The Little Bubble

Him: “I’m doing scrambled egg.”

Me: “Why are you doing scrambled? We all want dippy.”

Him: “Because dippy are more of a faff.”

Me: “Well they are not really are they?”

Him: “They are and I’m just doing scrambled.”

Me: “Right. I’m just going to make them then. I fancy bacon too anyway.”

Him: “What are you doing bacon for? We definitely don’t need bacon. You don’t have to cook pork with every meal you know?”

Me: “Pork is a very versatile meat. I love pork.”

[An old friend sends me a message mid-quarantine. We used to live together and now live at opposite ends of the country: “A local caterer that I'd never heard of before has started a delivery service here: "Pig-casso's" Lots of smoked locally sourced pork dishes including something called Don't Go Bacon My Heart. Pulled pork, smoked bacon, baconnaise, spring onions on fries! Made me think of your love of a good menu and pork. Glad to read you're all keeping well.” It makes me smile, one to get a message from a friend and two because, well, the pork thing. It’s one thing being renowned for natural beauty, or your secret chess talent or exceptional flexibility; but love of pork? Yep, that’ll be me, eating a sandwich in the corner and murmuring “Mmmm, bacon.”]

Eventually we settle on dippy eggs and bacon. Proud face.

Shortly after, I attempt to do a sunrise yoga class with the girls. However my husband is suddenly nowhere to be seen and trying to do a downward dog after dippy eggs and bacon, with a toddler sat on your back riding you like a pony, does not make for a zen experience, reader. It is the cherry on the cake when my eldest daughter says “Mummy, did you know you are nearly as big as the rug?” I nod and say “Yes, thank you sweetheart.” with a fixed smile, as the toddler dangles off my neck like a giggling, petite version of Tarzan. The yoga gets turned off shortly after this, all of us secretly grateful.

Despite lots of little moments like these, we have a lovely week together, in our little bubble. By the end of the Easter weekend the garden is looking like we could enter it at the Chelsea Flower Show and the house looks like a squat/Tracy Emin installation.

The outside world seems like a very scary place and we do not leave the house unless we really need to. I know that some people are choosing not to read the news or are limiting their social media use but I have always been a reader and like to feel connected with the outside world so I continue. I notice a shift. A shift for good and for bad. More people joining forces, doing positive stuff. But also, a local community page starts to become overrun with negative commentary about how many walks people are going on, jostles in the supermarket and the price of broccoli. Complaints about others increase. I see anger and fear starting to play out in people’s interactions with one another.

[After the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School the Huff Post shared a quote from The Mister Rogers Parenting book which went viral: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”]

“Look for the helpers” I think. Whenever there are moments of desperation in our world there will always be people helping. Our helpers are everywhere in the outside, from the community groups rallying round to get supplies to the vulnerable, to the farmers, butchers and greengrocers slogging away to keep people fed, to our Social Workers trying to keep children and families safe, to our NHS workers who consistently put themselves in danger to get people well and keep people alive, teachers working in schools and from home, to name just a few. My heart aches when I see the accounts of these incredible people giving their everything for others. And we are in a bubble, doing the only thing we can do, which is: Stay At Home.

During my week off work the news reports that this thing does not discriminate, we see different people at press conferences and we watch the numbers and graphs ticking over and rising upwards. I hug my children a bit tighter, I am constantly reminded how lucky we are. I think of the helpers.

On the final night of our little holiday at home, we pitch the tent, fill it with bedding and have a pretend night away camping. I grill bananas with chocolate buttons in the middle and we drink warm tea and milk in our sleeping bags. My husband is knackered from building our Chelsea Flower Show entry and so opts to stay in the house for a comfortable nights sleep in his own bed. I plough forward with The Chuckle Brothers. At 7:46pm I video call my husband and ask him to evict the toddler who is alternating between dive bombing my head and trying to escape “I want to play in the garden, Mummy. Is it daytime Mummy?” A few minutes later, toddler evicted by an exhausted husband, me and my daughter snuggle down in our sleeping bag whispering our secrets to each other like two happy maggots, listening to the birds and the wind. We are so lucky, I think. “Mummy?” my daughter says, as our eyelids are becoming heavy. “Yes?” I murmur. “I thought of another secret.” She says. “Amazing.” I say “I’d love to hear it.” It comes out in a tiny whisper: “Yesterday, when we were making pizzas, I crept up to the kitchen side and I sneaked a bit of chorizo off. I took it out in to the garden and I ate it all by myself.” She cannot see me but I am smiling from ear to ear. “That is another really good one.” I say. My friend would enjoy this pork related secret.

I snuggle down in my sleeping bag some more, how can staying at home make you so tired, I think, my eyes closing again. I am aware of the bigger picture, it’s enough to stop you in your tracks. But I evict it out of the tent like my toddler, just for one night.