April 17th The Apparel Oft Proclaims the Man

Or 'Keeping up Appearances'. Or 'All Dressed up and Nowhere To Go." Deirdre's comment to me this morning before appearing on Popalong Zoom was, "Let me flatten your hair. You don't want to frighten the we'ens." Hair was actually her big panic mode when we went into isolation. A hairdresser with blue flashing light was envisioned, otherwise we were doomed. She invented all sorts of strategies to get her hair done including suggesting the hair-dresser should cut her hair in the garden. Had she been more inventive she might have experimented with the hairdresser using my 10 foot tree loppers from the other side of the wall. As a last resort I was, under terrifying scrutiny, allowed to do a bit of clipping. I have decided that hair-dressing is easy and doesn't require all the fuss and expense. She meantime has clipped mine which apparently was a less delicate venture. I had my eyes very tightly closed but suspect she was using her left hand and texting with her right. Over the next few weeks I must decide whether to braid it or tie it in a pony-tail.

But what is the well-dressed man wearing this season when he has nowhere to go and no one to see him? Pyjamas would save effort and washing with a compromise towards respectability by adding a sweater when on Facetime. Or the grey tracky beside the bed ready to tumble into, making you look like you're about to appear on the Jeremy Kyle Show with a few other social dysfunctionals. Experience is teaching us to be dysfunctional without needing to be social. Beside my bed is a pile of jumble cast off at various times of the day as occasion has demanded: gardening gear, sitting on the clean upholstery gear, walking gear, gear for appearing on social media, gear for standing at the end of the drive to applaud NHS workers or receive shopping. This always feels a bit like a balcony appearance by the Pope or Queen - are they wearing track suit bottoms beneath the parapet?

At lunch time we had a first live sighting of family members since Mothers' Day because today Abaigh and Sammie brought some shopping round. We sat guardedly on opposite sides of the pond and had real conversation with real words and images without being mediated by technology. It seems the baby-boomers have it lucky again, sitting comfortably in their garden recliners whilst their off-spring wrestle with Coronavirus, work and children. And we have to agree and admit culpability for the sins of the fathers returning from fighting in a World War. It's probable, of course, that a future baby-boomer generation will trace their conception to the historic Spring of 2020.

My choice for Room 101 would be extension cables and hose-pipes. Combine the two and you have that twin serpentine spawn of the Devil , the power-hose. Designed and manufactured in Hell, the power-hose writhes and tangles and deliberately trips you, soaks you, spatters your glasses and ultimately electrocutes you. I had done most of my power-hosing during milder times, but time had rigorously pursued me and the task is now complete. I suppose there is some rather insipid satisfaction in seeing grey slabs turning pink and pleasantly mottled. Deirdre has just returned from a walk to announce that the whole world is out power-hosing. I appreciate the solidarity. Isolation and solidarity are paradoxical, but it is happening.