Report 9: Day 8

Alcohol units: 95 (worryingly close to triple-figures)

Showers: 4

Facial hair: Rasputin-like

Jogs: 0

Cat: 0 (MIA)

Dog: 1

Wife: 1

Kids alive: 3

Potatoes: 5kg full…5 chopped and diced.

Father-in-laws: 1

Easter Eggs: 12 (may need restocking...)

Dear Diary,

Normally weekends would be something to look forward to. A casual lie in... maybe out to mates for a braai later...maybe draw the long straw and make the wife take the kids to any birthday parties that maybe going on; but now? Now Saturday feels like a very underwhelming Tuesday at best! And it’s only been 8 days in lockdown!

I remember in the days of BV (Before Virus) the weekend would start Friday morning; Gareth Cliff would scream "It’s the WEEKEND BAAAAABYYYYYY.!" and that was it! Game on.

Now every morning feels like the night after Phuza Thursday...with a bunch of “Zoom” meetings to climb through while still in your 'jarmies...

Look I am grateful on the one hand to be saving 5 Million bucks a week in kids birthday party gifts (since when did we hit an average R200 a gift?...for 8 year old’s!) but oddly right now I wouldn’t say no to an hour or more at that Rush trampolining spot, surrounded by over-sugared up kids, drinking crap watered down juice from paper cups while I wonder how much birthday cake I can consume while remaining polite.

I have a formula for this BTW:

1 Slice:

Polite and shows the mom that you are impressed with her baking skills...but 1 is never enough is it?

2 Slices:

My average and normally acceptable in polite company but very dependent on size of cake, number of kids...and other parents watching you – a delicate ratio to balance.

3 Slices:

My ideal - but requires skill; there is always the Birthday child's "Granny" eyeing you suspiciously. The "BG" (Birthday Granny) is nearly always sitting down, due to age, and always to be found somewhere close to the food spread – the oldies love a good graze; She may not be mobile as it’s her "day out" and she is “tired already”, but at the same time she is very, very sentient and incredibly "judgy" on the victuals being eaten and by whom.

My "go to" plan while being watched by the BG, is always to go all-in and confidently so. You cut a third slice on a new plate and say loudly but to nobody in particular..."oh I am sure he would enjoy this..." , then walk meaningfully away from the table in the apparent search of child. Find a quiet corner and job done.

The Dog has officially given up; no matter how much I explain that if she wants a walk she must talk to Ramaphosa (his idea not mine on the “no walk-front”), she just stares me down; I swear when I walk away from her I can hear her saying, ”Okay, bye Felicia”. She is lucky she is not in the shed with Raymond; we don’t need that Kardashian-level of attitude round here right now; especially from pets.

Wife still being overly nice; I know it’s her birthday relatively soon but it’s still a little early to be turning on the charm? Besides, the way we are going with the lockdown (rumors on various WhatsApp groups it might be extended) her birthday maybe spent at home, opening whatever’s left of the Easter Egg stash. (reminder to self to stock up on some fancier chocolates from Woolies just in case – I have no idea when this will end, and I need to look like I was ready for it).

Project Mother Russia update:

Poppie was primed and ready for action; I had written down the first steps of potato instructions for him, and over the next few days will add to the list. I figured I would not overload him with information upfront but rather pass on what needs to be understood at each stage. First step is just peeling, dicing and then adding the chopped bits into the pressure cooker – simple enough but we can’t afford any mistakes…potato rations are thin at best and actual alcohol stocks are thinner; we literally need to “flatten the curve” on the drinking front until we can resupply via the distillery.

I downloaded a one hour “snoring mix” to my phone this morning, to play through the Alexa speaker now installed in Poppies room – its honestly incredible what you can find on the internet when you need it?

Once I had made a show of “checking in on him” to the wife and family, I would sneak Poppie through the backdoor where he will make his way to the “distillery” (shed). I then will turn on the snoring mix, pipe it via bluetooth to the speaker, and proclaim to the litter that everybody should be quiet as poor Poppie is sleeping and he needs his rest.

Gave Poppie one half of number 2 sons “Iron Man” walkie set. I have kept the second unit; this will ensure that we are in constant and secure communication – I would have used WhatsApp but frankly I don’t trust Poppie to mistakenly post messages to family group or worst still the Pinelands Neighborhood watch group…that would end us very quickly.

Poppies call sign is “Starsky”, he was a big fan of the 70’s detective series and I am “Sundance” (he’s also a R. Redford fan); I let him choose and frankly not too disappointed; could have been worse…not sure I would have been comfortable with my father in law calling me “Butch” every 10 minutes.

At 1pm we actioned the plan. Quite nerve wracking to be honest, and as Poppie disappeared into the garden, dressed in slippers and my full-length winter coat, I did question pretty much everything. But 40 seconds later the Iron Man radio squawked with “Starsky” radioing his arrival at the ground zero, Poppie having gone into full military mode.

“Starsky to Sundance…the eagle has landed…the eagle has landed…over.” I tried to reply but he hadn’t taken his finger off the button (we practiced this!) so there was no way for him to hear me.

What it did mean however was that I was now tuned into what I can only describe as something out of Netflix’s Tiger King.

Despite warning Poppie that Raymond was still in the shed, in his nervousness of getting through the door unseen, it had slipped his mind.

Poppie later told me that as he came through the door, Raymond had seized his chance to escape; reacting with the lightening reflexes of a 70-year-old, Poppie slammed the door before Raymond could through. Raymond for his part had twisted mid-air to avoid slamming into the now closing door and managed to catch the end of his tail in it as it shut. Letting out an intensely loud feline scream (I had to lower the volume of on my Iron Man radio) Raymond had taken this as an act of war against his civil liberties and went into full on attack mode. The sounds were bloodcurdling – Poppies not Raymond’s.

Poppie ended up fighting a clawing Raymond off and only managed to escape the onslaught by opening the door and letting him go. Poppie had suffered a number of scratches to his head, something he said would have been far worse had he not been wearing my full-length winter coat, a positive if you are looking for one.

Once the dust had settled, “Starsky” reported into HQ via the radio all was okay, he was a little beat up but could carry on the mission (dicing potato’s), the cat however was gone; an added complication was that due to Poppies cat allergies he was now sneezing almost uncontrollably and not able to fully see what he was doing, as his eyes were itchy and welling up. He had managed to find a pair of the kids diving goggles which helped somewhat and was now breathing through a snorkel, but conditions were less than ideal.

I recalled “Starsky” back the house and snuck the sneezing septuagenarian back to his room to recover; the wife is now back to worrying about her Father and his potential Corona Virus infection as he has not stopped sneezing (loudly) for the past hour and half; this, despite me smuggling him 3 antihistamines and a half jack of Bells.

No word on Raymond’s disappearance (2nd one in 2 weeks if that is possible!?) but I am hoping he headed straight home; pretty sure we will find out soon via Mrs. B’s daughter.

Poppie is now sleeping (no need for a recorded snoring mix – he is doing just fine live!) and I plan to spend the rest of the evening refining the plan of attack for tomorrow…we have half the potatoes diced but we are one day behind and down a cat!

RH