Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

Mute is definitely the word of the week.

‘Day  17. The housemates are in the diary room.’

 If Crichton says that one more time, in his silly Newcastle accent, I shall have to socially distance myself from him, with a hatchet. 

Of course, we are all perfectly well, have enormous amounts of loo roll, plenty of Jaffa Cakes, and are lucky to have more outdoor space than we need, so I shouldn’t complain. But sometimes it would be nice to take a stroll to the church or have lunch with the girls. I’ve never had a lot of time for Davina McCall but if she arrived now with a crowd of photographers and said we could all go off to the Pelican’s Nest for a gin and Dubonnet again, I would kiss the hem of her blessed garment.

Jerome has stayed in Cambridge with Hilary, but Arraminta is home with us. She tends to appear in her PJ’s sometime around noon, cruising the cupboards for chocolate biscuits and Pot Noodles and I haven’t got the heart to be cross, even if she is piling in the pounds and breaking out in dreadful spots. I suggested on-line Pilates or a nice brisk walk but got a dusty answer. 

‘Give her time,’ says Crichton. 

Well we’ve got plenty of that and I suppose she really isn’t a lot of trouble as long as she has a phone signal. She has made us a rather jolly ‘days to do’ calendar with hearts and stickers on it. Rather too many of fire engines for my taste but you know what she’s like. The Lock Down lasts until June 30^th. Bloody hell that’s a long way off!  We have a grand ticking off ceremony over our toast every morning morning and I award stars for restraint and forbearance, random acts of kindness or using up left overs, but I fear I won’t be dishing any out this week unless we all make more effort. I include myself in that, I’m ashamed to say. 

At least there is Amazon. 

Crichton’s orders are single-handedly keeping the economy afloat and hardly a day goes by without a case of wine, some garden netting or a new string for his guitar arriving. Did I mention the guitar? No?

He’s signed up for a  free online course and now spends hours practicing  riffs in his study. He’s got a whopping great amplifier (it goes up to eleven) and the noise is slightly less awful than the constant sound of the chain saw that I had to endure last week. Apparently, there is a  plan for the whole country to give a rendition of  Somewhere Over the Rainbow at eight o’clock Wednesday for our gallant NHS workers. Arraminta has got him all fired up to play on the roof of the Manor, a la Brian May at Buckingham Palace for the queen’s Diamond Jubilee. I fear it will end in tears.

On Sunday we had a bit of a Zoom fest, starting with morning service with Colin Childers. To say he is not technically gifted would be no exaggeration and we all tuned in expecting very little and we were not disappointed. To give it a more authentic cold and draughty church feel, Crichton and I watched from the dining room with the windows open. It was most effective. It was Palm Sunday,so no donkey, but Stubbins appeared in his Joey costume from War Horse, the musical,  and I had made a cross out of pampas grass. This, despite Arraminta insisting that it was singling to the whole parish that we are swingers. Chance would be a fine thing during lock down. Poor Edith, she’d made one too and joined us five minutes late, waving it and shouting that her microphone kept going on and off. The vicar did his best to mute her during the confession and absolution, but it was to no avail and eventually he had no option but to expel her from the meeting. A pity, since the singing of Lord of the Dance was well worth hanging on for. With the sound cutting in and out we could enjoy watching our friend’s and neighbours’ valiant struggle to keep up with Tania Hooper and her descant recorder. The whole thing sounded as if the aliens had landed and were being drowned in a vat of sea water. Crichton and I finished one and a half verses before the rest which was no bad thing imo.

After lunch, we zoomed again. This time to Monica and Douglas. They have the triplets staying with them for the duration while Isolde keeps baby Samson at home with her and husband Vic. He is apparently a key worker  (as a non exec director of Crisp and Crusty- Pies with attitude Plc)  and needs his rest, so cannot be expected to look after his own children. 

Home schooling must be a nightmare at the best of times but with and dear little Vespasian in the house things take on a demonic aspect. Pippa and Poppy are no trouble, content to do their homework and watch CBBs but their brother is a different kettle of fish. Or should I say Arachnids. He has moved on from his passion for cephalopods and is now obsessed with spiders.

‘Did I tell you that I put one in Granny’s bed yesterday. It was so funny,’ he said, squealing with affected delight, ‘she thought it was funny too. She laughed and laughed. I’m going to put my photo of her in my school project.’

Monica didn’t look as if she had enjoyed the episode as much as her grandson. 

‘Run along and sit with your sisters, while I talk to Auntie Cynthia and Uncle Crichton dear.’

‘But I want to tell them about the giant Lego Tarantula I made,  and when Grandpa stood on it in bare feet, and then said a rude word.’

‘I don’t think, they do, dear.’

‘They do, they do… and about when you were having a drink in the bathroom and you said it was Ribena and it wasn’t and…’

‘That’s enough now, chum,’ said Douglas trying to calm him down. But it was to no avail.

‘…and you said Uncle Crichton was a lazy bugger…and what IS a bugger, Uncle Crichton?’

We ended the meeting soon after that.

Crichton comments

Why do we have to keep talking to people we don’t normally want to talk to? 

As for beastly Vespasian, can’t they mute the little f****er?