I’ll come clean. Childcare is an issue. For Dominic Cummings. For Lila’s mum. For me. Possibly all for different reasons. But similar outcome. Which is: social distancing is all well and good as a general, over-riding concept or principle, with good intentions and part of a deeply flawed and pretty ill-conceived plan (other countries have done sooooo much better), but, quite frankly, it ain’t for me. Or possibly; it must involve a degree of flexibility? Certain individual circumstantial controls? Whatever. What happened was: day 3 of lockdown, possibly day 2, the mother of my grandchildren called not so much in despair, more ‘on the edge’ of something. Because Lila, the most wonderful child the world has ever known or even considered could exist in any parallel universe, and Joey, the ultimate end point of human evolutionary wonder, had gone ‘to the dark side’. Not that they were bad, naughty, horrid, just… DEMANDING!!!! Constantly, incessantly and sweetly, but just… it was HARD. So we made a decision. It took approximately 12.31 seconds. We would help.

So firstly we had to socially distance, obviously. Hmmmmm. How do you do that with Joey. Who can’t walk yet but can climb his way into a thousand accidents-waiting-to-happen each hour. You can’t catch a falling baby from 2 metres. I’ve tried. They get broken. And Lila. There aren’t sufficient weapons in the world to keep me 2 metres from Lila. So that was social distancing out the window. Better that than Joey out the window.

And I appreciate I am in a vulnerable class. I have a chronic and incurable degenerative condition. It’s called ‘ageing’. But I put on a brave face, and a Captain Hook hat and run round the garden with Lilabell. As if nothing else mattered. Which it doesn’t.

So we look after the kids for part of virtually every day. Not because they need the help, even their mum’s initial panic subsided quickly and morphed into efficiency and capability. But because its the best thing ever. Playtime.

Therefore, much as Dominic Cummings is a nob and an imbecile, albeit the cleverest imbecile in the country, possibly the whole Continent, pulling the ‘childcare card’ was an instant path to empathy. So he thought. The problem being that I can flaunt rules if I choose. The only people who can’t are those who make them.

I may not be the best cook in the world. I’m certainly not the best pastry chef ever. I struggle with ready made stuff. But sandwiches? I stand alone in the world of sandwich makers. On a pinnacle.

Like this one. Because until they open the cafes and sandwich bars in the city again, I need to take food when I go into work. A challah roll, the size of a compact car. Cheese. Lots of cheese. Tomato, coleslaw. And ‘secret ingredients’. So secret I’ll tell you. Hummus, chilli mayonnaise (life changing) and Branston pickle. Oh my, but it was good.

Happy Days

A xxxx