…who ends up in hospital during a world health pandemic, but not, obviously, for Coronavirus…
Updated: Mar 30
The Lock Down: day 2. It didn’t start well.
06:10 he brought Beryl in. I’d slept in the spare room in fear of cough catching / spreading but naturally couldn’t sleep so was still wired at midnight. Drowned night nurse which kicked in around 1am so I finally got off but of course I was in a drugged like coma when she was thrown on me. Gave her hand cream to amuse her while I attempted 5 more mins kip.
06:13 Hand cream everywhere including on my eye lids. Take it off her and World War 3 begins.
06:30 She wants to sit on the loo. HURRAH here we go, she’s ready to get out of nappies.
06:45 after 12 mins of stories on the bog and 60 seconds sat on the potty, she waited till I turned my back to grab her a t-shirt and pissed on the floor.
9am THANK GOD FOR JOE WICKS. She attempted to join in, even did some squats but more importantly I jumped my way through his PE lesson and my mood was instantly lifted.
10am Went on our one and only exercise outside – we walked to the post box at the top of the road. It was eerie – proper ghost town. Took her half an hour to do a 2minute journey but who cares we got some sunshine and spent the following hour playing in the garden.
1130 I stick Beryl in her high chair and go to put her lunch on. For some reason I decide now would be the best time to unscrew the oven door. Why? It’s a good question. Basically, no matter how much I clean it, it doesn’t look any better because there are smear marks inside the glass panels. So, a quick unscrew would separate the glass, I’d then wipe it down while she ate and bobs your uncle, fanny's your aunt; a clean oven. Took 5minutes to work out the screwdriver – his weird clicky thing that blew my mind. Sorted that and unscrewed it. Now, the screws were on top – i.e. on the inside of the oven door. I naturally assumed that I would then lift the inner lid off. Only it wouldn’t lift. I took a knife to it to prize the top off. It worked only not quite how I imagined. Instead of the top coming off, the bottom did. And that heavy mother fucker landed directly on top of my foot.
Oh yes. On top of my un-shoed foot.
I went a tiny bit mental. Sat down and said to Beryl in a very high-pitched tone. Ok then darling, that’s fine, I have another perfectly good one. Let’s just take your peas out the freezer pop them on there and not tell anyone what just happened ok. Ok? Ok darling? Ok darling mummy is going to just scream into this towel for a tiny second darling ok? Yes. Ok now that’s done. Right, ok let’s make your dinner. And with that I promptly collapsed on the floor.
Ok. A slight black out but nobody panic. Except Beryl who shits herself, thankfully not literally. I grab her, walk into the office / bedroom. He takes one look at my white, manic face, at her sobbing wreck of a head and ends his call.
I burst into very dramatic tears.
And off we go.
To the hospital. On day 1 of the actual first legit lock-down where every man and his dog are telling you not to go anywhere near an NHS site. OF COURSE. (And no, no it’s not broken. I should be pleased at this news however feel slightly annoyed as now everyone will assume, rightly so, that I was being completely over the top).
And there goes the start of the sober lockdown.