Different strokes
Never mind the family pet, my stay-athome beard is getting the most attention
The beard is now so thick that I’ve taken to combing it. But not just first thing in the morning, to neaten it up. I’m now doing it on and off throughout the day. I barely even notice I’m doing it. It’s become a habit, the way some people bite their fingernails or pick their nose. I’ll be sitting on the sofa, watching TV, while absentmindedly running a comb through my beard, as if I were stroking the family pet.
It has been put to me, by more than one reader, that lockdown does not in fact necessitate the growing of a beard. I may not be able to cut my own hair, but surely I am capable of shaving.
This is true, but it overlooks the real value of the lockdown beard – which is that it serves as a kind of visual record. One day, when I’m showing my grandchildren photos from this extraordinary period, I will immediately be able to tell when each picture was taken, simply by looking at the size of my beard in it.
“Ah, yes,” I’ll be able to say. “Just stubble in this one. This must have been the first week of lockdown.” And: “Quite shaggy here. This would have been me in the second month.” And: “Much bushier in this one. Now, let me think: was this taken in the fourth year, or the fifth?”
I feel bad for theatres. Until a vaccine is found, it’s going to be hard for them to get back on their feet.
To comply with social distancing, I suppose there could be a boom in oneman shows. Then again, the Government might insist they be watched by one-man audiences. Hopefully in time, it will be possible to allow at least some people back in – even if they are made to sit miles apart. (“I’m taking my girlfriend on a romantic date. Got two tickets for the new Stoppard. I’m having the seat in the circle, and she’s having the one in the stalls.”)
Still, one good thing should come of it. Your view will no longer be obscured by the man in the row in front. Because there won’t be one.
My son often finds it hard to sleep in warm weather, – which, of course, means we do, too. Some nights he sleeps through as normal, but on others he’ll wake us up to ask for something: a drink of water, a lighter blanket, a different teddy.
One recent request, however, was a bit puzzling. The other morning, at half five, I was woken with an urgent cry of “Dada!”
“Yes?” I said, stumbling through to his room.
“I want breakfast,” he said. “But first, can I have a bit more sleepytime?” He then fell straight back to sleep.
I’ll be able to say, ‘Quite shaggy here. This would have been me in the second month’