Far East Music Tour
My first real awareness of Covid-19 – by which I mean, selfishly, the first time I was conscious of its being anything other than an item in the news, in a land far away – was at the end of January.
Youngest had been invited on a swanky school music tour to the Far East for the first ten days of the Easter hols. The cost of this being far in excess of the reaches of the Atkins pocket, extremely generous funding had been obtained from her from elsewhere. When she was first invited to go she said she couldn’t possibly: she had far too much academic work to catch up on. (To be fair, her housemistress said the same.) Youngest has decided, with extremely irritating moral superiority, to rebel defiantly against the rest of her family and eschew a calling as a busker, poet, preacher or any other such virtually useless for the purpose of earning a living (or indeed harpist, at which she could easily make ends meet) and become a doctor. And not just any doctor but a doctor to the developing world or a war zone or somewhere where they really need doctors. For which she will need to pass exams.
Anyway, we told her, with even more irritating superiority, that having been invited on said school tour, plus funds from generous worthy, she really should go. Being a goody-goody, she said, ok.
End of January, email from school.
We are monitoring the situation in the Far East carefully…
The last time anyone in this family was funded for a school trip we couldn’t afford, it was Second Youngest, to Turkey. All his friends were going, he hugely wanted to, and the kind and lovely Chaplain found dosh from somewhere.
A week before they were due to gather at St Pancras International (or wherever) a bunch of Turks, in Turkey, decided to shoot and bomb each other with the kind of gay abandon which really puts schools off and the accompanying get cold feet at the prospect of explaining to miffed parents why they brought back fewer boys than they took out, however educational the experience might prove to be.
How sad it would be, I thought – not really expecting it, being the incorrigible Tigger I am – if Youngest’s even posher educational experience gets called off too.
How long ago that seems! How trivial, to care about a music trip!
Her Summer Term is cancelled. Her friends in the years below and above have their public exams cancelled. The top year in her school has had Speech Day, Leavers’ Ball, all the farewells they have been anticipating for five years, cancelled. Her Asian schoolfriends left the school in a hurry while they still could, and many have had the rest of their English education cancelled.
Half the country’s jobs have been cancelled.
Even if, in same strange lunar fantasy parallel existence, her music trip somehow hadn’t been cancelled, by the time the trip was scheduled to start she was far too ill, anyway. So that even the silver lining – “Oh well, at least I’ll be able to catch up on work in the extra ten days of holiday” – was cancelled. Instead, she was lying in bed unable to stand without risk of falling over.
But this is a blog about silver linings.
Yesterday was Eldest Son’s birthday.
And do you know, it was really good fun.
A week earlier it had been Eldest birthday (I decided to have all my children at this time of year, because I was born at New Year and that’s a grotty time for a birthday when you’re a child, though I love it now) and we hadn’t quite got used to the idea. It took about two hours to get the Zoom thing working. The Norwegian in-laws were there on the dot of 5 o’clock and the Atkinses all trawled in around two hours late. Some of us with laptops because we hadn’t finished work for the day. We struggled to understand how to chat to new people, and the drinks-sharing was a bit haphazard.
Eldest Son, however, said his party was only a toast of fifteen minutes’ duration (before the Geek Party of Boardgames) so we were all on time. We had the bubbly. We saw all our friends and relations and fellow geeks and new colleagues he hasn’t even met yet, and it was a scream.
I could get used to this.
It’s cheaper to buy our own bubbly than to drive to South London.
You only have to dress down to your waist. (My cousin was in black tie, going straight to the opera afterwards: Tosca live-streamed from somewhere. “Can’t be live-streamed,” I said pompously. “You mean pre-recorded.” “Live-recorded, previously” his wife explained.) I’m convinced he was in boxers below the shot.
If you can’t be bothered to wash your hair you blame it on bad internet.
It only took forty five minutes of our time (he kindly extended it) and, as Youngest said, as soon as you get bored you’re home again, instantly.
And the reason for the Great Dane in the picture?
None whatsoever. He likes photobombing. Or rather, it’s quite difficult for him not to photobomb because he takes up most of the house.
And, oh my word! I was just about to post when I heard clapping and cheering from the street. Is there a football match?
Crikey it’s Thursday and 8 o’clock and I nearly missed it!
First week, we hadn’t even registered.
Second week, neighbours told us, there were four of us clapping. Plus two in the distance.
Then a few Care Home staff joined us. Then a passerby. A car drove past and I thought, you could have stopped
Now?
All the Care Home. Six neighbours. Three in the street. And the one and only car pulled in, wound down its windows and clapped too.
I love this country…
