Kit

On Monday May 11^th at 12.09 pm something changed. A child was born. Not just any child. Kit James Raj. 

He was meant to come earlier. Wednesday, April 29^th. His mother was certain he would come right on the dot. As the clock struck twelve. As the bell tolled midnight. As the date flipped and the diary turned, she was sure he would arrive on time. It did not turn out that way. The days dragged like a teenager with chores; the baby showed no desire to join Boris’ Britain. Why join the fray and isolate behind bricks and mortar when you could do it within flesh and blood?

In the end, he was booked in for an induced labour on Friday, May 8th. I drove Harriet up at 5pm. I could tell she meant business. She was prepared to miss the final week’s episode of House of Games to get this baby out of lockdown into – well – lockdown. Just as Harriet was about to be induced, the contractions started. No problem: nature would take its course. Only nature decided to take a day off. Nay, two days off. The contractions came and went. Fluttered their eye lashes, then ran off. Like some wicked cad in a Jane Austen novel.

Contractions can give you the come on, then scarper - just like Willoughby in Sense and Sensibility

I really felt for Harriet at this point. She had waited for her induction, and now had to wait again. In fact, she has been remarkable since my dad passed away. Not only has she had to carry a baby, but my grief too. Added to this, it hasn’t been possible to have the usual support system going into childbirth. Her friends and family are extraordinary; being denied their physical presence isn’t easy. She’s had just me for company. And I’m good at many things. A whizz round with the hoover. Remembering bin day. My famed chilli con carne. Knowing what’s coming to Netflix. But what I can’t offer is first-hand experience of having had a baby. (Thankfully, the dystopia of men having babies -see Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Junior- has not come to pass.) It must have been tougher not having her mum to give her a reassuring hug.

I went to bed Sunday evening expecting Harriet to be back to square one. Induction, then wait days for Zeus’ thunderbolts. At 5.20am my phone rang. It was my wife telling me that I needed to get ready – the baby was coming. I was dazed and confused. Caught between sleep and dream. Reality wasn’t in my eyeline. I said something about having slept well and asked her if she felt great now her contractions had started. She had the good manners not to say, ‘I’ve been awake for hours. My uterus is a storm. A storm at sea. My back a shipwreck. Dashed against the rocks. My legs? Seasick, vomiting everywhere. But as long as you slept well. As long as your wide awake. Well, that’s just David Bowie Hunky Dory.’

Evidence that the metaphor in the last paragraph is mainly just nicked from this.

I got changed quickly, regretting every word I said. Then, didn’t get called for three hours to go in. Cheeky really. Could have had a few extra hours in bed.

When I arrived I saw the care Harriet was under. Leah, a midwife, and Mala, a student midwife. Although their faces were covered, their kindnesses weren’t. They were reassuring and compassionate throughout. I could only marvel at how quickly the dynamic between the three women changed. One moment they were strangers to Harriet, the next a sorority. A sisterhood working together in tandem to bring life into existence. As for me, I was very much an incidental character in this great human drama. I wasn’t useless. I gave strokes to the arm, water to the lips, words to the ear. But I wasn’t necessary. These women had it covered. The midwives’ commendations and cajoles were magic spells that made pushes possible when they felt impossible. That and Harriet’s grit and determination. Blood, sweat and tears is a sporting cliché. In childbirth it’s a reality. I’ve never been more proud of her fortitude to get our little boy over the line.

The moment of arrival is hugely emotional. The relief of knowing the person you love doesn’t have to push through pain any more, along with the wonder at seeing new beating life in front of you is extraordinary. Kit took to Harriet like a duck to water. I smiled at the beauty of their kinship. Soon I cut the cord and launched our ship off into the world. At this point, a baby doesn’t just belong to his mother but the universe.

Two important people.

After some skin to skin and checks, I held him. My son. My boy. Initially, I was tentative. I’ve held babies before, but I’ve always felt a bit awkward. They seem so fragile that I worry about moving them, disrupting their equilibrium. I moved around positions, then went on a little ramble. I returned to my starting position and proceeded to rock him like Bebeto and Romario in '94. He fell asleep in my arms and I felt like a father. 

*                                                                          *                                                                        *

Two weeks ago, I lost my father. Two weeks later I became one. The first fact affects the second. I’ve made peace with elements of my dad’s passing: his great life; his happy final years; the love he knew we had for him. I find it hard though that he never saw this day. His torch though has been passed on. Kit’s middle name is Raj. They can’t be joined in touch, yet they're knit in name. I’m so grateful to Harriet and the midwives for delivering Kit James Raj into the world. 

Today, the work begins.

Dad

On Sunday evening dad passed away. It appeared at the beginning like mild symptoms, something paracetamol could regulate, water could abate. However, it spiralled into breathlessness and my mum reacted fast, ensuring an ambulance arrived. And with that some of our fears eased. He had never been unwell before. He hadn't been struggling with his breathing for long. A shot of oxygen, a chaser of fluids, a round of antibiotics and he would be right. Unfortunately, this did not work. Treatment was stepped up and with it our worst fears. Each morning we woke praying for good news, but the Gods never answered. After twelve days in hospital, we had to say goodbye.

This will be a piece that will celebrate my dad. This prose will not be shrunk shouldered and head down for long. Later, this writing will right itself, stand tall, head raised, look to the clouds – just like dad did when he went birdwatching. But before I move onto that, I do want to invoke Emily Maitlis’ Newsnight speech from a few weeks ago. The BBC as a publicly funded broadcaster should be impartial, but only up to a point. Her blistering speech typified when it is necessary to debunk lies and throw knowledge to the mast. 

In her opening monologue she said,

‘The language around Covid 19 has sometimes felt trite and misleading. You do not survive the illness through fortitude and strength of character.’

This was delivered in response to Boris Johnson’s political friend, Dominic Raab, asserting how the PM was a ‘fighter’ who would overcome the illness. I’m not angry with him. I’ve said stupid things. I even made jokes about Boris when he was ill (I look pretty stupid now). So many people use the language of war to describe health battles. I think it re-assures us that something can be done, that we’re not flailing in chaos, strung out in riptides beyond our control. The truth is context plays a huge part in survival: age, class, gender, genes, ethnicity are all contributing factors. My dad didn’t lose any battle, nor did the wonderful staff who toiled to keep him alive. It just didn’t happen for him. It tragically wasn't to be. But let it be known: neither he, nor the staff, lost. 

I did say I was going to celebrate dad. This blog is called ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’ and if ever there was a man who embodied a reason to be cheerful then it was dad. Over the course of this piece, I’m going to break from tradition: I’ve written over 250 of these pieces, always about what’s brought me cheer, never considering another’s perspective; well, today I’m going to think about the things that brought him joy and celebrate them with you.

Only Fools and Horses

Dad was a big fan of Derek ‘Del Boy’ Trotter. Unlike Del, dad wasn’t working-class by birth. He was born into a middle-class family: his mum a teacher, his dad a postmaster. However, moving to England in the 70’s meant he started from the bottom. Petrol attendant, security guard, caravan washer were all jobs he had. Like Del, he was aspirational, always scheming, forever dreaming. Dad designed a security door for arcade machines that he had patented – Namco, the arcade giant, invested in them. He also bought a photo processing machine that he installed in a local cornershop (unlike his invention, it didn’t make any money). Sometimes my dad’s investments came up bonnet de douche, other times they sunk like Uncle Albert’s ship; whatever happened, he always felt like a millionaire.

Rob Brydon in St Albans Arena 2009

I took my dad to see this. This was before Brydon started hosting Would I Lie To You? (one of dad’s favourite shows). In all honesty the stand-up was middling. I remember some material about Brydon playing golf with Ronnie Corbett, which was less a routine, more an impersonation. However, where Brydon does excel is crowd-work. This was demonstrated when a punter came back late from the bar. Putting thirst before etiquette, they risked the ire of Brydon. Said punter’s seat was in the front row. 

Most people in this position would make like a greyhound for the chair. This chap, however, made a strange call and decided to do the opposite. Like a nighttime robber, he tiptoed down the aisle as though afraid of arousing the comic’s suspicion. Essentially, the target was waving at their sniper - Brydon never had it so easy. The way he dispatched him though was a thing of beauty. Giddy bullet after giddy bullet was fired at the audience member. But instead of taking it lying down, the chap ran for higher ground: the upper circle. Yes, the man retreated down the aisle, then ran up the stairs, taking refuge behind a pillar. Caught in a blitzkrieg of blind panic, he stayed there whilst Brydon looked up in disbelief. My dad looked at the grown man, positioned beside us, hiding like a child, and collapsed into heaving hysterics. Skin, body, blood and bones had gone missing at this point, dad was comprised of nothing but laughter. I rarely laugh out loud. I'm too self-conscious. Dad could laugh a house down.

Wrangler Jeep

Although many of you may think I am one of two, I’m actually the middle one in our family. My dad’s baby was his Jeep. Dad was made redundant a lot when we were kids. This was no reflection on his work. He would work like a Beatle eight days a week given half a chance. He was just a victim of his employer being bought out or folding into liquidation. My brother and me never felt unemployment at home. Mum and dad protected us from the word, the feel, the throttle of it. And anyway, dad always got a job a few weeks later, meaning he made money from redundancy. He was the one person in Britain who smiles on being told they're being made redundant. With his payout, he bought a £4000 Jeep. It was his pride and joy. He liked nothing better than dropping the roof and feeling the wind in his scalp. All the other kids in school went to prom in a cliche - identikit limo after identikit limo - we went in the Wrangler, Santana riffs blaring, elbows on windowsill, nodding along like we were in a Hip Hop video. Dad laughed like a kid when we pulled up and heads turned. The exuberance of childhood never left him.

His third child.

Photography

Dad was a wonderful photographer. He was beloved by his mates at Camera Club – not just because he made the tea. At any family occasion he would be there poised, camera at hand, ready to document the important moments. Because he took so many pictures, we don’t really have many of him. His inexperience of being photographed was made manifest at my wedding last year. Every picture with him in has his legs crossed, his body slouched, as though he’s bursting for the loo. All the guidance he gave others on how to look and stand are missing. He always was more worried about making others look good, than how he appeared – that was the mark of the man.

Dad took this one.

James Bond

Dad loved James Bond. He was a big fan of gadgets. Each year mum and him would go to their friends at New Year for fancy dress celebrations. He would channel his inner-Q and make a gizmo to support his character. Like a Sri Lankan Blue Peter, he would get out the sticky back plastic and loo rolls and create something that would fire, sparkle or rotate. His attempts to demonstrate his prototype would be sabotaged by peals of laughter - his own. He always found himself very entertaining. What can I say, he was an excellent judge of character.

Dad at Casino Royale Secret Cinema.

John Barnes

I mentioned Del Boy earlier. Uncle Albert’s catchphrase in that sitcom is, ‘During the war …’ My dad’s catchphrase was ‘When John Barnes played for Watford …’ As far as he was concerned our footballing heroes were rubbish. Kieran’s hero of Lars Bohinen (he used to be a Forest fan) and mine of Tommy Mooney meant nothing compared to Barnesy. He was, of course, right. Barnes was an audacious footballer, a master magician, who would show you all the cards, but still find a way of misdirecting you.  His crosses to Luther Blissett catapulted Watford into being one of the country’s best teams. Barnes was both an exuberant showman and supporting presence. Reminds me of someone.

Family

Family was the thing that made my dad most cheerful. He was so proud of my mum for giving her working life to nursing. He was so proud of my self-made brother who went from recording a podcast in his bedroom to working for FIFA. He was so proud of his family in Sri Lanka, Canada and America who worked so hard to achieve prestigious jobs, tough qualifications, loving families. And we were so proud of him. So, so proud.

The family.

Don’t pity our family for losing him, envy us for having him. Always laughing, always smiling, he was something truly special.

Isolation Diary: Week Three

Sunday 5^th April

Today I spent the morning marking my Year 8 assessments. I used to have terrible working habits where I would procrastinate, work late and wake tired. Although I don’t quite wake up with the milkman (what would my wife say for a start), I’m normally at my computer by 7.30 ready to work. At about 9 I actually start (there’s football news, Facebook feeds and film reviews that naturally take precedence over children’s education).

This afternoon we watched Mystic Pizza on Netflix, a 1988 picture that brought Julia Roberts to the public’s attention. It also features Matt Damon in his first movie role. The film centres on three young women who work in a pizza parlour, two are sisters – Roberts being one of them- the other a close friend. Over the course of the movie we see how they experience the travails of love. Written over thirty years ago, it’s thoroughly modern, reminding viewers women have brains, dreams, libidos too. It’s undeniable there are more feminist movies now than a few years ago, but it’s worth remembering that with Dirty Dancing, Pretty in Pink and Mystic Pizza they were being written before. What’s important is they continue to be written and we don’t see a return to late 90’s/early 00’s where female stories weren’t told.

Julia Roberts in her first major role.

Just heard Boris Johnson has been admitted to hospital. Feel pretty bad about the jokes I made about him two weeks ago.

Guilt Meter: 6/10

Monday 6^th April

My mum and dad have been under the weather so I went to Asda, their nearest supermarket to do the shopping. I normally do our shopping in Sainsbury’s because as a teenager I used to work there and feel a peculiar loyalty to it. The response of Asda and Sainsbury’s customers to Coronavirus seems to be pretty different. Nearly everyone in Asda's has masks and latex gloves. They all appear to have PPE degrees from the University of Infection Control. I myself take a few precautions: I put on my old winter gloves to go shopping because I appreciate a lot of people must handle my trolley, but I don’t wear a face mask, mainly out of embarrassment. I guess that’s very British of me: that I'd rather risk infection than look ridiculous. Delivered the shopping to the front door. No tip was waiting for me in the milk crate. These people!

Had a thought about doing some work when I got in, then had another thought and decided not to. 

Watched Hustlers on Amazon Prime instead. This was a cracking picture that was overlooked at the Oscars (Jennifer Lopez was hotly tipped to be nominated for her star turn, but no nomination materialised). It concerns a group of strippers that service Wall Streets Finest/ Most deplorable. The underground club where they work is competitive because the women stand to make a lot of money from the rich customers. However when the 2008 global financial crisis hits, the club suffers too. To paraphrase a famous quote, 'When Wall Street sneezes, the strippers catch a cold.' With obnoxious men not throwing money around anymore, there’s less for the women to pick up. J’Lo’s character Destiny hits on a plan to fleece the remaining rich men of their notes. What ensues is a heist movie, every bit as compelling as Ocean’s Eleven and The Usual Suspects – only with strippers picking the credit cards of men rather than the locks of vaults. I really recommend it.

Boris Johnson has been admitted into intensive care.

Guilt Meter: 9/10

Tuesday 7^th April

Went to Sainsbury’s to do our weekly shop today. Barely anyone in masks and gloves. Just one chap in a full-on Breaking Bad mask. Not sure if he’s preparing for the apocalypse or a batch cook of crystal meth. A lovely lady welcomed me and taught me how to use the Scan & Go zapper. I hope supermarket staff get a huge bonus come the end of the year.

Came home and did some schoolwork. I used to leave work to the end of the holidays where I would do it through tears and pained grunts, like a shit Marlon Brando howling ‘School!’.’School!’ at the window. Now, I try to start early and weep less.

Had a sitcom kind of an evening. In these strange times you need a bit of comfort food; ours comes in the form of Gavin and Stacey and The Vicar of Dibley. We started watching these from the start: the first is all up on iPlayer; the second has just arrived on Netflix. The ensemble cast in Gavin and Stacey are amazing; Rob Brydon and Alison Steadman in particular.

Rob Brydon is the scene-stealer in this.

Boris Johnson is on oxygen.

Guilt Meter: 8/10

Wednesday 8^th April

Went for a run this morning. In school time I run twice a week. In lockdown I’ve been running every other day. It’s a chance for me to do some exercise, but more importantly it’s an opportunity to listen to a podcast. This morning I had on Rachel Fairburn’s stand-up show, Her Majesty. Each week an hour of stand-up has been released by the brilliant independent producers Go Faster Stripe with all donations going to a Food Bank charity. If you’re into alternative comedy, then I really recommend their website.

Came home and did some work. Finished work.

Watched a new sitcom with lunch: Alma’s Not Normal. (BBC iPlayer) This was a pilot episode written and created by Sophie Willan. Willan is outstanding comic; her show Branded was nominated for an Edinburgh comedy award in 2017. The hour centred on her extraordinary autobiography. Her mum is an addict, which meant she spent time in care. With a disrupted school life, she left with few qualifications. The lack of opportunity led her into being an escort. All of these events are channelled  through the character Alma. This protagonist is smart and sharp, so too the menagerie of relatives and friends that surround her. It will definitely be picked up for a series.

Boris Johnson’s condition is improving.

Guilt Meter: 5/10

Thursday 9^th April

Went for a walk with the Good Lady. Her being pregnant seems to act as a Blanka thunder field that keeps people two metres away from us.

We decided to do some baking together today. Now I haven’t made a cake since my GCSE days. Then, I was tasked with making a series of novelty cakes over a six-week period on the theme of sport. Each week I would return home with a football pitch, ice hockey pitch, rugby pitch, squash court, curling rink, equestrian centre and my mum would say, ‘Why don't they just have you make a meal?’ when what she really meant was, ‘Another fucking novelty cake!’ So I hadn’t made a cake in a while. What my wife and I forgot though is we haven’t had a functioning oven for a few weeks now. Despite it being repaired twice in the last year, it's packed up again. We also didn’t have any self-raising flour – neither bio-hazard Asda or crystal meth Sainsbury’s had any, so we were in something of a predicament. My wife though is nothing but resourceful – she lives with me after all - so she assembled a cunning plan: a plan as cunning as Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox delivering an online lecture on the topic of ‘Cunning’ to the snake from the Bible and that one from the Jungle Book.

We decided to make biscuits in the grill. 

It was a tasty triumph.

Watched Begin Again on Netflix with Mark Ruffalo and Keira Knightley. A lovely film to pass an afternoon, but director John Carney’s best work is Sing Street.

In the evening we got together with our parents for a weekly pub quiz. We lost last week so we made the questions harder. We won this week.

Friday 10^th April

Today the Good Lady had her online baby shower. Her best mates had sent her presents in advance. Even though they couldn’t physically be together, they still managed to do all the games and quizzes they wanted. I was called down for the last five minutes to guess the weight and arrival date of the baby. I said twelve pounds and two weeks overdue just to piss her off.

Played Richard Osman’s quiz this afternoon. I really recommend it. Just sign up here and you’ll get a fiendish quiz every Thursday: https://www.penguin.co.uk/authors/141792/richard-osman.html (Just check your Spam folder as for some reason mine ends up here.)

Watched Love Wedding Repeat this evening. This looked promising because it had Aisling Bea and Tim Key, two of the finest stand-ups working today. What transpired was Richard Curtis' Four Weddings and a Funeral - if he had given full editorial control to a twelve-year-old boy. With its rumination on chance and fortune, it was aiming for the stars, to say something profound and enlightening on the subject of love; unfortunately the ladder it used to get there were terrible dick jokes and confused plotting.   

Boris Johnson is walking.

Guilt meter: 2/10

Saturday 11^th April

Woke up and read for a few hours. I’ve nearly finished The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which won the Pulitzer in 2001. I wasn’t sure about it at first; a mate lent it to me so I was putting my faith in him. Over time though the beauty of the language and power of the narrative has won me over.

Boris Johnson is playing games and watching films in hospital.

Guilt meter: 1/10

Feel like I can joke about him again:

How many Boris Johnsons does it take to change a light bulb? None, he’ll get a key worker to do it, clap them, and then bask triumphantly as if he's responsible for the glow of success.

Isolation Diary: Week 2

Saturday 28^th March

Today was my mum’s birthday so I called her this morning to wish her well. We’d already sent her card in advance, so all that was left was to e-mail over her present: two tickets to see The Hairy Bikers in November. My mum was over the moon. My dad now hopes lockdown will last until December.

In the evening we watched Pointless Celebrities. Despite being recorded months ago before the outbreak, a perverse twist of fate occurred. Fans of the show will know that whenever two sets of contestants score the same points the round goes into ‘Lockdown’ – which means a tie-break scenario. This happened twice today. So host Alexander Armstrong turned to us the audience and went, ‘We’re in a lockdown situation, guys.’ It was as though Armstrong had morphed into a soothsayer, predictor of the nation’s doom, harbinger of our isolated present. I’m going to listen to quiz show hosts more from now on. Stephen Mulhern from Catchphrase probably knows more about the virus than Boris.

Before bed we watched Stronger on BBC2. A moving film that follows a survivor’s recovery from the Boston marathon bombing. Jake Gyllenhaal was terrific in the lead role, and Blackadder’s Miranda Richardson was brilliant as his tough talking mother.

Sunday 29^th March

After doing some work – yep, God rests on Sunday, but teachers don’t- we sat down for a Sunday afternoon movie. A few months ago I bought It Happened One Night because the 1934 picture is seen as the first great romantic comedy. I like a romcom. My favourites are the old ones: The Apartment, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and Casablanca, but I enjoy a Richard Curtis too. The plot of It Happened involves a rich heiress (Claudette Colbert) on the run from her father. Her father disapproving of her recent marriage, believing the suitor to be a fortune-hunter, wants to annul it. Whilst riding the bus, she meets the journalist Peter Warne (Clarke Gable) whom promises to protect her identity in return for her exclusive story. It is one of three films in Oscar history to win the five main prizes: actor, actress, director, picture, screenplay – a well done for anyone who can name the other two. It's a pretty good film, but it has dated.

Monday 30^th March

Today I went to the shops for the first time in a week. Sainsbury’s is doing the old social distancing now, which meant I had to get in line to get in. Like a marginalised spy, I was out in the cold. The last time I queued outside for anything was when I was 11 and me my friend Anthony went to Earls Court to queue for wrestling tickets. Fortunately when I got inside Saino's there was no grappling for fruit and veg; nor did I have to drop the elbow on anyone for some pasta sauce. Even got a packet of loo roll. When I got home, I climbed the stairs like a turnbuckle raising the rolls aloft as though they were a championship belt.

Watched Only Connect final. Got one question right. This is better than I normally do. Went to bed feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Tuesday 31^st March

Started reading Stephen King’s Misery. With a baby on the way it’s likely I won’t read a book again until 2040, so I thought I’d try and get in a few reads before they arrive. I finished a Pulitzer Prize winning novel at the weekend, Olive Kitteridge, which meant I was in need of a page turner, an aperitif, to follow what had been a substantial meal. The book concerns a writer that's been kidnapped by a fan. She is not at all happy that he’s killed off her favourite character, Misery, and as a consequence forces him to write a new novel where he raises her from the grave. So anyone who is over-zealous with ‘liking’ this blog post expect a restraining order– you can never be too careful.

Wednesday 1^st April

After finishing work, I sat down for an afternoon movie with The Girl. Today she went for A Quiet Place. Neither of us are big fans of horror. I can count on one hand the amount I’ve seen. She can count on one finger. But it was an afternoon of open blinds and comforting sunlight. The environment was safe and would surely cocoon us from the chills. As it turned out, the film was the right level of scary. Some good jumps but nothing too horrific. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it concerns a family living in the middle of a crisis. Something has gone seriously wrong with the world. A malevolent force stalks the earth with bat-like powers of detection. If something makes a sound, the creatures seize on it. So it’s important you stay really, really, quiet. The trouble is the Emily Blunt character is expecting. Obviously the rhythm method failed because this circumstance is far from ideal. Therefore she has to try and have a baby without making a sound. I looked at my pregnant wife during this scene with sympathy. Fortunately, ‘Scientology’ isn’t on her birthing plan so she can use as many capitals, exclamation and asterisks as she likes. It’s safe to say the film isn’t promoting silent births as the way forward, just necessary if you’re trying to keep murderous aliens at bay.

Thursday 2^nd April

In the evening we went on Zoom and did a pub quiz with our parents. Readers of last week’s blog will now that my wife is a fan of a quiz. This week she’s gone a step further and created her own. Three teams (my folks, her folks and us) were given two rounds each to compile. We drew Sport and TV. Our sport round was classic theme tunes to sporting programmes and our TV round involved us acting out moments from British television. So over the internet I had to play Den serving Ange the divorce papers; Basil Fawlty not mentioning the war; Del Boy falling through a bar; and Villenelle’s minder in Klling Eve. As someone who has the acting range of a front doorstep, I worried for the competitors. Fortunately, the lines were so iconic they guessed correctly.

At 8 we broke to applaud the NHS. My mum works in a hospice and has continued to care for people during the outbreak. It was so moving to see my street outside applauding people who do vital work. Normally applause is reserved for entertainers: performers and athletes. To see public servants get the same treatment was really something. It’s important when this all ends we remember to show our appreciation in the ballot box.

The quiz concluded after the applause break with my wife and I sitting in last. (My dad did really hard questions on Science and Nature; I think he was aiming them at Professor Brian Cox and that bald chap whose been telling us to stay in.)

Friday 3^rd April

Today we made the baby’s bedside cot. I’m terrible at DIY. I can’t visualise how things are meant to look. I often leave all building and renovation projections to my wife, failing that her dad or my dad. As soon as I pick up a power drill, A&E are alerted to prepare a bed. But I did want to build my child’s cot. With only 95% assistance, I built the whole thing myself. With its sturdy frame and foam mattress, the little one has a bed that’s better than ours.

Before our walk we finished watching Sunderland ‘Til We Die, a Netflix documentary charting the fall and fall of Sunderland football club. Their nickname ‘The Black Cats’ is ironic as they come. Never has a team been so unlucky in a single season. It makes for great drama though.

Later, we watched Ingrid Goes West. An independent picture starring Aubrey Plaza, better known as playing April in the great US sitcom, Parks and Recreation. The film is about a young woman who becomes obsessed with an Instagram influencer, so much so she ups sticks and heads west to inveigle herself in her life. If you like Netflix’s You, then you’ll enjoy this -it’s more realistic and profound.

Saturday 4^th April.

Went for a run. Finished Misery. Wrote this. Got to the final paragraph. Wrote the penultimate sentence. Ended it with this full stop.

The Isolation Diary

Monday March 23^rd

Light entertainer Boris Johnson put on a sad face and told the nation we have to stay in. To not to go out. To essentially have no contact with anyone, other than the people you live with. My wife looked ashen. Her face seemed to say, ‘For inside, For outside, was not in the wedding vows.' Despondent, she took to her bed.

Tuesday March 24^th

I set some school work and did the marking. The system ran seamlessly. Maybe I can work from home from now on and get the parents to administer the detentions. After the work was done, I sat with The Girl to watch Mindhorn on iPlayer; a film written by and starring Mighty Boosh’s Julian Barratt. Barratt is Richard Thorncroft, a washed up actor in need of a wash. His heyday was in the 80’s where he appeared as the titular in a successful cop show. Now in the present he is called in by the police to help with a murder investigation: the suspect, believing the character to be real, will only talk to him. The film is a lovely bit of silliness. I can’t watch the news at the moment. Jeremy Vine might as well be doing the mortalitymeter, running up a live total of what people have fallen to coronavirus in what constituencies. The best way to cope is to watch things that make you laugh.

Later, we finished watching Mae Martin’s All4 sitcom, Feeling Good. It’s Roxy Music’s ‘Love is a Drug’ put to punchlines. A story about an addict trying to have a healthy relationship with love and life shows how comedy has become more dramatic. It’s hardly Hi-De-Hi! is what I’m saying. 

Caught Boris on the news before bed. He’s looking a bit peaky. I guess having to be concise and clear is getting to him. The withdrawal from long words is starting to show on his face.

Wednesday March 25^th

The kids are still doing their work. Online work means I get to type my comments. It’s probably why they’re doing so well. In normal life I respond in red pen with a level of handwriting a doctor would deem illegible – this is maybe why they’re succeeding: it’s the first time they’ve ever been able to interpret my feedback.

The afternoon film today is Man Up on iPlayer, a romcom featuring Lake Bell and Simon Pegg. The premise? Lake Bell is a Bridget Jones type: a beauty in schlubby clothing. She hasn’t been on a date in years. Through a series of circumstances she ends up - accidentally - stealing someone else’s date. Her suitor: Simon Pegg. The date tracks them in real time across London. It’s a bit like Linklater’s Before Sunset, only written by someone whose got the book ‘Romcom cliches’ by their side. It was fun though and Lake Bell is a great lead.

Later we watched quiz shows: Tenable, The Chase and House of Games. (These are three separate quiz shows. Not one: that title would never get commissioned.) Warwick Davis hosts the first with competitors having to get ten answers relating to a topic. One of the rounds was ‘First ten words of five letters or longer in Bohemian Rhapsody.’ Even if there was a phone a friend option and you could contact Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon, there still would be no hope in hell of getting that answer right. Better is Richard Osman’s House of Games that takes the Taskmaster approach of having reoccurring guests and building lovely competition between them. I’m quite something on the Answersmash round.

Boris is still looking a bit pale. Why doesn’t he just say the word ‘magniloquent’? Going cold turkey from bombastic language isn’t doing him any good.

Thursday 26^th March

Get up. Turn the computer on. Mark. Set work. Have lunch. I’m getting into quite a routine here. If things go on for much longer, I’m going to be institutionalised like Brooks from Shawshank Redemption.

Today we don’t watch an afternoon movie. It’s Netflix and Babies instead. We’re expecting a child soon. (That sentence sounds like we're expecting a parcel to come through the letterbox. On second thoughts maybe that is an apt simile for the birthing process. Hopefully my wife doesn’t read this; she’ll only wince.)

Later, we watch Tenable, The Chase and House of Games. My wife is mad about quiz shows. If she ever left me - which she can’t do at the moment because she would be told to go home by the police, failing that she would have to pay a £30 fine; refusing that she would be forcibly returned, but if she ever left me - it would definitely be for a quiz show host. He could ask her General Knowledge questions all day, which would satisfy her in a way I never could.

In the evening we finished watching The Trip to Greece. Although I finished This Country this week, which in my eyes is the best sitcom in the past few years, I felt the final ever episode of The Trip was one of the great moments of tele. All the tiny assaults between Rob Brydon and Steve Coogan were suspended as the comedy collapsed into poignant, beautiful pathos. The direction of Michael Winterbottom was sublime. The show from beginning to end has been a delicious melange of comedy, literature, food and scenery.

Still no colour in Boris’ cheeks. Someone at least should let him look at a thesaurus. He can’t go on with this clear language for much longer.

Friday 27^th March

Woke at 7 and did the whole school thing up until lunchtime.

Watched Breeders with a bowl of soup. (That’s not a nickname for my wife. It’s what I was eating.) Like The Trip, it’s on Sky One. Again, such a shame more people can’t see it. Martin Freeman and Daisy Haggard are the parents that would die for their children, but would quite like to kill them too. It’s a bit like Outnumbered, but instead of Hugh Dennis raising his eyebrows, it’s Freeman telling his kids to ‘fuck off.’ The outbursts recede over time and it becomes more rewarding- perhaps like a child?

Watched quiz shows with pizza and a beer. It was my first beer of the week. I always have a beer on a Friday. So I had one today to remind me what day it is. I never have caffeine in the week. Only ever have it on the weekends. So I must remember to do that tomorrow. It’s important to have some kind of calendar to our lives isn’t it? Otherwise we’re no more evolved than cavemen looking at the sun – or whatever they did to tell the time.

Today’s movie is Thelma and Louise on Netflix. We’ve had it on our list for a long time. Man, it’s good. It’s #metoo thirty years before it began. Two female leads. Sarandon and Davis. Both beautiful. But never once does director Ridley Scott linger on their bodies. It’s the female gaze from a male director. A feminist re-working of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where the women run from the law because they can’t trust it to protect them. A classic, important, influential movie.

Turns out Boris has coronavirus. That explains the paleness.