So here’s a thing.

I kicked off this blog by being grateful for gratitude itself. One of the truisms of the human race is that we really do need the dark to appreciate the light, sometimes…

Now, it so happens that the way our Second Youngest shows affection is by being jaw-droppingly offensive. All the time. About everyone and everything close to him.

The last time he said anything openly affectionate to me was ten years ago. He was living in Dublin, singing in one of the cathedrals there, and nine months in he had a rare flash of homesickness. He sent me a text. I know this is inappropriate for a Brit, he said…

The Irishness of his paternal heritage must have rubbed off on him because he then said something almost fond.

It caused me such a shock that I can’t remember what it was.

Just over a month ago, as I have indicated, 2nd Y experienced some symptoms associated with Covid-19. He had a temperature, for instance.

Which meant that we all had to stay in for a fortnight. Thanks mate.

Typically (you’d think he’d done it on purpose; no… really, you would… if you knew him) he himself was allowed out after a week, provided he was free of symptoms.

Being responsible and playing safe, instead doing anything useful like go shopping, he went for an insanely vigorous bike ride so he wouldn’t be in contact with anyone.

Came home.

And collapsed .

(You may not agree with all the Prime Minister’s decisions but at least he didn’t do that to us.)

After which he had a raging sore through for a week. As if trying to swallow razors.

Then he got better.

Until yesterday, when he couldn’t get up. Or move. Or speak.

Or – get this – even swear insults at any of us.

The really curious thing was that, faced with our 2nd Y six-footer lying immobile in bed, not even telling me to eff off in that affectionate and witty way he has towards all of us, it rather brought it home to me that the household wouldn’t be the same without him.

Well, no.

Quieter.

More peaceful.

A lot more civilised.

And we wouldn’t have to watch all the ghastly films he’s been inflicting on us since lock-down.

And yet, somewhat counter-intuitively really, I thought it might be a bit of a shame if he left feet first, rather than off to have a real life somewhere, not living rent-free with his parents while he stings his own tenants for the cost of his mortgage.

Hello this is NHS one one one.

Hello. My son… very sore throat… can’t talk… great difficulty swallowing…

Is it an emergency?

(Isn’t that what you’re for?)

I have to know whether it’s an emergency, so I know whether to advise you to hang up and ring nine nine nine.

How would I know?

Is it life-threatening?

Wha… um…

Because if it is, you should hang up immediately and ring for an ambulance.

This farce went on for several minutes.

I thought of him lying under the duvet completely immobile… and took the brave decision that it would be a shame if he went on being like that for ever.

Do you know what? I said to the NHS one one one person. I’m going to hang up now and ring nine nine nine.

So today’s positive life lesson is that even being told on a daily basis that you have a face like a traffic accident and being asked who’s just been sick on the table every time you serve a meal, is better than not.

If you see what I mean.

I really might miss the old bean. Anglo-Saxon expletives and all.

Emergency told me to expect a wait of several hours, so I went outside to do something… and there it was, on our pavement.

Crikey, I said.

We were so bored, they said, sitting on the Embankment with nothing to do.

And they loved my NHS friendly banner!

[To find out whether Anne’s son lives or dies, tune in to the next nail-biting episode… when the supper hasn’t just been put out in the garden.]