Lockdown Diary - New Year's Eve (Thursday 31st December 2020)

Last night I decided that I would have a lie-in until 8 a.m. today: I'd even gone to the trouble of asking the temporary first carer of the day to let herself in. Of course this was a fatal mistake. When I came downstairs I noticed the door to my wife's 'bedroom' (not sure why I've put that in quotes: it IS her bedroom though it WAS once our dining room/library) is closed and from behind the door I hear a regular bleeping sound. 

I recognise the bleeping. It is the sound of the feeding pump indicating it is not happy.  In I trot to take a look and see that the display says, 'Feed Empty'. One look shows this is not actually the case. On closer inspection I can see the problem.  The 'giving set' - which is what the pipework is known as, has air in it. It looks to me as if it's not been primed properly - 'priming' being the, theoretically, automatic process whereby the pump pushes feed to the end of the tube and pushes the air out, ready to run.  It doesn't look like this was done properly.  The priming process is a bit temperamental. It should do it automatically and when the feed reaches the end of the tube it should stop.  Sometimes it refuses to do this. Bastard.  In this case you have to hold the priming button down until the feed reaches the end. This is what I had to to do. Once primed I reset the pump to 'run' mode and it started pumping and flowing.  It's amazing how quickly you wake up when there is a problem to solve. All done now. Normal service is resumed. I hope I don't have to do this tomorrow morning as I was planning a lie in, again. I may have to get up and check - it caused the loss of almost two hours of feed.

Next!

I'm up, exercised and dressed, time for breakfast then listen to the 'Freak Zone' best of 2020 program to find out what I may have missed.  As a consequence I have a further eight albums I need to listen to including the latest albums from Aksak Maboul (yes, they are still going!), Otis Jordan, Anna Von Hausswolff and Bibio, to name just a few.

My next exciting job is to create a Word document containing the instructions for changing the water in my wife's PEG balloon.  I also need to ask the care agency to arrange to have at least six of the carers trained to refill the PEG balloon, in case I get hit by a fleet of buses, abducted by aliens or just expire due to futility. 

Apart from son #3, who is in the process of becoming one with his PC, I am alone. No one else is up. My wife is mostly asleep, but even if she wasn't, I could only speak to her, it would be a one-way street with little or no response.

I decide to read some more: finish off the previous issue of 'The Idler' and continue reading the Hawkwind book.  Stewart Lee's music column in 'The Idler', punningly titled 'Stew's Ear', provides further music I must listen to: new albums from Boris, and newcomers (to me at least) Slum of Legs and Billy Sedlmayr.

Son #3 and I make lunch - still no signs of life from sons 1 and 2 - which finishes off the cheese we bought for Christmas from Neal's Yard Dairy - one of those 'traditions' from the days when my wife and I did Christmas.  Kind of sad really. We always used to go shopping in London (as well as to places like Bath and Oxford) in the run up to Christmas and one of the highlights of the trip to London (apart from coffee in the Monmouth Street coffee shop (near Seven Dials, which I love)) was to go to the Neal's Yard Dairy shop in Covent Garden and sample and buy lots of cheeses (on top of the online order for a cheese box)

Darkness descends and approaching evening signals the imminent end of 2020, and, mirroring the failing light, a black fog of melancholy envelops me, as thoughts of what has been, what is lost, what seemingly will never be, and a dread fear that 2021 will only bring more of the same, and most chillingly, probably something far worse, at least for us, though hopefully not the World. Sometimes the company of people is the starkest reminder of how isolated you feel, hammering it home like the final nail in a coffin lid. Only the oblivion of alcohol provides an answer, temporary solution though that it is.

For the avoidance of doubt, please avoid: filters; golf; criminal partners; photos spanning the decades; ridiculous age calculations; fish that turn out to be cats. I do like cats, though. Especially their 'fuck you' attitude. 

'Top post: blue bin bags': FFS when 'blue bin bags' is the top post, life really is at an end.  Jesus! The rubbish (geddit!) that people post.

I've been a bit lax with my online courses recently - Georgia (Christmas) was on my mind, I guess, so in a 'moment' while the boys were upstairs playing on their PCs (they are up now!) I decide to do the next lesson on the Tarot course, this time on the pip cards.  After that the court cards before finally a few lessons looking into how you might use them to create a story in response to an idea.

I've poured myself a glass of Barbados rum (neat, natch) which I'm drinking whilst watching another episode of 'Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)'. Obviously it's not exactly mind-expanding, but it is entertaining and strange to see how much London has changed.  For some strange reason it has helped prevent my spirits (!!) descending further, for which, I guess, I should be grateful.

I notice those bastards at the BBC are showing 'The Sound of Music' for a second time this holiday: c'mon haven't we suffered enough in 2020? Now that's what I call music. Not!

I made the decision a few days ago that New Year's Eve would be an easy one for food, so we plan to have party food with copious amounts of alcohol.  

Son #2's employers, amongst the many gifts they showered upon him, delivered him a kit containing all the ingredients necessary for a cocktail for four people, so we began with that. (Strictly speaking I'd already started with rum, but we'll draw a veil over that) Very nice it was too, despite containing ginger ale (which I fucking hate), which was luckily tempered with Elderflower, lemon juice, and yuzu on top of vodka and sake. It's called a hicce coctail.

We all sit and watch the second episode of 'Raised by Wolves' before watching the end of 'Skyfall', for the 93rd time, while son #1 showers. We switch to Jools Holland's Hootenanny which does have the virtue of performances by Róisín Murphy, who always manages to wear something striking, and Michael Kiwanuka, interspersed with old footage from previous 'nannys.

So it was at midnight that we four met again on the blasted heath to toast the new year with champagne. 

Happy New Year!

I went and wished my wife a happy new year, but she was fast asleep. There are things one should always do, that should not be forgotten.

I watched the 'nanny until the end, though after a suitable period with their dad, the boys retired to play...you'll probably have trouble guessing this...on their PCs. What did young people do before the advent of computer games? Answers on a postcard, please.

I sent 'Happy New Year' messages to friends as the music played on, receiving quite a few too.  

On the plus side the boys left me with the rest of the champagne - they don't really like it that much, though will drink it for special occasions. Despite the variety of drinks I've had (I have missed out the cider) I'm not drunk and as I start getting organised to go to bed.  I'd like to get to sleep quickly - would help if I was more drunk, though not for lack of trying - as my thoughts are becoming increasingly negative. Sleep come quickly, please.

This is bloody old, but also bloody brilliant. Bill Withers performs 'Ain't No Sunshine' (which he wrote) on the 'Old Grey Whistle Test' back in 1972. The guy on the drums is priceless.  He's smiling so much, like he can't believe he's playing live on a TV show in the UK! Straight from the fridge, daddy-o!

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