want to be. We’re lucky that so far we’ve had no job losses or financial disasters because of this mess. I’m so conscious of those who have, that I almost feel guilty. It’s a fragile security, but sometimes that has to be enough.

Lockdown minus point 6: When it’s raining there’s nowhere indoors to go.

Lockdown plus point 6: Apart from home, which is a pretty nice place to be.

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Lockdown with Oscar: Day Four

Lockdown with Oscar: Day Four

It’s Sunday, and after a wild night of compulsory Beer Pong with some of the younger members of the household, neither Oscar and I are up for an early start.

The Essay from Hell is almost done. We’re at that stage where Girl Child is studying it, and saying in dispassionate tones:

“This is actually not bad.”

Given that at various stages, this was the worst essay ever written and she was going to fail her entire degree because of it, that probably means she’ll get a first. All I have to do now is proofread, admire and leave her to it. Phew.

It’s quite a nice afternoon, so Oscar and I take the car and head up to Groudle Glen. I was hoping it would be quiet, but it turns out that on a dry afternoon in lockdown, the glen is the place to be. Some of the paths are very narrow, so there’s a lot of stopping and stepping to one side to let people pass. It’s all very amiable though. We meet a few dogs including an alarmingly cute pair of dachshunds.

“Mum, this is fun. Why are some people wearing their muzzles?”

“People are worried about catching Covid, Oscar.”

“You’re not wearing one.”

“You don’t have to, out here, only in shops or indoor places. We’re not getting close to people, I’m not worried about catching it here.”

“Why is that dog wearing a muzzle?”

“That’s got nothing to do with Covid, Oscar. Probably she bites.”

“Ugh. Can I paddle in the river?”

“A bit further down. Once we get past the water wheel.”

It’s the first time I’ve been down the glen since the old Victorian water wheel was back in place. It was removed for restoration, and it’s lovely to see it back, looking splendid. Oscar was very interested, but the water is very fast here, with a series of rapids, so we moved on to shallower parts before I let him off the lead to play in the water. He loves it, and will just run up and down in the river for the sheer joy of it.

“Mum, can we go to the beach?”

“If it’s not too busy, Oscar. There are a lot of children about today.”

“I won’t chase the children, I promise. I just want to SWIM!!!

The beach was fairly deserted apart from one family group and a woman with a teenaged daughter and their dog.

“Mum! A DOOOOOG! Can I go and play?”

“I think so, Oscar. Off you go.”

Meet Moz. I didn’t get too many details about him, as we had to socially distance, but he was lovely. His owners and I took turns to throw sticks in the water and Oscar and Moz chased them. It was a lot of fun. At one point they were actually swimming while holding the stick between them, which reminded me of Toby and Joey. I wish I’d got better photos, but they didn’t keep still for long enough.

“Mum, that was GREAT! Where shall we go tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, Oscar, let’s see what the weather is doing then decide.”

“Can I run and play over there?”

“NO! Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because that area is pure bog, and if you run into it, you might get stuck. When Toby was young, before we even had Joey, he took a flying leap into there thinking it was solid ground, and couldn’t get out.”

“Ugh. What did you do?”

“I waded in to rescue him. Above my knees in black, smelly mud. It wasn’t good.”

“I’m glad you told me. I’ll give that a miss.”

Back at home, the essay is over and Girl Child is finishing the referencing. I head out to start cooking dinner and there’s no sign of Oscar. After a while, I go to check.

“Are you tired, Oscar?”

“Very tired, Mum. Is it dinner time yet?”

“Almost, baby boy.”

“Think I’ll stay here with Anya until it’s ready. She says I’m a big help…”

“It looks as though you are, Oscar. Sweet dreams.”

Lockdown minus point number 5: Playing hide and seek on narrow paths through the glen.

Lockdown plus point number 5: We have the glens

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Lockdown with Oscar: Day Three

Lockdown with Oscar: Day Three

Today was the day. The big day. The day I’ve been putting off.

Today was Shopping Day.

For those of you who feel that my reaction to shopping in lockdown is somewhat over-dramatic, it’s clear there are some things you don’t know about me. One of them, is that this response is only slightly more dramatic than my usual reaction to a weekly food shop. I loathe supermarket shopping with a passion that’s hard to describe. Spending more than five minutes in a supermarket hurts my soul.

To avoid this traumatic event, I tend to be a daily shopper. Working from home, and living only ten minutes from Shoprite, it’s relatively easy to nip out to buy a few things for today’s dinner, and as long as I have a Plan, I can be in and out of the place in about fifteen minutes. Or I’ll be in town to use the library or go to the bookshop and I can nip into Marks and Spencer’s food hall. It’s like pretending that food shopping isn’t really happening.

Of course that means I never buy items like baked beans, tomato ketchup and toilet roll. Those go on the Big Shopping List. Eventually the day comes when I can’t put it off any longer. We’re down to our last tin of tomato soup and there are no bin bags and Big Shopping has to happen. Members of my family always know when that day comes. The fuss I make about it, half the island probably knows when that day comes, and plans to be somewhere else. And this is in normal life.

Now we have lockdown, ffs. Not only do I have to do The Big Shop, but I have to do it sensibly. With social distancing, Knobs Panic Buying and the strong chance that Mother Nature, who has a funny sense of humour, will throw in a gale so the boat can’t go, I can’t rely on daily Pretend Shopping. Also there’s Brexit. I still can’t really take that seriously, but ever since I read that Northern Ireland might be deprived of Percy Pigs if Boris, Merkel and Macron can’t get their act together, maybe I should at least wave to it.

I could barely speak this morning as I gathered my shopping bags, packed my hand sanitiser, wipes and muzzle, and prepared to leave. The family hung around looking awkward, and telling me occasionally how much they loved me. I can’t decide if this was in the nature of a last farewell in case I didn’t come back, a burst of gratitude for my self-sacrifice or an act of self-preservation in case I lost the plot and lobbed a half bottle of Carex anti-bacterial wash at their heads. I wasn’t happy but I was slightly mollified. It’s always good to be a hero.

Arriving at Shoprite was a bit of an anti-climax. Earlier in the year, the social distancing queue often ran round the back of the shop. Today there was nothing apart from a masked security guard, looking a bit like the Lone Ranger, checking that we were all muzzled-up before entering the shop. I grabbed my trolley and advanced, keeping an eye out for enemy skirmishers.

As it turned out, the enemy had retreated. In fact, the whole thing was very simple. Shelves were mostly full, people were generally socially distancing, and the whole thing wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for the muzzle.

It’s not my first experience of having to wear a mask in shops. I did it earlier in the year when I was in the UK with my daughter. I was very responsible about it, didn’t make a fuss and just got on with it. That’s the grown-up thing to do.

Who am I kidding? It is absolutely f**king foul and I loathe every minute of it. I don’t moan, but that’s only because there’s nobody to moan to who can do a darned thing about it. But inside my head, there is a constant toddler whine going on. “I hate this. It’s so hot. It’s so nasty. I can’t see so I have to take my glasses off. Now I can’t see, because I don’t have my glasses on. I can’t breathe. My nose is running. I’m sweating. I’m feeling very weird…

Actually, I am feeling weird. Realising it stops me in my tracks, and I’m outside, abandoning my trolley for a few minutes, gulping in fresh air. Claustrophobia is the most illogical thing in the world, but no amount of talking sense to myself makes it any better, so I give it another minute then get myself back in there before somebody removes my trolley and I have to do the whole thing over again.

I emerge at the end victorious but with one or two things still to do. I need to go to Boots, so park in M & S carpark which is virtually empty. Once I’ve been to the chemist, I decide I might feel brave enough to see if I can get the final few items on my list. Donning my muzzle, to prevent me biting anybody who gets between me and the last cauliflower, I enter the fray.

The first thing I see at the entrance to the food hall is the florist section, and right at the front, a bucket of green stemmed, tightly closed up flowers. I stop and stare, my heart doing a funny little jump.

Daffodils.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this. Generally speaking, after the fun of Christmas is over, the first daffodils arrive in the shops and my spirits are automatically lifted. Daffodils are a family talisman. My mother adored them, my sister and I feel the same and they are, unsurprisingly, my daughter’s favourite flowers. I’ve planted a ton in my new garden, and they’re already starting to come up although they won’t flower for a while.  Daffodils in vases around the house, along with a pot of hyacinths in the living room and kitchen, are a symbol of hope, of the ending of the long winter months, a promise of spring and a brighter future. If ever I needed daffodils it is now, and here they are.

As if it was a good omen, I find my cauliflower and the few other items I needed. I load up the small trolley and head to the checkout. The lad studies my shopping on the conveyer. I can’t tell if he’s smiling, as they’ve had to muzzle the staff as well in the post-Christmas rage, but I try desperately to convey an air of good cheer through the thick black gag over my face and hope he gets the point. The shopping goes through. It mostly consists of daffodils.

“You like flowers, then?”

I see. A sense of humour. I try to look deadpan, then remember he can’t see my face properly anyway. 

“Panic buying daffodils. Thank God you’ve not rationed them yet.”

He makes a funny noise. It might be laughter at my wit or possibly the muzzle is choking him. I choose to believe the former.

Outside, it’s sunny, and I can take the damned muzzle off. I drive home in a much better mood and start unloading the endless shopping. My daughter wanders in, mired in the final stages of her essay. She sees what’s on the worktop.

“Daffodils. Oh my God, I forgot they’d be out!”

The sheer joy in her voice makes me happy. We put away the shopping, playing with Oscar as we do it, then take him outside into the garden to play and inspect our own early stage daffodils.

“Mum. Didn’t Joey and I have daffodils that went on our collars once?”

“You did, Oscar.”

“Do we still have them?”

“I bet we do. I’ll go through your box and find them tomorrow.”

“I’d like that. Reminds me of the old Yella Fella. Can we go to the beach tomorrow?”

“Definitely, Oscar. In the meantime, shall we go and feed the ducks?”

“Good idea, Mum. As long as Angry White Duck isn’t there. He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t like anybody, Oscar.”

On the way back, it’s growing dark and getting very cold.

 

 

 

“Isn’t the sky pretty, Mum?”

“Beautiful, Oscar. Are you hungry?”

“Starving. Did you buy my favourite food?”

“I did.”

“Did you wear your muzzle?”

“All the way round. I didn’t bite anybody at all.”

“What a good girl.”

“Cheeky beggar. Come on, let’s get you fed.”

Lockdown minus point 4: Muzzles

Lockdown plus point 4: Daffodils

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Lockdown with Oscar: Day 2

Lockdown with Oscar: Day 2

Today was meant to be a Shopping and Errand Day. With this in mind, I set up shop in the kitchen, so that I could use the table to sort out my overflowing admin file and work out what needed to be done. This is always a job I have to do early in January. I have the sort of brain that has to make admin a project. I’ve been trying for my entire adult life to deal with paperwork as it comes in and not let it pile up, but I now understand that I am never going to be that person. Over any busy period, such as Christmas, I am never going to deal with admin on a daily basis, so I’ve trained myself to keep a proper file so that when I do get around to doing it, I’ve got everything in one place and I don’t have to search for vital pieces of paper stashed in odd drawers and on shelves.

I didn’t do badly with the admin and as a reward, I allowed myself to sit and write for a bit. Three hours later, I am willing to acknowledge that Shopping and Errand Day might not happen today. We’ve got enough to manage…

Essay writing is going well, I think, but as it’s happening in a different room today, I’m not quite so involved. Occasionally the laptop is thrust under my nose and I get to learn new and interesting facts about seventeenth century government finance, but mostly life is peaceful. Even my afternoon walk with Oscar didn’t happen today, as he was stolen by my son’s girlfriend, who is on a fitness kick. Oscar bounded out the door with huge excitement, and returned an hour later full of beans.

“OMG, Mum, I went on a walk with Rachael!”

“I know you did, Oscar. Did you enjoy it?”

“It was brilliant. We’re going to do it again! We saw loads of people again. Some of them were wearing muzzles again!”

“Masks, Oscar.”

“Whatever. It stops them from biting each other, which is good. Anyway, I’m just off to tell Rachael how much I love her again.”

I leave Oscar to it, listening to the shrieks from Rachael as Oscar leaps onto her as she’s sitting on the sofa and tries to climb onto her head. I’m sure she’ll be fine…

Eventually, worn out with so much love, Oscar comes back to the kitchen. We’ve moved his favourite bed next to my chair so he can be nice and close, and it’s clear the walk has worn him out.

“Mum. Is it dinner time?”

“No, you’ve got a couple of hours yet, Oscar. Have a snooze.”

Ten minutes pass.

“Mum. As we didn’t get a walk today, do you think we could go down the glen this evening, to see the lights?”

“If it’s not raining, Oscar.”

“It’s not going to rain. I can feel it in my tail. What’s for dinner?”

“Dog food, Oscar.”

“What else?”

“We’re having take away, it’s Friday.”

“Mmm. That sounds interesting. I might go and see Jon, he’s talking to the computer again.”

“Oh no you don’t. He’s on a zoom call with work.”

“Oh. Don’t you think they’d like to meet me?”

“Maybe later. Settle down, baby boy.”

Another ten minutes.

“Mum. I like lockdown.”

“Why’s that, Oscar?”

“You’re all here.”

“That’s a fair point, Oscar. Want to come into the garden and play?”

“Yes, please! Now, who shall I bring? Red snake hasn’t been out for a while.”

Sometimes, I think Oscar is a very wise dog. Maybe there are some good points to lockdown after all.

Lockdown plus point 3: We’re all together.

Lockdown minus point 3: I will need to wear my muzzle in the supermarket and the post office when I go tomorrow. Still, at least it will stop me biting anybody…

 

 

 

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Lockdown with Oscar: Day 1

Lockdown with Oscar: Day 1

It’s the first proper day of lockdown on the Isle of Man.

It’s raining.

I awoke with great intentions of getting up early and taking Oscar for a walk, but grey skies and a steady drizzle put paid to this. Oscar got as far as the front gate, sneered a bit, did a wee over the footballing garden gnome as he usually does, then went back inside for breakfast. After that he headed for the sofa with the air of a dog who has seen what the outside world involves and has no further interest in it. We’ll try again later.

We’re working in the living room today, since my son is now working at home for three weeks so I’ve heroically given up my desk to him, as multiple zoom meetings are difficult to manage in the middle of family life. I don’t mind working in the living room, but today it includes my daughter writing an essay discussing whether or not the seventeenth century could be called a century of revolution. My girl is a very vocal worker and likes to share the experience of essay writing with anybody who is willing to listen. Or anybody who would rather not listen. It goes rather like this.

“Mum, listen to my opening paragraph.”

“Have you changed it since last night?”

“No, but I’m about to.”

“Why don’t you rewrite it and then read it to me.”

“Because you’ve probably already forgotten it from yesterday, and I want you to tell me if you think the new one is better or worse.”

“What makes you think I won’t have forgotten it by the time you’ve rewritten it.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re not that demented yet.”

That’s possibly true, but I’m going in the right direction.

One of the things I enjoy about lockdown is how quiet it it. We live fairly close to a main road, and though the traffic here is nothing like the traffic in the UK, we can hear a steady stream of cars when we’re outside in the garden during rush hour. This morning there was nothing, just the pitter patter of raindrops and the sound of a seriously aggravated bird in the Rowan tree. I’ve no idea what upset him this morning, maybe a seagull got to his breakfast first, but it was the most aggressive tweeting I’ve ever heard. Must put bird food out shortly to shut him up.

Going into the kitchen was the first irritation of the day. As my son and his girlfriend cooked last night (delicious stir fry with crispy chicken) I cleared up. It’s good for my mood to come down to a clear kitchen so I religiously loaded the dishwasher and washed all pots and pans. Coming down this morning, I realised that the Phantom Night Chef had been at work. My son has the ability to eat at all hours, and it doesn’t occur to him to make do with a packet of crisps if he wants a snack at midnight. God knows what he cooked, but the smell of garlic is going to keep us safe from vampires for months. Ignored pots and pans and sat down to work.

“Mum. Listen to this and tell me if you think I’ve got two separate arguments in this paragraph.”

Twenty minutes goes by.

“Mum. You need to see this.”

“You want me to read another paragraph?”

“No, I want you to look at this video of polar bears playing in the snow.”

“Maybe it’s lunch time.”

Oscar jumps off the sofa. He understands the word lunch.

I managed to get a good couple of hours in this afternoon and I was pleased with what I’d done. The rain finally stopped so I called Oscar for his walk before it started again. Oscar looked at me. I think he’d decided we weren’t going to do that today. Eventually, grumbling a bit, he heaved himself off the sofa. There was a bit of a discussion in the kitchen about whether we could take Stripy Bunny with us. Getting bored with the tug of war, I gave in. Three minutes up the road, I stooped to pick up Stripy Bunny and put him in my bag. We’ve done this before.

There are some things about the previous lockdown that I rather liked. One of them is the variety of artwork that sprang up on fences and walls around the island. I’m not sure if they were done by bored children or if some of the adults decided to break out a bit during their time off, but they do brighten the place up on a grey afternoon. This one is in the next road to us and I’m very fond of it.

In the same road, I could hear loud music. As I reached the house, the garage door was open and a young couple were on the driveway washing their cars with a hose. It was freezing out, but they were wrapped up in hats and scarves and dancing around to the music as they worked. Spotting us, she grinned and waved, while he looked a bit embarrassed but then waved as well. Oscar was dying to go and say hello but we’re socially distancing so we didn’t.

After half an hour, I remembered the things I love and the things I don’t about lockdown. The lack of traffic is a joy. We have at least one quite awkward road to cross on this route, and it’s bliss just to stroll across. On the other hand, the island is now full of people with bored kids and it’s finally stopped raining. The world, his wife, their entire families including their dogs were out and about, with bikes and scooters. Oscar’s tail was wagging frantically at the sight of ALL THE NEW FRIENDS!!!!! Mine was not.

“Oscar, sit. Stay. Let them go past.”

“But she’s smiling at me, Mum, she wants to play.”

“I know, Oscar, but you can’t. It’s lockdown.”

“Boo. Don’t like…OMG look!!!! It’s a dog!!! He wants to be friends!!!!”

“Oscar, come back. Sit. Stay. We can’t, not today.”

On the footbridge we met a small boy wheeling his bike, probably about eight, whose face lit up.

“Can I stroke your dog?”

“No…”

Too late. Clearly this kid comes from a dog loving family and his arms were around Oscar before I could say any more. Oscar enthusiastically returned the love. I waited a moment, at the length of the lead, then gave a gentle reminder to wait for permission next time,  because of social distancing and because the dog might not be friendly. I got a big gappy grin in return.

“Oh, it’s all right. I could see he was friendly. And you as well.”

Sussed out by an eight year old, we carried on.

Further down the narrow path we met a selection of people with dogs, kids, bikes and scooters. It was a challenge, but we all managed to keep the distance until we came across an older couple with a small dog which was off the lead. I pulled Oscar over to the side yet again, but their dog waddled up to say hello. 

“It’s all right, dear,” the old lady said. I gritted my teeth a bit. It was all right, but she didn’t actually know it was going to be, not knowing my dog, and if they’d got into a spat, we’d have had to get very close to separate them. Dogs are supposed to be on a lead down this path, but usually I wouldn’t care. This week I’m trying to do the right thing.

Almost home, and we met a genuine challenge, The dog was huge, a big black bear of a hound, being walked along the narrowest bit of pavement by a woman. She saw us and paused, looking around. There was nowhere to pull over and it was clear that both dogs wanted nothing more than a play session right here and now. Which would be great on the beach but this was not the time or place. I called Oscar to heel and crossed the road for a minute, out of the way. She passed with a big grateful smile and a wave. Her dog glared at me for spoiling his fun.

“He looked like fun, Mum, why couldn’t we play?”

“Not by a road, Oscar. Cheer up, it was a nice walk and if it’s better weather tomorrow, we’ll take the car and go somewhere I can let you off for a run.”

“Great idea. It’s getting dark now anyway.”

“Here we are. Let’s get your lead off and have a drink.”

“And dinner. Is it dinner time, Mum?”

“Another hour, Oscar.”

“Boring. Might have a nap then. I’ll just settle here by your feet with Owl and Floppy Bunny and Hilda the Sheep.”

“Enjoy your sleep, baby boy. Now where was I? Ah yes, a beach in Norfolk, 1810…”

Lockdown plus number 2: People are so friendly out and about. Although I loathe the phrase with a passion, I have to admit there is a genuine sense that we’re all in this together. Except when I remember the Panic Buyers Without a Brain Cell but as I avoided shops today, I could forget about them.

Lockdown minus number 2: I miss working at my own desk in my own study. I know it makes more sense for my son, but I still miss it.

 

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Lockdown with Oscar Day -1

Lockdown with Oscar Day -1 has come about following an announcement from the Chief Minister of our lovely little island, to say that Covid has reared its ugly head in the Manx community again and we’ve all got to stay at home for three weeks. It’s the national equivalent of being sent to the naughty step to think about what you’ve done.

Those of you who have been following the adventures of Writing with Labradors through this tumultuous year will be aware that on the Isle of Man, we’ve had a lot more normal life than many people. We were in lockdown during March as cases spread, and there were some hospitalisations and sadly some deaths.

At the end of it, our government set out a series of stages towards complete normality. They also closed our borders to pretty much everybody, including, for a time, residents who were unlucky enough to get stuck overseas. The Isle of Man was having nothing to do with Covid, and with a small island, it proved relatively easy to contain the spread of the virus. One minute we were socially distancing and the next minute the pubs, clubs, restaurants and theatres were open and as long as nobody wanted to travel off-island, life was pretty good.

The island’s Covid-free life attracted a fair bit of attention from the media, particularly in relation to some of the methods used to ensure compliance. The two-week quarantine for anybody returning from the UK or abroad was strictly enforced, and several people were gaoled for breaking the rules. It’s reasonable to ask questions about such draconian measures, but it’s also hard to be mad when you live here and they proved so effective for such a long time.

The Manx government said all along that at some point Covid would return, and it appears that after a number of very well contained cases among people self-isolating on return, something went wrong with the system. On a small island, rumours fly around very quickly, and there have been rumblings of community cases all week. At some point during yesterday, the Council of Ministers apparently decided that there were enough to make another outbreak very likely, and decided to lock down. There were no hints or warnings, no Tier system and no gradual progression. We’re going from parties to full lockdown in just over twenty-four hours.

The lockdown has been announced for an initial period of three weeks, presumably to give them the chance to work out just how much this has spread into the community. In three weeks time it should be possible to know in such a small place. It was formally announced at 6pm yesterday and begins at midnight tonight, to give businesses a chance to get things in place. Of course given that this is the Isle of Man, most people knew by midday. I didn’t, being wholly engrossed with finishing chapter one, which is why when I popped to the supermarket at 4.30pm for chicken, potatoes, coriander and bread, I was astonished to see the car park jammed as if it was Christmas and the shelves looking as though a Plague of Locusts had been on speed.

It’s well-known that during the last Manx lockdown, we were starving over here. Boats didn’t travel, supermarkets never stocked their shelves and those who didn’t panic buy eighty-six packets of toilet paper and a jumbo bag of tagliatelli almost didn’t live to tell the tale. Funnily enough, though, nobody knows anybody personally who starved during those weeks, and personally I didn’t see much evidence. Certainly there were queues due to social distancing, the weekly family outing to the supermarket was severely curtailed by restricting shopping to one household member at a time, and the whole thing took a lot longer and was more tedious than ever. Still, we all survived.

The danger must have been real, though, because even before the announcement was made yesterday, they were out in their droves on a frantic quest to ensure that half the island’s population can build a castle from bog roll and bags of flour while the other half can’t buy basic foodstuffs for one meal. I managed all right, by driving between four shops to pick up five items. There was no describing my mood when I finally got home. Dry January will have to wait.

Today being Lockdown Eve, I ventured out again for my last shop without a face mask. There’s still no fresh chicken on the island, but I managed to get enough frozen for two meals along with a few other essentials. At home I got out the shopping list and menu planning notebook we used in the summer and prepared for a major planning session. With five adults, one of whom is veggie, one fussy, one wanting to lose weight and being convinced that too much beef over Christmas gave him gout, the next three weeks should be a joy.

So why this diary? Well, I’m going to be honest with you and say that I’m not that good at lockdown. It’s peculiar, because a lot of the things people miss, I don’t really do that often anyway. I work from home, as does my husband, and we don’t eat out that often apart from special occasions and don’t go to many parties. I don’t even do that much recreational shopping apart from bookshops. You would think that apart from the Plague of Panic Buyers, lockdown wouldn’t really affect me that much. Nevertheless, both during the previous lockdown and my own two week enforced quarantine when I visited the UK to see my sister, my mental health was very poor. I was snappy and irritable with my family, furious with every public figure who pontificated on how we should all Stay Home to Save the Lives of All Lerts and I had to put on headphones during the evening clapping for the NHS in case I disgraced myself by sticking my head out of the window and saying things that shouldn’t be said. While my adorable family quickly came to terms with the new circumstances yesterday evening while they were cooking the chicken I’d taken two hours to buy, I had to shut myself in my room to avoid their relentless positivity and good cheer.

I’ve spent some time analysing why being confined to quarters affects me so badly, and I’ve come to the conclusion it’s because I’ve never been very good at following orders. I mean, I can do it.  A lot of the rules of civilised living make a lot of sense to me, and when the law tells me to put on a seatbelt or not to bean the annoying woman who is queue-jumping with the bottle of ketchup I’m trying to purchase, I can accept it with good grace. I understand those rules and they make perfect sense to me, so I can override my instinct to kick off and be a grown-up about it. 

The post-Covid world is another matter. Whatever side of the debate you happen to fall on, the message is clear that there is no debate. It’s been decided for us, and our every movement is now subject to control, sometimes at a moment’s notice. The great and the good, along with the experts on social media tell us how we must think and feel as well as what we must do, and that does something to me. If I’m given the information needed, I will almost certainly decide not to set foot outside my front gate while there is even the remotest chance I’ve got asymptomatic Covid, but being ordered to stay there by somebody else, hurts my soul. Not being allowed to express how miserable it makes me because we all have to be saintly in both word and deed, adds to the pain.

Before this, the closest I’ve come to these feelings is when I’m travelling through airport security post 9/11. While officious airport employees scream instructions over the bellow of trapped and miserable humanity being treated like sheep, I stand in line juggling laptops, phones, toiletries and the half-bottle of water I’d forgotten was in my bag, composing a Paul van Daan-style rant in my head. My family, who know me, huddle close around me, saying soothing things and trying to protect those around me from an impending explosion. I have never travelled with Ryanair.  My family don’t trust me to do so.

I know myself. I don’t want a platform to rail against the inevitable, I just want to stop feeling so bad while its going on. My daily walks with Oscar soothe my soul, and it was a very bad moment yesterday when conflicting information seemed to suggest that we were going to be expected to wear a face mask in order to go for a walk. Fortunately, that has now been cleared up, so Oscar and I will be out and about as usual. If we manage to see half a dozen people from a distance on our usual walks, it’s surprising, so I think we’ll stay safe.

There is always a lighter side to any situation, and that’s probably what I need to find. Me being angry and miserable doesn’t help those who have been ill with Covid, or any other disease. It also doesn’t hurt them. It only hurts me. So welcome to Lockdown with Oscar here at Writing With Labradors, as we share our doings and the ups and downs of lockdown life.

Lockdown plus no 1: It’s not even officially started yet, but already my family are jumping in to offer to cook dinner. It’s important to show this kind of appreciation to a wife and mother who might turn Pterodactyl at any moment. I wonder if there’s a way I can translate this into normal life.

Lockdown minus number 1: My son and his girlfriend and my daughter are making rumbling noises about movie nights, quiz nights and other forms of forced family fun. I feel like a deer caught in the headlights.

Oscar’s Contribution. Oscar waited until I had gone to do my Lockdown Eve shopping before throwing up violently all over his bed and the kitchen doormat. Oscar is very seldom sick. I think he was making a point here. Now he is doing his meerkat impersonation in the hope of more food.