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).

Fluffy cat and fluffy tunes

People who know me are well aware that I have an awful taste in music, and I make no apology for that.  (Sorry).

Last night, Vanessa and I journeyed into Leeds to watch a-ha.

For once, we even had decent seats.  (I felt it was important that Mrs W could properly compare my youthful appearance with that of lead singer Morten Harket.  He's just turned 60.  Meh).

a-ha were fabulous, to be fair.   I bought all of their albums, 12 and 7 inch singles back in the day, although my walls were reserved exclusively for posters of Madonna, Debbie Gibson, Belinda Carlisle, Bananarama and the Bangles.  (Oh, and the Communards but that was only because the female singer with the deep voice on Don't Leave Me This Way signed my programme after their gig at the Grand Opera House  in Belfast in September 1986).

In the coming weeks, I'm booked in to see Seven Drunken Nights (a Dubliners tribute show), plus the real Happy Mondays and Snow Patrol.  I've chosen not to accompany Vanessa, Charlotte and other girlies to Little Mix in a couple of weeks.  That would just be wrong.

In other news, Cleo the Cat is yet to escape and might even like living in our house.   

She's already bowled Charlotte over.

Made a new friend (herself).

(Charlotte, in her Halloween dress, did too but forgot to look behind to say boo).

Cleo also likes rugby, a definite plus.

And doesn't appear to hate my wonky feet. 

All good.           

Meet Cleocatra Frances Clara Willow White

We've got a baby cat.

Whilst we admit to giving her lots of names - the product of allowing everyone to have a say - the kitten herself has asked that we simply address her as Cleo. (She's really clever, as most cats are)

Born on 18 August 2019 and previously known as Haze, we picked her up from Bradford Cat Watch Rescue at lunchtime yesterday.  There was a big queue and we were very lucky to get her.   

When it was our turn to visit the little area where the kittens live, there were only three left.  Two were with still their mum - Cleo and her sister.  Charlotte chose Cleo, the people next in line chose her sister and her mum.  A happy outcome - hopefully - for all three.

Cleo spent much of last night surveying her new home from under the sofa.  So I slept on it to keep her company during her first few hours of darkness in Guiseley.

All was quiet until around 6am when she decided she wanted to play and, other than a couple of long sleeps during today, she has been a fluffy-faced dynamo ever since.

She's also been shockingly well-behaved.   Not only has she eaten her food and drunk her water, she has used her litter tray right from the off which I really didn't expect.  Her mum clearly trained her well, for which our carpet will be forever grateful.

And now the adventure begins.  She can't leave the house for a few months, which is why the litter tray action is so welcome.  But when it's time for her to explore the outside world, hopefully the fun she'll have had by then will convince her to come back home for her tea.

I'll keep you updated on progress.         

Pussy hunt

I've been doing a little bit of online shopping. 

In the last hour I've bought:

• One interactive cat toys set including 2-way tunnel, bell crinkle balls, sisal mouse, novelty catnip figure and feather teaser wand

• One cat litter scoop with stand

• One cat feeding bowl (with cat ears)

• One cat water bowl (with cat ears)  

• One cat soft slicker brush

• One jungle stripes design patterned scratching board with catnip

• One Trixie Paulo cat litter tray with rim (taupe/cream)

• One bag of Catsan hygiene cat litter (20 litres) 

Yesterday, Charlotte and I visited Pets at Home to pick up a cat carrier.

I also insisted on splashing out £2 for a cat advent calendar.

Yes, you've guessed it, we're getting a dog.  Sorry, cat.

We've talked about it for ages and, as a confirmed cat lover, I've always been in favour.  But Vanessa was less convinced, which was why Charlotte had to settle for a hamster some months ago. 

Unfortunately, Luna has turned out to the most boring hamster in history and her demise can't come too soon. I would imagine our new cat can probably help with that; either by eating her or playing with her in her see through hamster ball until her tiny heart gives out.  I'll keep you updated on that.

Once our purchases arrive tomorrow, we will be missing just one thing.  An actual cat.  

The plan is to tour rescue local centres at half-term and hopefully we'll find one that suits the name Theo or Kit.  Or something totally different, depending on how creative Charlotte is feeling on the big day.  The only name she has definitely ruled out is Barry (which I would have done at birth if someone had bothered to ask me).

So, fun times ahead, until he/she starts bringing dead baby birds into the house, at which point Vanessa will tell me to take it back.  But no, the cat is staying.  Hopefully for about 20 years. I suspect Luna might not see many of them.      

Two's company

We've had a couple of extended family gatherings following our return from the South-West.

Saturday's started in warm conditions but ended in the freezing cold.

Thankfully Holly came well-prepared.

The temperature held for a bit longer yesterday and star guest Guy, pictured below on the right, told a great tale.    

Guy and son Josh are over from their home in Malaysia.  And, being a Sunday, Guy fancied a bit of Holy Communion.

But when he turned up at eight o'clock yesterday morning - and waited for a bit - it became apparent that he was accompanied by just one other. 

The vicar.

Being a man of strong character, Guy didn't make his excuses and leave.  Instead, he stayed and had a personal Communion.  Just him and The Rev sharing a bit of bread and a drop of wine.  All good.

To Guy's relief, his new best mate excused him from belting out a hymn. 

Cornwall conquered

Our road trip is almost at an end.

It’s our fourth and final night in Cornwall, following seven in Devon and three in Dorset.

And do you know what? It’s just about enough.

Since Monday, Jamie has had a fine time jumping the Cornish waves.

And harassing the Cornish crabs.

Whilst Charlotte, as is a lady’s prerogative, has enjoyed doing as little as humanly possible.

Often going to exteme lengths to avoid forward movement.

The sights have been tremendous.

The food has been good.

And the drink has been plentiful.

They’ve also made new friends, including two from Otley who they plan to meet up with back in Yorkshire.

A staycation might not be to everyone’s taste, especially when the weather isn’t kind. But we planned it, we went for it and we’ve thoroughly enjoyed it.

The two-day journey home begins tomorrow morning. And new adventures await.

Looking pasty in Cornwall

Greetings from a field in Bude which you may be aware is in Cornwall rather than Devon where we spent the past week.

You can tell we’ve moved because the rain has a slightly different taste (thankfully it wasn’t raining earlier).

Our final three days in Woolacombe saw the kids reach new heights.

Including this...

...and this.

Thankfully both were safely tethered to ropes at all times.

They also had an hour each harassing a pony.

And Jamie indulged in a bit of hardcore bodyboarding.

We went shopping yesterday in a lovely little town called Ilfracombe where Jamie stumbled across a mini-electric guitar which he now plans to restore to its former glory.

He played it the whole way to the car just like The Edge in the “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” video.

Against our better judgement, we chanced the camp entertainment on both of our last two nights.

And it doesn’t get more camp than this.

Last night’s main event was two nice chaps playing tunes on strings, including an electric mandolin.

Jamie was almost as excited as I was and he’s now thinking of asking the Norn Iron wing of his family circle to buy him one for Christmas.

And with that, Devon was done and the caravan left behind at 10am today.

Our new home for the next four nights is another tent.

Unlike in the caravan, we have to share these with the other guests.

But, hey, we’re still on holiday and - unlike in our caravan - we don’t have to provide our own bog roll.

Laters.