Are we supposed to feel hopeful about May 5th, when the government starts to lift restrictions? Or is that going to be the day when it finally dawns on us that the summer is a write off and we might as well forget about enjoying anything for the next year, or decade or does anyone really know?
Week seven of this parent-child lockdown has been a bit emotional. A lot of us are starting to wonder which end is up.
I’m actually on an upswing as I write, thanks to a German politician and Scooby Doo.
I like Ursula. And not just because she has a cool retro hairstyle. You might know her as the President of the European Commission.
I know her as the person who just said that summer holidays in Europe might still be an option, thanks to what she calls smart solutions.
I have no idea what these might be, but if Ursula’s smart solutions allow us to go on our trip to France that I’d written off last week, then I’m all for them.
Add in the breaking news that bars and restaurants are set to re-open in France in mid-June and I’m already practising my 'ou sont les toilettes?'.
So this week’s Holiday Optimism rating is all the way up to 11.
I tried a second loaf of sourdough. It didn’t rise.
I’m pointing the finger at the fact I don’t have the right flour (strong flour) and neither does any supermarket in Cork because some hipster bought up every last bag when the lockdown was announced.
My buddy (not a hipster), has been baking amazing sourdough from his stash of strong flour. He offered to give me some of his after I told him about my latest fiasco.
It’s one of the nicest things that ever happened to me.
Naturally, I refused his offer, because if my sourdough fails with the right flour then I’ll have no one but myself to blame. And we can’t have that.
There is a straight divide in our house. My daughter and I are extroverts – we like meeting strangers.
Actually my daughter likes strangers a bit too much and is liable to walk off with one, particularly if they are walking a dog.
There have been one or two moments in the past seven weeks when I wouldn’t have minded if she walked off with a stranger, but she’s a dream really, like her brother, the arch-introvert.
He’s grown into this lockdown - he talks a bit about his school buddies, but I think he sees that as a phase of his life that is gone so he’s perfectly happy hanging out with us and the two cats.
It wouldn’t be the end of his world if he never left the house again.
That’s bunking off from school for those of you who weren’t around Cork in the mid '80s.
We might let our two go on the hop if the rumours about primary school re-opening are true. As things stand, there is talk of getting the kids in one day a week, for the month of June.
Maybe I just need to get my head around it, but that seems like more trouble than it’s worth.
They get to see their long-lost buddies for a day; then they don’t see them for another six days. After four weeks, that ends, and they don’t see them for another two months.
That sounds like a recipe for tears. Mine.
Things might be getting a bit emotional, but there are plenty of laughs along the way.
I arrived home from my walk last night to find my daughter in the front room, strumming away on a hurley and singing a song she’d just written about love.
Joe Wicks did a PE class dressed as Scooby Doo and we all joined in. And a few minutes ago, my son asked me if the pigs they use to make chorizo are fed on lava. I said yes.