MY LAST VISIT WITH MY GRANDCHILD
My first thought when Saturday’s chaotic lockdown press conference finally tottered on to the TV networks was: “There goes Guy Fawkes’ night.”
We’d planned a family fireworks party in the back garden for tonight – the first time we’d be celebrating with our little grandson, Kit. Last year wasn’t a success – I lit a rocket for him and he reacted as if it was an incoming V2.
But this year he’s big enough to enjoy the party (yes, yes, we’d abide by the rule of six, hot dogs at three paces, etc). I’d even bought the frankfurters that very morning – Selfridges’ finest – and ordered the largest rockets I could lay my hands on.
All for nothing, now. Maybe we could have a delayed display next month, but do you think Lockdown, The Sequel will spool out on December 2 as promised by the PM? No, me neither.
Phone calls were made,
cancellations issued. Disappointment (I do a good pyrotechnic display, even if I say so myself) was only exceeded by shared fury at the reasons given for another month of house arrest, meaning our weekly visit to or from Kit is forbidden territory.
And then, yesterday, I had a light-bulb moment. Rule of six would be good until midnight. So launch the rockets and light the Roman candles a day early!
See our grandson for the last time until God knows when. Not to mention our grown up children. Yes, we can Zoom each other over the coming weeks but it’s the real-face-to-face family connectivity that is being sacrificed on the hallowed altar of Covid.
Family are on their way as I write. Cheesy baked potatoes oven-ready, mulled wine on the stove. Only one thing left to do. Whose printed-out face to pin on the Guy: Whitty’s, or Vallance’s?