Monday
News that researchers have concluded – from what I presume ethical considerations meant was not as painful a study as it sounds – that children’s behaviour is not improved by smacking them prompted me to ring my mother.
“She’s on the roof,” said my father when he answered the phone.
“Oh. Why?”
“I don’t know. I think she wants it to be cleaner? Pointier? Armoured, if she’s planning another coup.”
“OK. Can you get her to ring me back when she’s done?”
“I can ask.”
“That’ll have to do.”
She did ring back. “What?” she said. “Be quick. I’m polishing the lawn. Now the roof’s clean, everything’s got to be done.”
“Why did you never smack me when I was little? You were always annoyed. Why did you never clout me?”
“Because,” she said, “I knew that once I’d started, I’d bloody kill you.”
If there are any research teams out there at a loose end, possibly in a criminology or forensic psychology department, could they give me a call? I may – I may have something for you.
Tuesday
I believe – from the roar that went up from the houses and flats that surround ours – that we have won some kind of football contest? Or at least part of some ongoing competition with the kickyball? It was lovely to hear the sound of communal celebration, anyway. The last time I heard the like was at university in 1997 and, although I wasn’t still up for Portillo, heard the cheers go up from the streetfuls of student digs around me.
It’s at moments like this that I do wish I were a different kind of person. One who could manage crowds, group activities, general conviviality, things en masse. But I cannot and never could. School playtimes were a nightmare, teenage discos a special circle of hell, university teams and clubs a no-no even if I’d had any sporting, dramatic or other talent to bring to them, post-drop-off coffee mornings with other mothers a simple endurance test – and so on and so on and so on through the various stage of this so-called life.
I’ve given up hoping to change now, of course. It’s just the amazing feat of one man’s tiny action – boot to ball to goal – setting off a great, collective moment of audible appreciation and delight among thousands sparked a momentary yearning. It was doused later on by the sounds of post-celebration effing, blinding and vomiting on the pavement outside, but still. But still.
Wednesday
Having previously insisted that North Korea has no Covid cases at all, its inglorious leader Kim Jong-un has just announced that, in fact, the coronavirus has caused “a grave incident” that has created “a huge crisis” in the country. Coupled with the fact that even he has lost weight, it seemed likely that his people are in the grip of every possible kind of suffering and deprivation.
Meanwhile, the town of Lytton in British Columbia recorded Canada’s highest ever temperature of 49.6C and literally caught fire the next day. Hundreds of deaths have been recorded as a result of the extreme heatwave.
Pestilence, famine, let’s say humanity’s war on the planet – that’s three. Can we hear the drumbeats of the fourth horseman yet? Is there any chance we won’t?
Thursday
This is not shaping up to be a great week for women. Few of them do, TBH, but this one … this one … You see, we wanted a Free Britney. We got – a free Bill Cosby. The former had her request to have her father removed from her (unusually long, unusually imposed and unusually strict) conservatorship denied. She had alleged in court that it extended to control of her contraception so that she could continue performing and earning millions for what is now effectively their shared estate at best.
Meanwhile, Bill Cosby, sentenced in 2018 to three to 10 years in jail for the aggravated indecent assault of Andrea Constand, after more than 60 other women spoke of their alleged experiences, covering a span of decades, of unwanted sexual contact with the actor and comedian, often after being drugged, had his conviction overturned on a technicality. He was released today. He thanks all those who stood by him during his ordeal and appears to think he has been proved innocent.
At least we’ve got the unveiling of the statue to Diana, a harmless woman literally hounded to her early death, to cheer us up.
Friday
Hurrah, hurrah – we end the week on a note of triumph, a small but sure sign that the arc of the universe bends ultimately towards justice. No, I speak not of the Batley and Spen result (though obvs, TOP WORK, B’n’Spensters!) but of the new requirement that just became law in France that doggy bags be provided to customers in all restaurants (after non-compulsory schemes designed to cut food waste failed to gain traction).
As a long-time requester of doggy bags who has been equally lengthily shamed for it by her husband, I am delighted by this development. No more need I stand accused of embarrassing thrift or vulgarity because I insist on doing what heart, logic, temperament and tastebuds dictate and not have the remainder of the delicious food someone vastly more culinarily capable than I has cooked and for which I have paid a non-negligible sum thrown with painful profligacy in the ungrateful goddamn bin. Now its retention is sanctioned by our overlords in all matters gustatory and civilisés, I can look forward to much more peaceful meals. Merci, mes amis, et bon appetit.