Swings and Roundabouts

I open the lounge door and see that my eldest daughter has the yoga program on that she loves. Gone are the early, enthusiastic lockdown days. She is curled up in fetal position under a blanket on  the sofa, watching her yoga class happily from a distance, horizontally. I empathise with her. And while she is happy, I have learnt not to disturb her unless it’s absolutely necessary. Spread out the activities, we’ve got time. Kettle goes on, tea brewed up and I potter outside on to the patio in the sunshine.

Leant up against the wall is my new bike. I haven’t had a bike in many years and now I do. My parents (whilst maintaining an acceptable level of social distance) gifted me an old, used one. I ordered a new brake cable online and realise it has been delivered. The delivery driver has left it behind the dead, brown Christmas tree that is still next to our recycling bin. So (the royal) we fix it up on the patio. The bike not the Christmas tree.

I am so excited to try out this new bicycle contraption once it is fixed, that I immediately jump on it and bounce it off the patio on to the lawn. I wibble and wobble precariously but I finally find my footing and off I go! Glorious, exuberant riding round in joyful circles on the lawn! Well, approximately one and a half circles, until I lose my balance and try to stop my self falling forward with my feet scraping on the spiky metal pedals. But, the problem is, I was so excited about this new quarantine activity that I carelessly did not adorn sensible footwear. Story of my life dear reader. I lunge forward and manage to stop myself, clumsily dragging one foot off the pedal and on to the ground and managing to catch the bike before it falls sideways. I am making sounds similar to those you make when you stub your toe or stand on a plug and my husband is watching me with an expression of desperation and amusement.

I limp inside, my ego and foot equally bruised.

“I’m fine! I’m fine! I’M FINE.” I say to myself in the comfort of the lounge. I sit down and wince, it is then that I see a decent amount of fresh red blood on the underside of my sock. I am somewhere between slight panic and also feeling smug that my dramatic show (which went largely unnoticed) in the garden is now justified. When I remove the sock I realise I probably should ask for assistance - I won’t go in details for those of you that are squeamish but it looks as though someone has taken a cheese slice to my foot. “Please can you help me?!” I call, but my husband obviously thinks I just want him to make me a cup of tea and so takes his sweet time. With slightly more urgency this time “Help!” He reluctantly enters at a snails pace and takes a look at my foot. “Oh Jesus. How the heck have you managed that?” A quick rummage through the first aid kit and a call to my Mum, a retired nurse, and Husband is on his way out to the pharmacy. He returns with steri-strips and we douse the wound with TCP, which has come in to its own during lockdown. My eldest daughter walks in half way through him dressing it and stares open-mouthed “Oh... Wow. Mummy.” When you shock a four year old you know you have really achieved something.

I message my Mum later saying that my husband thinks I am ridiculous but is taking good care of me. I say to her that I foolishly told him, just before I took off on the bike, words I will live to regret: “My Mum used to ride a trike with all four of us on, casually. So if Mum used to do that I can ride a bloody bike on my own, thank you very much, it’s in my genes!” My Mum replies and says “Yes. But I did used to wear shoes.”

I mean, I am probably making it sound quite dramatic. Most nurses would probably take one look at it and deem it to be a paper cut. But I cannot walk on it for a while and have to keep it dry.  After two days of not showering I feel it is important to the break the cycle (badam-tssss) for the benefit of my housemates. I put on a tight fitting sock and then attach a plaggy bag to my foot, securing it with a scrunchie round my ankle. This is a fool proof idea, I think. Until about three and a half minutes in to my shower when I am slipping around like Bambi on ice, flailing naked with a plastic bag on my foot; a sight to behold. With shampoo stinging my eyes I look down and the plastic bag is completely filled with water. I take a photo and message it to my sisters.

After a few days of convalescence I realise it is time to get back on the literal bike. I enthusiastically try to persuade my eldest daughter to come with me. She is slightly less enthusiastic than I am, I wonder if the foot incident has put her off, and after an hour of trying (and failing) to get her hair exactly like Dashi from Octonauts, finding the exact toy she wants to sit on her mini bike seat behind her own, finding and putting her shoes on (repeated three times) and fitting her helmet, we arrive at the pavement in front of our drive. She says “Yep, that was a great ride. Thanks Mummy. I think I’m going to go and do some crafting now.”

I eventually set off on my own. I don’t think I’ve ever felt my arse this bony before, the seat like a lightly cushioned brick, ramming me in the rear over every bump. Apart from cyclist crotch, it is actually really lovely. I cycle out from the village down a quiet single track country lane, the fields rolling out in front of me. Horses happily grazing in their fields. I think of all the things I’ve read that advise we mustn’t put pressure on ourselves during this time to do everything and be everything and try all the things. But actually I am a much better person when I am doing all things. When I am still for too long, I think too much. I am an over-thinker by trade. I need people and activities to keep me and my mind busy. I am missing my family and friends a lot, as I am sure others are too, and because I won’t be working for a little while now I need to keep myself busy whilst also keeping myself out trouble/A&E.

Some days I just don’t have the energy and I forgive myself. Some days I do and I go absolutely bonkers on the house or the garden or the bike or the wine. Some days we are all climbing the walls and crying by bedtime, some days we lay on the grass in total bliss eating ice cream and laughing until a little bit of wee comes out, some days we learn a lesson about our physical abilities, some days we manage to plough on regardless. Lockdown swings and roundabouts innit.

I know that some days I am scraping the barrel, particularly today when the veggie box came and the Greengrocers had included an Aubergine. Who knew that it would bring me so much joy? Dancing around my kitchen to “Freedom” by George Michael whilst wearing a face mask, trying to (unsuccessfully) eat a sausage roll, whilst waggling the aubergine around in a questionable place on my body. Do not fear, there were no children present to witness this. But my husband catches sight of me and tells me that I look fairly disturbing, through his laughter. Some days you just have to do what you feel in the moment. Even if you end up covering a Garnier face mask in pastry and horrifying your partner with a phallic vegetable and a manky foot. Just go with it.