Stretching it in pursuit of a topic of conversation other than the obvious

CONVERSATION on the pandemic was wearing thin. Young Persephone had confided earnestly how, once her school is closed on account of covad19, she intends to spend her time building a new on-line dating site for teens. In vain did we try to persuade her that she might be better employed studying for her Leaving Cert. She was having none of it, convinced that the exams will be postponed until after Christmas, while her pal Ethna needs a boyfriend immediately.

Hermione had shared a recipe for a home-made, virus-busting hand gel. She intends concocting a blend of cider vinegar, aloe vera extract and gin, once the real thing is no longer available in the shops because of all the panic buying. My fingers began to itch in irritation at the mere thought of it.

Her Majesty, the mother-in-law, had spoken about how she was trying to keep a distance of a metre or more away from members of the public. She felt that this was useful preparation for what lies ahead as hand-shaking and other casual physical contact is outlawed. The one metre rule worked well around the chilled food cabinets and the vegetable section, she reported. However, the regal trip to the supermarket lasted an hour longer than usual as other customers spotted the gap and barged ahead of her at the checkout, leaving her perpetually at the back of the queue.

We had laughed at that. We had laughed at the notion of making face masks from re-cycled egg cartons. We had laughed as we pointed out that, if Ethna is self-isolating, then intimacy with the new boyfriend will be confined to social media. Then we had stopped laughing as we contemplated the likelihood, next to stone cold certainty, that people we know will die as a result of the coronavirus. Maybe someone in this very room will not survive. It was time to turn to lighter, brighter topics.

‘ There’s a grand stretch in the evenings,’ observed our Eldrick idly, in a light-hearted attempt to divert the company from descent into gloom. His remark immediately prompted resumption of laughter, much to his puzzlement. The oldies explained that ‘grand stretch in the evenings’ is a phrase associated in the minds of his elders with a long deceased neighbour.

No sooner was January under way than the lady next door would call across the fence in the back garden: ‘ There’s a grand stretch in the evenings.’ It became one of the signals marking the progress of the calendar, like the call of the cuckoo or the migration of the geese or the digging of the parsnips. The woman would be standing there in the drizzly gloom, a duffel coat on over her housecoat, her pet terrier whining to be let back into the warmth of the house, not a leaf to be seen anywhere in her flower beds, up to her ankles in grey mud. And all she could think of to say was ‘ there’s a grand stretch in the evenings’.

We moved on to air other indicators that spring is on the way. I, for instance, revealed that I had dusted off my mashie and my niblick, with a view to playing the first round of golf of the year. I also stated that, with temperatures rising, I had discarded my trusty work-shirt while preparing seed beds in the Side Garden, in favour of a skimpy tee-shirt.

‘Your work-shirt?’ mused Hermione. ‘You mean the shirt you bought in 1995 that makes you look like a backwoods serial killer?’ Yes, Hermione, that shirt. I made a mental note not to put that shirt in the laundry basket for fear that my favourite garment might ‘accidentally’ shrink in the wash. My beloved is clearly not a fan of vintage work wear.

In our discussion of the harbingers of spring, we spoke of the great kick-off in the League of Ireland. We spoke of how ingenious strawberry growers have devised ways of having fruit for sale in time for Easter. We spoke of how the pigeons are cooing and bulbs are flowering. Longer days, hosts of daffodils, warmer afternoons, sporting events. Any other signs that winter is on its way out? We paused and the right on cue came a familiar tinkling sound - the ice-cream van.

Now there was sure-fire confirmation that summer is not so very far off. Or maybe Mister Wippee is trying to drum up some turnover before the coronavirus confines him to barracks.