After the usual over the wall agreement that the weather is splendid and the gardens are looking good, there is that sad hesitation and then the confession that he/she/we are missing the grandchildren. We know that, deprived of a lot of types of stimulation those most primal of senses assert themselves - touch and smell. It’s the close cuddle, your nose amongst the child’s hair and the tiny arms around your neck that people are yearning for. That experience of unconditional love, excitement to have you around, rush to climb on to your lap with a book or toy – it’s these that are sorely missed in lockdown. No matter how much you love your partner, how heady the scent of lilac in your garden, how lush the grass, how rich the compost between your fingers, grandparents have that driving sensuous compulsion that dooms them to long for that slightly sicky smell and snotty cuddle.
Our grandchildren are Welsh, hence that wonderful onomatopoeic word ‘cwtch’ for cuddle. Mind you, we have to be prepared for the fact that grandchildren are growing up and the all-enveloping, crushing, adoring embrace might not be what they want – you feel that slight stiffening of their bodies as you are humoured. It’s scary to admit that while we’re apart from our extended families, they are growing more self-conscious and children with whom you played peek-a-boo might now want to interest you in Minecraft. I’ve always enjoyed the attached poem by Kit Wright. I used to have students doing choral readings of it and they seemed to relish the rhymes and rhythms, as well as the sentiments. But above all it is
intensely physical!
Hugger Mugger
I’d sooner be
Jumped and thumped and dumped,
I’d sooner
Be slugged and mugged ...than hugged...
And clobbered with a slobbering
Kiss by my Auntie Jean:
You know what I mean:
Whenever she comes to stay;
You know you’re bound
To get one.
A quick
Short
Peck
Would
Be
OK
But this a
Whacking great
Smacking great
Wet one
All whoosh and spit
And crunch and squeeze
And ‘Dear little boy!’
But it’s about being physically with grown-ups too. With my fellow musicians, after weeks of Zooming, it is now being increasingly said that we can’t wait to be together bodily. There is a brute reassurance in having your hand shaken firmly or your back slapped over a joke, reaching across someone to borrow a capo or for that matter being offered a goodnight kiss and embrace. I once belonged to a male voice choir consisting of many of that last generation of coal miners who had gone ‘dahn t’pit’ at fourteen, grown up together, went to school together, worked their allotments together and drank at the Welfare together. Their faces were battered, scarred, uneven and were sculpted by rough work and experience. They had huge powerful hands and were immensely physical. Nothing entertained them more than gripping your knee or poking a mate in the back of the neck and pretending it was someone else. They made we middle class professionals feel very pink and limp and regrettably mature.
One symptom of Covid-19 is loss of smell. It's collateral damage as well. Through lockdown I’m missing the smell of damp coats hanging on the hooks in the pub, soggy beer mats and crisps. I’m missing the burnt smoky aroma of a barbecued burger, spilling ketchup down my front because I’m being urged to hold a glass of white wine at the same time. I’m missing the postman putting the mail directly into my hand. I’m missing the unconscious nudge of shoulders with the granddaughter as we sit on the settee and watch ‘Operation Ouch’. I’m missing a thousand touches and smells I never realised were such essential ingredients in a life lived sensually, physically and earthily.