Putting the wind into Windermere

The Whites are back on tour, this time in the Lake District where it rained all day yesterday apart from a brief intermission to allow this picture to be taken.

(We were supposed to be in Greece but that was cancelled after the island we were going to ran out of Corona. Or something like that).

Our trip here started off with a bang.

I attached the bike carrier thingy on to the car the wrong way. The result was that it bounced off the road a couple of miles after departure, forcing us to return home to stick one set of brake lights and the registration plate back on with white gaffer tape. Here you can see Vanessa reassuring the kids that our luck was sure to improve.

Sadly mine didn’t. I watched the first half of Coleraine’s Irish Cup Semi-Final on my phone on the journey across. The Bannsiders were leading 1-0 until the 97th minute. They eventually lost to bitter local rivals Ballymena Utd on penalties. Gutted.

Whilst I sobbed uncontrollably, Jamie took himself off for an introductory tour of the holiday park where we’re staying for the next week. His main aim was to make a guest appearance on the CCTV feed which is piped into everyone’s lodge. He succeeded - see below.

We ended the evening by introducing the kids to the joys of Gavin & Stacey. Other than the incident with the bog brush and one filthy comment from Doris, the first episode wasn’t too racy and we might let them see a few more.

As for today, we’re planning a walk into Windermere where showers and high winds are expected.

Further updates to follow.

Ghost train

Before today, I hadn't travelled into Leeds city centre for more than four months.  The purpose of this morning's journey was a trip to the dentist after a crown became loose a few weeks ago.  I was surprised when  she agreed to see me. 

I donned a mask for the first time and boarded a train with barely anyone on it.   That was eerie, as was Leeds station itself was which also deserted.  With the odd exception of several members of train staff, everyone else had their faces covered as I trudged through.

When I reached the dentist's door, I had to wait outside for a few minutes until a lady with face shield, apron and gloves greeted me cheerily and asked me to cleanse my hands with sanitiser before coming inside.  

Next, she asked if she could take my temperature.

I said yes and opened my mouth nice and wide.

She laughed and pointed a gun at my head and pulled the trigger.

Five seconds later: "You're fine."

I wasn't, I felt like a right idiot.  I'd not had my temperature taken that way before.  I reckon I would have blushed less if she'd shoved a thermometer up my bum.  

And then I was invited to go upstairs to be welcomed by my dentist and her nurse, both in full PPE.

They did a great job, despite not being able to use a drill or that squirty water thingy.  My dentist explained that they can use those tools in afternoon appointments when they have to wear even more protective gear.   A bit like those scientists in ET.  Possibly. Those appointments are scheduled for an hour to allow time for a deep clean afterwards.  Mine was in the diary for 30 minutes, despite only being in the chair for five of those. 

My dentist added that my six-month check-up, which was due this month, will now take place at some point next year - in theory. 

And then I left, walked back through the quiet streets of Leeds, into the station, mask on and back onto another empty train to Guiseley.

I am actually due back in the city centre in a couple of weeks for a meeting, possibly followed by some socialising.  I'm not really sure how I feel about that. 

It's not a fear of contracting coronavirus that puts me off, it's the "new normal" factor; even more irritating than the X Factor and set to last a heck of a lot longer than a run of Simon Cowell and co.      

Flip and dale

With wind and rain forecast and campsites reopened, the time was right for us Whites to get soaked and cold inside and outside a tent.  

We chose the little village of Muker in the heart of the dales.

That was on Friday but, for the next two days, the weather actually picked up and the beauty of North Yorkshire was revealed.  

We met some of the locals.

And even had our first lockdown pint. 

Thankfully it was. 

Back at the campsite, Jamie saw an opportunity to earn a Scout badge for being helpful. 

He grabbed it with both marigolds.

We're due to spend next week in the Lake District where steady rain is predicted by the weather folk.

This has not come as a surprise. 

Half-cut

Jamie and I had our long-awaited post-lockdown haircuts today and, in my case, it did not go as planned.   

The barber cut the sides but, for some reason, seemed to forget to cut the top - and I forgot to notice.

The result was that I came home looking not unlike Michael Portillo.

Worse still, Charlotte took one glance and announced that I resemble a hammerhead shark.

A bit harsh, surely.

This was us yesterday when we put gel in our hair and combed it back for a laugh. 

But I'm not sure I look that different (other than the hangover face I was wearing after a well-hydrated weekend).

In need of some form of comfort,  I'm reminded of that well-worn quip: 

Q. "What's the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut?"

A, "About a fortnight."

So I'll go back soon.      

I hope you have better luck when it's your turn to face a scissoring. 

Katy Perry Fest

We've had a better week this week with Jamie's 12th birthday on Tuesday the highlight.

Being in lockdown and all of that, options for him were sadly limited.

His choice of activity was therefore to drag us all up a mountain to have a picture taken beside something called a triangulation pillar.  That'll be the tenth such lump of rock he's reached over the past few weeks which is good for his Scout badge collection.   

Happily, Vanessa brought a little cake along to mark the occasion (and replace the lost calories from a five-mile trek).

On our return, we threw a little barbecue in Jamie's honour with steak as the main course.  That's unless your name was Charlotte who requested a microwave pasta meal from M&S.  Anything to avoid my cooking.

And the birthday boy received another cake in time for dessert, a full size one this time.  

There isn't any left.

The week has been book-ended by Father's Day last Sunday (loved my card)...

...and the "Glasthomebury Festival."   

With the 50th anniversary of Glastonbury canned because of you know what, a wise social media person came up with the idea of everyone recreating the festival experience at home for the entire weekend. 

How far you're prepared to go is obviously a matter of personal choice. 

Jamie and I have camped in the garden for the past two nights.

Under a makeshift Pyramid Stage.  

Vanessa and Charlotte kind of joined us last night by sleeping on camp beds in our converted garage.

However, as someone once said, it's all about the music.   

And thanks to the BBC showing wall to wall highlights from previous years, there has been plenty to choose from.

Amongst those acts I have insisted we watch are Katy Perry, Coldplay, REM, Katy Perry, James, The Killers, Katy Perry,  Kenny Rogers, Neil Diamond, Katy Perry, Shakira, Status Quo, Katy Perry, Adele, U2, Katy Perry, Happy Mondays, The Verve, Katy Perry, Oasis, The Waterboys, Katy Perry, George Ezra, Katy Perry and Katy Perry.  

I was never a huge David Bowie fan, but we will watch him tonight although I hope there may also be some time for a burst of Katy Perry. 

One thing I've particularly enjoyed about watching scores of performances is the sight of large crowds of people enjoying themselves.   

And whilst I appreciate that a high percentage of Glasto-goers are off their faces, the images still serve as a timely reminder that we can all have festival fun again one day.

Beware of the cat

This has probably been our worst week of lockdown thus far.  

A combination of the kids not getting back to school - Boris Johnson is a liar, who knew?! - having to cancel our summer holiday and general lethargy have added up to a universal feeling of crapness. 

But this morning, we had a bit of drama to at least inject some life back into our household.  Unless you were the poor bird involved (and no, PC Police, I'm not talking disrespectfully about Vanessa).  

Jamie was up early, as per usual, and went downstairs for his brekkie - letting Cleocatra (pictured above) out first for her morning........whatever it is she does. 

But a few minutes later, he came running into our room whilst simultaneously waving his arms and making loud noises. (Most males can't do two things at once, never mind three, so I was initially very impressed). 

Jamie explained the scene in what we call the toy room and asked me to come down to survey it with him.

And this was what we found.        

Yup, the bird was still alive at this point - barely.

Jamie, a proud ornithophile himself (look it up, I had to) initially offered to take it outside, after donning personal protective equipment.

But by the time he'd got everything on, Cleo had finished what she may or may not have started (hopefully the bird was already injured when she put it in her mouth) and we had to move on to consideration of burial options. 

In the end, I bravely scooped the deceased into a dustpan before running screaming across the garden and throwing it over the wall.  At least it got to fly one last time.    

But I really must have a word with Cleo.  Call me mean if you feel you have to but, whilst I don't mind the kids bringing friends home for dinner (albeit not during lockdown), this is not a privilege I wish to extend to the cat.

In other news, we've erected a gazebo in our garden for socially-distanced chinwags.  I'm heading there shortly to drink beer because there's bugger all else to do.

You will note that the elaborate set-up includes a patio heater.  That's because we live in Yorkshire.

Enjoy your weekend.

Meet The Soul Band

I haven't updated this since my annual second rate April Fools Day post, mainly because there has been very little upbeat news to share.  But, henceforth, I intend to up my game and see what I can come up with.

To begin, I want to share a video with you that has really brightened up my day.  

It's been made by Guiseley School, which Jamie misses like a limb.

This is how the project is explained on the school's website: 

"Our young musicians should now be taking full advantage of our new building with a brand-new Music Department. Sadly, due to Covid-19, these plans are now on hold. But this hasn’t stopped Guiseley School’s Soul Band coming together, remotely, to rehearse and produce a performance.

"Lean on Me carries a touching message which we feel couldn’t be any more appropriate in these testing times of uncertainty. The Soul Band, with students across all three Key Stages, rehearsed this brand-new piece without any teacher input which is a testament to their devotion to music and their craft.

"The Music Department is incredibly proud of each of our young musicians and can’t wait to reunite and create music in our amazing new facilities." 

You can see what they achieved by clicking HERE.  

Jamie's face is the first one you'll see.  

He hopes you'll enjoy it.  

The hand of history

I never thought it would come to this.

The coronavirus pandemic has led to historic levels of toilet roll shortage across the country.  No one is quite sure why, because being forced to spend prolonged periods on the pot does not appear to be one of the symptoms of the disease. But that's what's happened, and Guiseley - where we live - is no exception.

We had a few rolls in the cupboard a couple of weeks ago when the initial panic started, but chose not to hoard because we thought the shops would have plenty available when people stopped shitting themselves (so to speak).  Sadly, that has not proven to be the case and, by last Friday evening we were almost out of supplies.

But what to do?

A small number of obvious theoretical options presented themselves.

As a kid, I remember using old newspapers when hole roll stocks were absent.  But like many people these days, we now get much of our news online and swiftly recycle the papers we do buy so didn't have any.

Dock leaves were a childhood favourite when out for country walks (if there were some left after being stung by nettles).  But I've not spotted any dock leaf plantations near our house.

When the kids were younger, wet wipes were the order of the day.  But ever since they learnt to wipe their own bottoms, we no longer have them in. 

So we were stuck (albeit, not yet to our pants because we still had a few sheets left).

And then I recalled a conversation I had in the street with a friend and near neighbour about ten days ago, just before the lockdown.

He'd been having problems sourcing pipe wipe for his family and, feeling desperate, was floating the idea of following his brother in a practice I'd not previously heard of.

His brother had spent some time travelling in India and, whilst there, adopted the local lavatory etiquette.

Rather than explain it using the rather crude rest room phraseology chosen by my friend, I shall instead relay the gist of what he said via the wisdom of Wikipedia.

And I quote: "In India and the Indian subcontinent, over 95% of the population use water for cleansing the anal area after defecating. Use of toilet paper is rare in this region and is seen only in some urban settings." 

Wikipedia adds: "The cleaning of hands with soap/ liquid soap after this cleansing process is very important. In places where soap is not available, soil, ash or sand is used to clean the hands."

Since returning from his Indian expedition, my friend's brother has apparently continued along this alley or, more precisely, chosen to buff up his own alley without the aid of toilet paper. 

Therefore, following his example and until Morrisons gets some more toilet rolls in, that is what we Whites have had to resort to.

If only we were able to get our mitts on some hand sanitiser.

Gogglerocks

Just when I needed a little lift, she came back into my life once again.  Yes, Debbie Gibson was on this week's episode of Top of the Pops 1989 to remind me of my Electric Youth.  (A little quip for fellow Debsters there).     

It looks like we'll all be staring at screens more than normal over the next six months and, to be fair, there are more options around than I realised.

I mentioned in my last post that Snow Patrol's Gary Lightbody was about to perform a live show on Instagram. And he did just that.

If you missed it and don't hate Snow Patrol, you can watch Part 1 here  and Part 2 here. 

I do like that boy. 

Since then, I've discovered what - to me at least - is a new phenomenon called Zoom.  (I appreciate that you probably knew about it long ago).  

It's that Skype type thing that people have been talking about which enables you to be in a "virtual pub" (as long as you have beer in).  

Last night we tried it with friends (the kids had Pepsi Max).

And much fun was had.  Other virtual pub trips are already in the planning. 

And Rock the Lockdown has just started on Facebook, "spreading the love though the joy of live music from amazing artists performing your very own front room festival."

It runs today and tomorrow and, if it's good, is bound to be repeated.

You can watch it here. I'm just about to.  

Snow Whites

Three days on from choosing to resurrect this guff as a means of chronicling events/relieving boredom, and my mood is already fluctuating.  This is hardly an original observation, but everything - literally everything - feels so surreal.

Charlotte was invested into Cubs on Monday evening (that's her second from the right).  She found Brownies a bit dull and sees Cubs as more challenging.  All good, apart from the fact that Monday's gathering was likely to be the last for goodness knows how long. 

You'll be aware that the school closures were announced today.  That has removed any chance of the kids' extra-curricular activities carrying on.  Right decision, but highlighting that we truly are heading to a bizarre place.

Glastonbury was cancelled today.  Yesterday it was the Grand National and also the North West 200, which I was due to travel back to Northern Ireland for until Flybe collapsed.  That happened two weeks ago which already seems like an age.

An increasing number of our friends and their families are now in self-isolation.  It is surely coming our way too although, having worked at home for more than five and a half years, I'll barely notice the difference other than the fact that the kids are around.

Work wise, I am still very busy and likely to remain so given the need for communications in times of crisis.  Many others have not been so fortunate and that breaks my heart.  Other than people avoiding illness, I hope the situation gets better much more swiftly than envisaged for their sake so they can get back on with their lives.

However, in the midst of all the doom and gloom, the day is drawing to close on a mini-high.  (Be assured that my ramblings over the coming months will always seek to be positive).

You may have heard that, earlier this week, Coldplay did a live gig on Instagram.  I have an Instagram account but have never used it.  I didn't know you could put live videos on there

Then this morning I heard that Gary Lightbody, lead singer of Snow Patrol and proud son of Ulster, will perform a live acoustic set on Instagram at 7pm tomorrow.

As well as knowing nothing about Instagram, I'm also a technophobe.  But tonight I had a dabble and, to cut a not particularly interesting story short, I worked out how to connect my laptop to the telly and we're good to go to watch tomorrow night's gig.  (Don't laugh, either because you obviously know how to do that or you hate Snow Patrol). 

I suspect lots of singers and bands will follow the new live Instagram show trend in the time ahead to lighten the mood as we all hunker down.  At least the Whites can now be part of it.

Aye, Corona

This is my generally well-stocked beer fridge.  You may note that it contains a lonely bottle of Corona, which I just can't bring myself to down.  I've had various thoughts about what to do with it. 

I could just drink it.  Glug, glug, job done.  (I might follow it down with a Guinness.  Currently 15 for a tenner at Morrisons, I have plenty in).   But then I thought that this might represent an opportunity wasted. 

I could keep it until this dreadful coronavirus mess is behind us, before cracking it open in celebration.  However, it has a sell-by date of June 2020 and it seems that the end will not be with us even then. 

I could just keep it as a reminder of what looks almost certain to be a particularly grim time for us all.

Or - my current favoured option - I might just carry it with me when braving the shops and use it to bash people who insist on filling up their teetering trolleys with stuff they don't need. 

To be fair to the good folk of Guiseley, there doesn't seem to be quite the level of selfish stupidity here compared to some other examples I've seen on social media. 

Needless to say, soap is not plentiful and you have as much chance of seeing an available bottle of hand sanitiser as you do of spotting Paul McCartney at the meat counter.  But most essentials are available and I'm yet to encounter a single scrap over a niche shade of bog roll.

The general mood in the town, as it was in Leeds and Bradford city centres when I was out and about in recent days, is definitely eerie, a little edgy but also good-humoured.

Someone asked me a couple of weeks ago if I felt scared about what may lie ahead.  I explained that I'm from Northern Ireland, nothing scares us and don't be so bloody stupid.

That's not to say that I dismiss how serious the situation is and could become.  Unlike many armchair "experts" who have felt the need to comment, I watched the entire 45-minute UK Government news conference on Thursday featuring a scarecrow (aka our Prime Minister) and two men who actually are experts. 

I've long been well aware that I know very little about even less and if there's someone, somewhere who seems qualified to offer a better informed opinion than mine, then I'm all in.  The nation's Chief Medical Officer and Chief Scientific Officer clearly come into that category.  In contrast, Boris Johnson is and always will be an idiot but at least he's chosen to defer to greater minds on this occasion.  For the sake of the nation, let's hope he sticks to this approach.

When I stated this blog almost 12 years ago, it was intended to be a diary for the kids to look back on, as well as a channel for me to keep myself occupied between nappy changes. 

I've therefore decided to put a bit more time into it for the next few months.  My plan is to document how we Whites go about the challenges that lie ahead, whilst breaking my personal boredom in the likely absence of a social life.

I hope that's OK with you.     

Everybody’s Talking About Jamie

This was our Jamie shortly after he arrived home from the Leeds General Infirmary (LGI) last night.

He'd been there since Tuesday and you might notice that he's a bit puffy-faced.

But he had been much worse.

Yes, the boy's had an absolute shocker.

Briefly, he felt ill on Sunday, woke up with a fever on Monday and we took him straight to the drop-in session at the local GP surgery.  We waited for an hour and a half and his right eye began to close.

A trip to the LGI followed, after which he was sent home with some oral antibiotics. 

By Tuesday morning, the situation has worsened considerably.  By lunchtime, he was on a ward and hooked up to a drip.

There are no complaints from us about any of that. The medical staff dealt with the situation as they found it.

Next, he was whisked off for a CT scan.  The consultants had decided by this stage that he'd developed an abscess near his eye, hence the swelling.  However, they wanted to be sure that it wasn't behind the eye itself, which would be much more serious and probably require surgery.

The scan results came back that evening.  And guess what?  It was behind the eye.  F***.

Cue quadruple strength antibiotics and not a little worry for his mum, dad, sister and other family members.

Miraculously, by the following morning, the situation had improved beyond all expectations.  Surgery was initially delayed and then no longer deemed necessary.

A family visit followed at teatime on Wednesday and he was released 24 hours later with enough drugs to stun a stallion. 
                  

Thanks to all of Jamie's friends, Vanessa's friends and my friends who knew what was going on and were kind beyond description. 

You know who you are and we love you all.

Reassured after Wednesday's visit, Charlotte went to Brownies and returned home with a piece of dough.  It wasn't cooked, shaped or wanted and quickly landed in the bin.  But it gave her and me a laugh while her mum and brother had another sleepover at the hospital. 

The sole White family member with other things on her mind this week was Cleo the Cat whose ego and paw remains bruised after Luna the Hamster bit her.

Since then, Luna appears to have grown both in size and stature.  Cleo's stomach for the fight has gone the other way.

Hopefully next week will be less dramatic for all of us. 

It ain't over until the fat duck sings

Good day to you and, while I'm at it, a belated Happy New Year.

I haven't updated this drivel since November but I have a bit of time on my hands today and thought I might as well use it unwisely.  (I'm also watching Donald Trump's impeachment trial because I'm a sad man).

Since my last post, Cleocatra has had her baby oven removed and won't ever have the chance to become a yummy mummy or dirty stop out. (The fact that she's sticking her tongue out at me tells you what she thinks about that).

As soon as her fur has grown back, we can all put the whole episode behind us. 

We'll also let her off the lead and allow her to meet boy cats who don't want children.

Talking of children, Charlotte has had her ninth birthday.

Yup, next up for our little girl is double figures.  (I know, I know - I don't look old enough to have a daughter of that age).

We've had Christmas (hopefully you did too).

We went back to Norn Iron for New Year.

Whilst there, we even went outside. 

But inside was very much a favourite for me.

And for her.

Other than work, which I've done a lot of up to, through and since Christmas (which is a positive when you're self-employed), the other major happening in my life is The Masked Singer.

It is surely, in equal measure, the best and worst programme in the history of television.

So much so that I can barely contain my excitement before finding out who goes tonight.

I reckon it's a toss up between John Cleese, Jeremy Corbyn and Meghan Markle. 

Or maybe Kate Winslet. 

Or Buzz Aldrin. 

Or Clare Balding. 

Or Boris Becker.   

Or Greta Thunberg.

7pm.  ITV.  Be there.  (I might be early).