Well it was bound to happen sooner or later. Or even sooner rather than later. A virus / religion retirement blog. With those three key words, this offering is bound to be a big hit. But I have to admit that I’m not what you would call a religious person. I do however live with somebody (Mrs Summerhouse) who is.
A couple of nights ago when Mrs SH and I were watching the virus press-conference otherwise known as Boris, we were struck, well actually incredibly irritated, by the number of times the participants told us that something or other was being ‘ramped up’. Ramp this up, we said, offering two fingers to the screen.
But the damage was done and next morning Mrs SH informed me she was having to ‘ramp up’ her morning prayers. The number of people on the list was growing and she was having to put in another prayer shift to cover all those in need.
I checked that I was first on the list then, other than the children, I wasn’t that bothered about who else might be on the list. It would be weird for sure because that’s the way Mrs SH operates (and she’s getting weirder), but then so are the times.
It’s not vital for me to be first on the list, as I say, I’m not really religious. I think of myself as a good person, but not religiously so. I do love old churches and cathedrals. Does that count? But it never hurts at times like these to have all bases covered. And if the big guy upstairs wants to help out then who am I to say, no, I’m not religious, thanks very much.
You note I say ‘guy’ but lets’ not unnecessarily reduce our options, it could be a ‘guyess’ up there. I once had a female boss who insisted that God was a woman. I didn’t argue with her, she was cleverer than me and I hated to lose an argument. She was Head Girl when she was at school I was a mere prefect and got sacked from that for lounging against the door I was supposed to be holding open for the younger pupils to get into assembly. Harsh, but then I didn’t want to be a prefect anyway.
And, speaking of females, I remember when Mrs SH’s mother (a very devoted Catholic, the whole family were) when we first met after I started going out with her daughter and found out I was a (lapsed) Catholic, had two questions – will he come back to the church and will he get his hair cut? As was the fashion of the day, my hair was very long.
The answer to both questions was no and no. But perhaps I was wrong. If I’d kept my hair short maybe I’d have a full head of hair at this point. And if I’d ‘gone back’ to the church we probably wouldn’t be in this mess now.
Apart from religion (maybe) I think what everybody needs at times like these is a project. This used to be called having a hobby but that’s far too prosaic for these difficult times. So a project it is. Some people, like my chum, currently isolated in the Yorkshire Dales, have always had projects. His retirement is defined by projects – stone walling, making shepherd’s hut, summerhouse (no kit for him), garden arbour, etc, etc.
I have grand plans to build another shed. I know, I have more than the average person but, in these strange times, you can’t have too many sheds. You will have to read future retirement blogs to find out if this project comes to pass.
In the meantime, my project is home-based as we can’t travel up to our vineyard, which could be a problem when our new vines arrive. But that’s another story. So yes, my home project is to recover, at least in part, the first sofa we ever bought. It’s the rather battered Chesterfield in the picture at the start of this blog. We bought it before we were even married so that would be about fifty years ago. We paid £150, in 1972 I believe, from, what was then, Habitat. Ahh they were simpler times weren’t they?
I did recover it once, many years ago. I went to an upholstery evening class at a local school. We were asked to bring a piece of furniture to work on. Most people brought small chairs or stools or something similar. Not me, as my grandma used to say, you’ve always got to be different haven’t you? So I rocked up with a full-sized Chesterfield sticking out the back of our Renault estate. The tutor took it well and that’s what I worked on for the rest of that term.
It looked great when it was done, with its William Morris fabric, and for quite a few years afterwards. But now, as you can see, it needs a bit of attention. True, we could continue to cover it with blankets and cushions. The hounds, who regard it as ‘their’ sofa, don’t seem to mind it’s worn out, undulating seat and thread-bare arms, but you can’t disagree, even if they do, that it’s a perfect lock-down project.
Well it is if we can buy on-line the fabric and any other items we might need to restore it, if not to its former glory then similar. If so then we’re good to go. A slight digression which actually isn’t a digression. In these plague-ridden times I’ve been reading up on what happened in the Derbyshire (my home county) village of Eyam. Attractively know since as ‘the plague village’. I bet that helped with the tourist trade.
Point is, they were the first self-isolators before the term was even known. Locked down for sure. Unfortunately 25% of the village of 400, of them died. Being God-fearing people didn’t seem to help them much. What they didn’t know is that the plague was brought into the village by fleas living in bales of cloth from that London. So I was just wondering, if we ordered fabric for the sofa, might we be importing into our house the virus in the same way. I know it sounds unlikely but, as we keep being told, these are strange times. Just asking that’s all.
Anyway one last thought. Australia where number one son currently resides. They have had fire, flood and now plague. They must really have pissed off the guy(ess) upstairs. If this is punishment for the ball-tampering incident, then it seems harsh. Let it go, I say, forgive and forget.