With Apologies to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named

St Thomas’s has discharged BoJo, yet the course of UK politics never did run smooth, as Housing Secretary Robert Jenrick joins a lengthening list of moronic ministers flouting their own lockdown laws. They say Covid-19 is society’s greatest leveller, but I can’t help thinking that life must be a tad trickier for those self-isolating in high-rise tower blocks and bedsits than for the UK’s rich and famous waltzing around in their second-home luxury pads. Having said that, as the nation waited with bated breath for Prince Charles to emerge from quarantine two weeks ago, my heart did go out to Wills and Kate. Nothing can be more stressful than the prospect of a premature takeover of the family firm.

Back at home, my loyal readers will be surprised to hear that, prior to Easter Sunday, my slovenly sloth of a sister, in topical fashion, was miraculously resurrected from the dead, and the two of us showcased our support for the NHS in a 5km Run (/Jog) For Heroes. Puffing and panting on the front lawn afterwards, the thought did cross my mind that the Coronavirus campaign could backfire, and we might all end up exerting further pressure on the health service as half the country goes into cardiac arrest.

An Easter Sunday quiz via Zoom was undoubtedly the highlight of Holy Week’s family festivities, despite the first hour of the 3hr45min affair being spent coaching our grandparents through a step-by-step guide to sending pictorial evidence of their answers across to the adjudicators. The correlation between this somewhat testing ordeal and the simultaneous worsening of one uncle’s Covid-19 symptoms remains under debate. Aside from the Old Amersham Slam Dunkers’ narrow tie-break defeat, it was, however, all going swimmingly until another uncle exploited the virtual gathering to ask about my love life in front of our entire extended family. There’s nothing better than a good dose of Easter embarrassment, with a dollop of temperamental Wi-Fi and consequential lag time on the side. In answer to my uncle’s question, it would perhaps be going better if my father, a.k.a. Mr. Count-On-Me-To-Cramp-Your-Style, were to take a break from interrupting evening phone calls at 22:00 to tell his 21-year-old daughter that it’s ten minutes past her bedtime. I can only apologise to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Speaking of romance, a binge-watch blitz of Netflix’s ‘Love Is Blind’ marks a new milestone in my dangerously dramatic degeneration to isolation idleness: a shameful 11 hours of my life I shall now tragically never reclaim. Loss of taste is the latest Covid symptom to be reported by the Press, and so I’ll hold my hands up and admit that perhaps it’s time to be tested.

Suggestions of loss of smell made by King’s College London researchers are comparatively more appealing; after three weeks trapped in lockdown with two fetid teenage brothers, I’m tempted to take one for the team and sign up to participate in a Coronavirus clinical trial. The two ogres in question are now suffering from what can only be described as boarding school dormitory withdrawal symptoms; a build-up of excess testosterone three nights ago led the 17-year-old to ruin what was, up until that point, a relatively civilised family affair, when he decided it was an overwhelmingly good idea to spear tackle my mother into the sisal carpet. Following heavy punishment, said hormones are now being channelled into a daily garden weights training session instead – luckily for the neighbours, with blasting Survivor soundtrack and all. If Matt Hancock is in need of any further manpower for his so-called ‘Herculean effort’, I’m more than happy to offer him up as tribute.

Here’s praying that virtual schooling will provide some respite, as computers must be up and running from tomorrow morning, and Roll Call at 8:30 a.m. means that the adolescent animals will hopefully be locked away for most of the day. First lesson up in the painstakingly tailored Sixth Form Leavers programme, ‘School of Life’, is ‘How to Make an Omelette’, providing parents with the much-needed reassurance that not a drop of their monetary investment will be going down the drain during these unprecedented times. I can’t help thinking that, in the midst of Waitrose’s current egg-shortage crisis, perhaps focusing on alternative life skills would be just a tad more appropriate. Hairdressing is my personal proposal, as Britain’s Barber shutdown has revealed the nation’s male population to be curiously limited to a three-part offering of Coronavirus Cuts: the mullet, mohawk, or, most offensive of all, the royally butchered buzz cut.

It’s time to wrap things up, as my mother is using this week to decorate our dining room, and I’m being called upon to choose between 50 shades of white. For any university students like me, feeling ever so slightly closer to being driven (foot down, F1 car) up the wall, I recommend breathing in, breathing out, and then eating your weight in Easter eggs. As the Italians say, ‘Andrà tutto bene’. Stay safe, please subscribe, and feel free to make any suggestions for future blogs in comments below. Scope for new material during a global lockdown is somewhat narrow ...

Charlotte x