Rosetinted

I am wondering if my sense of humour is being blighted. It just does not feel funny anymore.  Not that a global pandemic is ever funny but for some reason in the first few weeks of lockdown I felt as if I had a humour reawakening.  It could be attributed to spending more time with my children who have their own particular brand of wackiness, or maybe it's just that I had more time to find things funny. Maybe with time restrictions eased, I  didn't have to ask anyone to stop mid comedy to 'get ready' 'go out', 'put your shoes on' and all the other humour busting sayings one becomes accustomed to when busy, busy, busy. I believe in humour - a lot. I am the type of person who when upset would rather you were comic than understanding. I don't really believe we can truly understand the feelings of another, empathise, yes - but feelings (at least mine) are often descended from mystery - if you redirect my perception to something absurd then I can fre

Since Friday, time has slowed. Right. Down. To the point when each moment lasts an hour or so. I haven't really got a clue, only I was convinced for a whole day that Saturday was Sunday, that dinner was tea and up was down. I am very glad it is a long weekend because that somehow justifies my listlessness and makes inertia permissible. It is exhausting keeping up momentum when days and weeks are only punctuated, not with events, but your own internal clock and your own perception of time. This week, at least up until Friday, I have been turning my back on duties and taking up as many hobbies as I can. So far, during lockdown I have accumulated 2 or 3 new hobbies. I have always fancied myself as a dilettante, I may possibly be the best dabbler I know. It was something I took great pride in when I was younger, a stubborn belief that I could do anything if 'I just put my mind to it'.  Of course as you age things change and my belief in dabbling has been sorely tested.  I

Out of all the social media platforms, I like Instagram the best. My timeline is a collection of inspiring images, folks who like to play dress up with secondhand and vintage clothes. I like to join in and have a go too. There are, as much as we can tell on something as fanciful as Instagram, some nice folk- those who drop you an encouraging line every now and then. These little sprinkles of human interaction can lift a grey mood, or motivate you to get through a tedious task, as they say: 'every little helps'. But then as with all interaction of humankind, there is a down side. Firstly, you have to flick through the images 'at your own risk'. Other people's lives can always seem better than yours. Many people are better looking, have better clothes, nicer houses, better abdominal muscles- the list of the 'betters' can be endless. I don't really like to admit it but females are, generally, preconditioned to compare themselves with one another and i

According to some imaginary tabloid, edited by the commentators of Facebook, sometime around Christmas me and a couple of other workshy furloughers wrote a petition to the almighty Santa. We were bitter because we've worked since our teens and know that the hope of retiring when we are fit and well enough to enjoy a rest is a thing of the past. So, we asked him nicely for a break from doing something useful, the waking and the getting ready and the going out to work was getting all too much and we dreamed of a life of Netflix, solo walks and tending our window sill gardens. Luckily for us the almighty Santa came up trumps and sent some invisible, flying around things which sometimes land and make some people sick, and some really unlucky ones die...... It was a small price to pay for an elongated holiday and according to the tabloid viewpoints, a price we are willing to pay. I recognise my own facetiousness and understand that some may think, given our current crisis, I should

My boy loves films. I am his mum and because of this bias, I have secret ambitions for him to grow up and live in the film world. I see, looking through my rose-tinted spectacles: a concept artist, director or stuntman of the future. The boy understands films in a way I have not observed in other children. Before he had the skills to read, he 'wrote' films he had seen through storyboards. The boy can remember cinematography and events in a way that leave me baffled. I am not really looking at the cinematography when I watch a film, I am sucking up the feelings like a vampire. I hoover up the happys or the tragic, or the poignant and the mad. After I have finished watching a film (not even a good film) my reality can be temporarily altered, and sometimes that takes some time to recover from. My boy is less moved (unless animals are involved) and more curious in camera angle, effects, colour, composition and detail. After we have watched a film, and whilst I am still trying to

Biron is similar to someone you might know. Biron likes to live in a world where colours are muted and things move at a reasonable pace. And there is nothing regrettable about taking things slowly, and thinking.  He likes what he likes and makes no excuses for that being collections of, what other people would describe as, junk. A dour little man with arms attached to his grey, blue face with a perplexed expression. He makes his home in a crack under the kitchen cupboard, in an ordinary kitchen, in an ordinary terrace found in an ordinary street. The crack is how he likes it - although some days after wallowing in his bed, he thinks about giving it a little tidy but mostly he is content to share his home with his thoughts and collection of bits and pieces. One morning, Biron lay in his bed and mulled over the oncoming day. Apart from wallowing in his bed and drinking coffee he had no plans after that.  'What to do?'  he thought. After meticulously opening and adjusting his

One day last week, when it was particularly warm for May in England, I killed myself running up a hill. Just as I was recovering and my poor body was still feeling the effects of poorly oxygenated blood and possibly prone to hallucinations, I saw a vision.  Like many other worldly events, I felt it before I perceived it and it passed by so rapidly I had time to doubt that I had seen it at all. Before me, keeping in perfect step were a family I knew from school. They were a formidable sight, running, but with synchronized breathing, step and stride. Mum's ponytail had the correct amount of swing for such a situation, each jaw was relaxed and no tension was found in any family member's face. They ran as a unit and I was awed how closely packed they were without tripping on each others ankles. This is not a family with teens or grown up children, their ages span from the bottom to the top of primary. I felt as if I was watching a training session led by the famous Irish Catholi

We have a virus in our house. Not the virus (heaven forbid)  but a virus. We've had a sneaky and unexpected case of hand, foot and mouth. My youngest has been laid low with this usually mild, childhood viral pest. I have been a little worried, because my youngest doesn't do  ill. He usually either misses the memo or gets a mild version of whatever they're  having. This time he has been couch bound for 3 days, his legs being too sore to walk. It might be a ruse to get out of homeschooling, - but then he has been silent for 80% of the time and unless he is a master with a permanent marker those spots are conclusive evidence- it's real. Parents know that if you could spend any amount of time (theoretically) ignoring your child, the child is either not present or, what is known as, 'proper ill'. Of course my youngest wasn't ignored, I have been a dedicated nurse type character: duly dealing out paracetamol and blankets and then dutifully removing said blanket

I am currently in bed, given up on the day early (it's 8pm) with a huge pile of washing weighing annoyingly over my feet. I am too lazy to move it, but looking on the bright side; at least the clothes are clean. I wonder for a moment what lockdown is like to those who are paid, without work and without domestic work - I imagine having no such responsibilities can be quite disorientating, and could possibly be the reason why some celebrities may have lost footing with us down here on the ground. I am, on the other hand, pinned to earth - at least by my piles of ( clean , damn you!) washing. Today I had a loose list of things to do but they were all superseded by cheering up my poorly youngest - by fetching and carrying and watching two whole episodes of Doctor Who. Tidying about a bit, half-heartedly whilst dreaming for a domestic genie and trying to help my middle child plough through the work she has set for her to do from school. I think I started the day a little grey, and

Many of my days during this lockdown have been spent birdwatching. By Birdwatching I mean going about my business and seeing birds, now I know, to be a true birdwatcher you have to know what it is you are looking at, but I find my ignorance does not get in the way of my enjoyment. In my defense, I know a few species, but still the difference between a bloody lady sparrow and a dunnock eludes me. Just at the point where I feel confident it is straight within my head, I get muddled again. I am not a complete loss, side by side in picture form I can tell they are not the same bird but out in the open the fog of confusion descends... you see in real life, the darn things move. I feel a little bit of warm satisfaction everytime I look at the birds squabbling over the bird feeder, firstly because I like birds and secondly - perhaps more importantly, because I hung it up. I bought it quite a while back and it was a bugger to hang in the lilac tree, so when a storm took it down I was remis

I think I am running out of cat memes and funny tiktoks. Instagram is not providing me with the inspiration I am craving, facebook is not as whingy as it has been (so I can't rail against it)  and I have never gotten a handle on Zoom. I struggle to converse on a telephone, let alone watching humans through the witchcraft of a screen and be expected to converse with them naturally, especially when my face is pointed back at me with the full horror of pasty skin and double chins. I hate to say it, but I am falling into 'lockdown' wear and tear, 'lockdown' fatigue, 'lockdown'- I am pissing myself off. To deal with this feeling, I am thinking of writing myself a self-help book. I have a self and sometimes I try and help out that said self. My experience of this subject tells me I am more than qualified. To cope with all this upheaval and shenanigans I have developed a very good sense of denial. I know that denial may not have been a mental state spoken about