HIGH-SPEED PHONE CHARGING

I don't have much in the way of predictions for the future, but here's one I think would be a winner:

High-speed phone charging.

Your phone's on 3%, you need to leave the house but you also need to make an urgent call. Your battery pack's out of charge too, and all you can do is pick between being late, or that important call dropping out after the first minute. What do you do?

That seems like a common scenario for me. I'm not too great at forward planning. Anyway, all your problems would be over with the Instant Phone Charger. Just plug it straight in and your phone zips up from 3% to 93% in seconds. Boom, job done.

How would it work? Well it would have to deliver a massive amount of charge very quickly - so that will probably make it dangerous - it sounds dangerous. But it's not like we don't already have high voltage sockets in the house - they're dangerous enough aren't they? So it could be done, couldn't it?

Now, I'm not technically au fait with the obstacles that need overcoming here. Possibly there's the small issue that phone batteries might blow up. But surely that can be sorted? I mean some sort of failsafe that stops a high-speed charger working if the phone already has over 97% battery? I mean, come on boffins, it's been fifty-odd years since you put a man on the moon, surely this is easy!

Anyway. That's my thought for the day. I'm off out now.

At least, I would be...

ABSENCE, TEA-TIMING, AND ANTIMACASSARS

So, what's new? 

I just caught a glimpse of my reflection and realised that I'm currently sporting the hair of a Victorian scullery maid.

It's longer than it should be at the back (blame lockdown, but also me for not going to the hairdresser yet) and then it's also flat from where I've been wearing a baseball cap all day. The result of flattening it, is that it's gone sort of straight and tight, as though it's been pulled back into a bob - only the bob isn't a tied bob, it's just the natural way my scruffy hair has fallen at the back of my head.

There ought to be a master of the house I'm curtseying for while he sternly replaces the miniatures and ornaments to their neatly arranged plinths and pillars before tutting about the state of the antimacassars on the back of the stiff velvet upholstery.

What else is new? I recovered. My arm's still a bit sore, and I had to navigate Borg HQ to register the afternoon I took off sick. It seems you need two degrees and an enchanted map - just to find the bit of the system where you do that. In the end, I had to contact HR who basically told me it was easier for them to do it for me.

I raised an eyebrow at that. When booking absence and registering expenses are the two most difficult things to do in your personnel system, it might not be a coincidence.

What else? Not much. I've worked out that a single heaped teaspoon of Ceylon tea tastes best with a 90 second brewing time... That's been a process of trial and error. I'd show you the spreadsheet, but I doubt you'd all be interested. Don't judge, tea-people: I am allowed to like weak tea. I like it to pour golden from the pot and be nearly transparent when it splashes into the cup.

Other than that, it's just on with the duties - the polishing and the dusting and the stiff-armed wringing through the mangle. Oh and I should probably get a haircut.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 91: SIDE EFFECTS

It did affect me. Not in any major way, but just enough to make me feel unusual. I lay awake with my eyes closed, in the dark, shivering under my duvet.

It’s weird - like having the flu but not quite having it; an illness without the symptoms: I’ve felt weak, insipid on the inside, but no cough, no dry throat, no dodgy stomach. I’m absolutely fine but also... not feeling too well.

Thankfully, it’ll pass by. It’s just side effects while my body learns how to fight off the infection. I’d still rather have a day of this than a day on a ventilator. Or worse, watching someone I love on a ventilator.

The sun came up, painting long tree-shadows over the green grass. I could see it through the gap in my curtains, if I shuffled up. It was still early, the sky a fresh empty blue. I was still a little shivery but at least my eyes were open now. By all accounts it would be a beautiful day. Hopefully this’ll all wear off soon.

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 90: OXFORD ASTRA-ZENECA

I slipped into my lightweight summer coat and headed out into the bright sunlight. The sun was warm and the sky blue, with a pleasant breeze rustling the blossom and flicking the shiny fronds of my neighbour’s palm tree.

I was on my way to be vaccinated. At least with the first dose anyway. The village surgery had been offering vaccinations and this time, I qualified.

It was ever such a nice day for a walk up the road. I gave myself a pep talk about how I’d take it all in my stride, not panic about anything, follow the system.

I arrived. The road was crazy - people trying to park, men in high-vis jackets moving cones around, people lining the pavement trying to stay a cautious two metres away from the person in front.

“Here for a vaccine?” asked a steward from behind a floral print mask. I fumbled in my pockets.

“Yeah,” I said, still searching.

“Can I ask you to put a face mask on please sir?” he asked. That, it turned out was exactly what I had forgotten. I went a shade of red while I explained. Thankfully, he was able to sort me out and handed me a disposable mask.

The next part of the system was the queuing. I quickly realised that I hadn’t been around that many people all in their 40s before. It was like waiting for a Nickleback gig sponsored by Waitrose. I looked around the snaking queue that shuffled across the dappled car park. There were dads in board shorts and slip-ons, mums in bright-print leggings; there was quiffed hair and no hair, sensible coats and jeans, together with brilliant white trainers and flip-flops revealing painted toes. I looked at my own choice - grey jeans from 2006, black trainers and a plain turquoise t-shirt. I realised I could not claim anything other than to fit in with my cohort. Though I definitely didn’t feel like I did.

“What’s your name please?” asked the registration lady under her green gazebo. I told her. She wrote me out a slip of paper with my national health number on it, gave me a leaflet which could have been entitled “If This Vaccine Makes You Sick At Least We Told You So”, and instructed me where to queue next. From there, marked out by chalk on the concrete, I followed the socially-distanced trail of 40-somethings into the village surgery, where an appointment with a needle awaited me. I reasoned that a painful jab in the arm would actually be more enjoyable than a Nickleback gig.

“We’re doing Astra Zeneca today,” said someone, helpfully, at the door. That answered that question then.

The actual process, the bit that does the stuff, took a frighteningly short amount of time. I walked in. The nurse asked me which arm I’d like. Still standing, I rolled up my t-shirt; she poked me in the arm with a tiny cold pinch, then strapped a bit of cotton wool to me. I was done. Less than forty seconds. Something new, rightly or wrongly, was in my blood stream. She gave a spiel about what to do if you feel unwell, and then I was back in the sunlight, walking home.

I don’t feel anything different - a little sore in the arm perhaps, but nothing too dramatic. My sister (not the one who thinks it’s all a hoax) sent me a message to joke about Bill Gates now tracking me. My other sister (still not the one who thinks it’s all a hoax) thanked me for believing in science and being an all-round good human. I didn’t message my sister who thinks it’s all a hoax. After all, she thinks it’s all a hoax.

So that was how it went down. A sunny afternoon in a car park and a quick shot in the arm with the least-reprehensible-most-side-effecty vaccine. We’ve come a long way since last Spring haven’t we?

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 89: SAVE THE WORLD

I’ve booked my vaccination. There, it came round at last, and there’s an opportunity to be in the queue. So I signed up for this coming Saturday.

Sensible? Or a kowtow to the powers that be and a worrying precursor to a one-world-government system?

I have enough faith in the scientists to have tested it as well as they could, given the way the situation elapsed in 2020. Granted, it isn’t the usual length of time to build and test a vaccine, but I believe the people at Pfizer, Moderna and AstraZeneca have been as diligent as possible in trying to save the world. Personally (and my sister would disagree) I don’t have any reason to think anything more sinister is happening.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t! These are billion dollar pharmaceuticals who have a bit of a penchant for making money, after all - that will have been a motive for them, somewhere close to altruism, if not above it. They aren’t a handful of wild-haired, independent heroes in lab coats; they’re executives in suits who like big numbers and exploitation. It’s sinister in the most capitalist sense of the word. But I really don’t think it’s anything more than that.

Anyway, I’ve decided to go for it, to do my best to honour those around me, protect those I love, and to do it all sincerely. I think that’s okay.

What’s more, it turns out I can do that at my nearest surgery, instead of having to drive out somewhere unusual. I can walk and then stumble back if I need to.

I concede that if there were dark forces plotting the end of days, they’d probably want a trial run. There’s an interesting theory that by creating the pandemic, the string pullers behind the scenes could also manufacture the antidote and make a tidy packet. Plausible. Reprehensible, but then you don’t usually expect dark forces to be brimming with scruples, do you?

Then there’s the idea that it might be kool-aid. It wasn’t poisoned this time, but it proves how quickly we became eager to swallow it. Next time, when Antichrist scoffs at God from his gaudy throne, the vaccine might just be a little more than kool-aid.

I still maintain though, that there’ll be a clear choice of loyalties at that point, and that taking the mark will be a conscious decision, rather than an injection of Trojan horses ready to leap out of the veins in your right arm or forehead. I also think that the numbers will prove something significant about the vaccination roll-out.

Well anyway, my first dose of whichever vaccine is suitable for the early-40s is on Saturday. I’m not a fan of injections and I do hope I won’t pass out. Worse, I don’t want to be ill for twenty four hours afterwards either. Not on a weekend.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 0 days

Big Travel Day: 25 days

Liberation Day: 60 days

CATCHING THE SUN

It’s the kind of day when you could accidentally catch the sun.

I’m sitting on a bench in the allotments, dedicated to ‘Mervyn’ who had, apparently, ‘60 happy years of plotholding’. I expect Mervyn accidentally caught the sun here a number of times. I’m in good company.

It’s breezy, but warm. There are giant cumulus clouds over the trees but they’re shuffling along beneath the bright blue sky. The sun is hot, especially when the wind drops, but otherwise there’s a chill on the back of my neck. Wood pigeons coo, blackbirds chirrup, a man in jeans and a checkered shirt crunches the soil with a metal spade.

It might be my new spot this, especially for lunches: south-facing, a decent view of greenery and sky, and relatively quiet. I like it. I guess Mervyn liked it.

I wonder what Mervyn did. I wonder what he grew out here on these allotments all those decades. I wonder what set of circumstances led to him being remembered by a wooden bench with his name on it... Was he a jolly old fellow who simply knew everyone on the plots? Perhaps there was a kind and gentle whip-round for him when he passed on? Was he perhaps, the council’s record-holding plotholder? Is that how he got a bench? 60 years is a long time. It’s a lot of vegetables and trees and digging. Did he have the same plot that whole time? And could he have seen it from here?

And what would he have made of me, chomping away in the sunshine, enjoying his allotments?

I don’t know if I’ll get to leave a bench behind, and certainly I don’t know where! “In memory of Matt, who once got chased through this park by a Scottie dog.” Or... “Dedicated to Matt, whose car rolled down this very hill with his keys inside while he raced alongside it shouting ‘no, no, no...’ into the distance.”

Perhaps I should leave an outdoor piano somewhere. That would be sweet. It’d probably wreck the ambiance of the allotments though. I doubt Mervyn would have liked that.

Anyway, all this conjecture and speculation, sitting here. Turns out I’ve caught the sun.

BLUE SKY MORNINGS

I like waking up to blue skies. It’s one of the nicest things about this little season. Before the grass pollen turns my face into a puffy red streamer, the springtime is a delight.

Especially the mornings. My friend Kathie taught me a word the other day: apricity. It’s the warmth of the sun in winter, that little glimmer of hope in springtime. Blue sky mornings are tingling with apricity.

I also love the colours at this time of year. White blossom looks particularly good against a bright blue sky, don’t you think? Vivid, bold and new, like fresh paint or a clean line drawn with a ruler.

Yellow flowers bob happily in the delicious green grass, or grow along fences and hedgerows. There are hints of pinks and purples, reds and oranges too, singing in the sunlight, dappling the shade.

This is apricity. That warm reminder that everything will be alright. There are still cool breezes, sometimes a frost, and yes, as last week, even snow! And yet, when the sun is just strong enough to persuade you you don’t need a coat, when the light falls through the blue sky and touches your skin with gold, then you know there’s a bit of hope around. And maybe, just maybe, the day will work out far better than you thought it might.

THE UNHAPPY VALLEY

I've often heard myself complaining about the 'Unhappy Valley' - a place you end up if you're required to be two things at once and therefore can't really be either.

It's happened a few times - especially at work. Occasionally I'm required to do some admin task or other, or take a decision that a Team Leader would usually make, and because of the structure, and the way things have happened, there's no-one else to do those things. Not everyone always agrees that I should be doing that, and yet it needs to be done, so there it is. I land with a thud in the Unhappy Valley. And I have to be careful who I moan to about that.

Careful, indeed. One person who never ever publicly complains... about anything... is The Queen. She's required to be multiple things all at once, not just at work but twenty four hours a day for her entire life. She lives almost imprisoned by her devotion to duty, trapped in a valley of her own, between sovereign, mother, grandmother, head of the church, defender of the nation, leader of her remarkable family, and a focal point for us all. Royalist or not, you've got to admit that to balance all of that so delicately for seven decades is an extraordinary thing.

To add to that list, for the final portion of her long reign, Her Majesty now also has to do all of that as a widow. It occurs to me, given how important those closest to us actually are, that that might be the toughest challenge she's ever faced behind the palace gates. I hope she knows she has all of us behind her.

So, in the hottest take on the news, let me reiterate: I'm comparing myself to The Queen and she comes out the better. Who knew?

But she also gives me perspective - that I can get through the Unhappy Valley with a devotion to duty, with stoic resilience never to complain, never to explain; that quietly and confidently, with grace, elegance and the wisdom to stay silent, I can do a lot of good.  

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 88: SUNLIGHT AND RUBBLE

The queue for the Turkish Barbers was shorter today. They'd been quite canny had the Turks; this morning they'd set up waiting-seats outside the shop and down the street.

There, like the finest Parisians, today's denimed customers sat al fresco on the pavement, flicking through glossy magazines in the morning sunshine. I had a little chuckle as I drove by.

England was 'buzzing' with the great return to a social life last night, apparently. In Newcastle they 'braved the cold' (they always do) and in London, the outdoor bars were packed (they always are). Some were cautious. Others were not. As a philosopher once noted, either way, "el vino did flow". Someone even compared it to VE Day!

Have we won the war though? Not yet. And is there victory in Europe? Clearly not - they're still having it worse than us. I get the comparison though - dancing in the street amidst the rubble and the sunlight - especially for those who've been double-vaccinated; it must feel like a great weight has been lifted. It must feel like the closest point to freedom we've known. Why not raise a song and a pitcher?

But there is still rubble, even if it is bathed in sunlight.

In the 1920s, following the aftermath of the Great War and the Spanish Flu, a period of rapid building happened. It gave rise to the so-called 'Roaring Twenties' - a time of fresh hope and new decadence, of optimism and jazz, of nations uniting, and the old kingdoms and empires slipping out of sight. That decade of survivors, much like ours, must have felt the world changing, and changing quickly. Unfortunately, it was all followed by nationalism, economic depression, and the catastrophe of a second war. We don't have to follow the same path.

That's why I think it matters what you do with your rubble in the sunlight. Britain in the 1950s learned how to rebuild a sense of post-war optimism into a bold and bright season of looking to the future. There could easily be a whole generation of young people out there, waiting to design, invent, create and build the most incredible things in the sunshine of freedom once this season is behind us.

Anyway, it's not behind us yet. It might feel like VE day, but the war is very much still rolling.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 0 days

Big Travel Day: 34 days

Liberation Day: 69 days

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 87: TURKISH BARBERS

So, Haircut Day, the day when non-essential shops re-open, including nail-bars, beauty salons, garden centres, and yes of course, hairdressers.

You can tell too. I drove past the Turkish Barbers this morning and saw the queue stretching down the street. I'm not kidding - there were about fifty men, shivering, with their hands thrust into denim pockets.

Beer gardens are open. You can go to the pub today, sit outside with a nice cool pint brought to your table, chat nonsense with your socially distanced pals. I imagine that might also be popular (if freezing) later.

Of course, just to help us along, the good old British Weather Service sent us a covering of snow - hence the chilly men in the queue for the Turkish Barbers. It fell overnight, leaving a patchy coat of icing for the green grass to poke through. It'll soon be gone, I'd wager.

I won't be queuing up to get my hair cut - at least not today. For the same reason, I didn't rush back to the gym this morning either - I had a feeling it might be similarly busy, and that is an environment where people are touching machines, breathing heavily and flinging sweat about. I want to go back with minimal risk and a pack of anti-bac wipes. Maybe later in the week.

And that's a good point - just because we can, doesn't mean we should. Somehow it's in human nature to push freedoms to the very limit, to surf along the boundary lines of the acceptable, and to grab everything permitted before everyone else does, just because it's there, whether it's toilet rolls and pasta (last year) or shivering queues for the Turkish Barber (this).

I like to think that the government and scientists take the 'vomitorium' into consideration, and plan a contingency in their dates and numbers, just to account for everyone spewing out to the shops and the pub gardens.

Still, the Prime Minister would probably have mixed feelings I'd wager, if he saw the non-socially distanced queue for the Turkish Barbers.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 0 days

Big Travel Day: 35 days

Liberation Day: 70 days

LITTLE PATCHES OF BLUE

The clouds are full today. Thick cumulus, grey and white with the sun poking through and gilding the fluffy edges with silver. There are little patches of blue sky too - like tarns, crystal clear lakes in the high mountains.

I'd like to be up there, flying into that blue. At least, far above the grey shadows that switch over this landscape anyway. It isn't really the moment to be thinking about getting on a plane of course, but the thought of just quietly soaring up there? That is quietly intoxicating.

Perhaps by balloon? Imagine it - gently emerging above the clouds, round and silent, burning into the warm blue sunlight! No sounds, no stress, no worries - only what you take with you.

Balloons don't go that high do they. And they tend to fly on clear days. Let's be honest, I'm not sure the turbulence wouldn't rip the canvas apart and send the basket tumbling. I don't know enough about aviation to know, but it is a nice thought. There might be peace and quiet up there.

What I do know is that it's stressful down here, really stressful. I feel as though I'm coming to the end of my ability to work from home, as though all my creativity is being drained, and as though there are no options that are winners for me other than to ride it out. That's left me feeling completely defeated. If there were a wicker basket and a balloon steadily filling with hot air out there, I'd probably be pulling on my shoes, packing a snack-based picnic, and racing out to meet it - turbulent skies or not.

Anyway, there are only two months to go before we can go back to the office. I guess having done 13, another two ought to be manageable! The office will be weird for a while, as I've talked about before. But at least it will be different. At least I can talk to colleagues face to face. At least there's a chance I might not end the days feeling like a worn-out cog in a cold machine.

Meanwhile, you'll catch me gazing up at the little patches of blue sky that slip and flow between the clouds like water, lit by the sun and free of shadows. 

ISOLATION DIARIES PART 86: VACCINES AND PASSPORTS

Lots of talk about vaccines this week. One of them, the Oxford Astra-Zeneca vaccine shows a tiny history of causing blood clots. Tiny - as in your chances are lower than being run over by a runaway lawn-mower.

Still, that’s resulted in the under 30s eventually being given a choice to take one of the other vaccines, should they wish.

And it is a choice, taking a vaccine. A number of people I know are hugely sceptical about its safety or its content and have already refused it. My sister is one of them, believing as she does, that this entire situation is a well-organised global hoax. I respect her quite remarkable faith in international relations.

Seriously though, I don’t want to judge anyone’s decision - especially my fellow believers. After all, we’re taught from a young age (well I was anyway) that one day here on Earth, everyone will be forced to serve a system that has set itself up against God. Loyalty to that system will require being marked on the right hand or forehead, and only those with the mark will be able to buy or sell. It’s not reversible. I understand why this looks the way it does.

With that context, the idea of anything bionic that’s implanted under the skin like a chip or a data card will seem suspicious to students of the book of Revelation. Throw in a smattering of YouTube videos on the subject and it’s easy to see where the thought leads.

I’m not here to get into theology by the way. It’s just context for understanding why some people are deeply suspicious of being inoculated, and what might come next.

The truth is that we all do get a choice. And it’s not my place to criticise a choice sincerely made with good intentions. I will be praying that God keeps my sister and her children safe though.

What I think I object to is the idea of vaccine passports - at least for entry into hospitality venues. If it’s a valid choice to refuse the vaccine, then it’s also discrimination to use that free choice to bar people from the pub. That’s a slope towards a country I don’t wish to live in.

However I also understand that we have to do all we can to keep people safe. That’s been the reason all along, for masks, for social distancing, for washing your hands for twenty seconds and yes, ultimately, for getting vaccinated. And I can see that vaccine passports could be a quick way to protect people from potential threat.

But the benefit doesn’t outweigh the cost. We all need to look after each other, vaccinated or not. I don’t agree that people should be punished for taking a principled stand, and I want to celebrate their right to do it. I don’t think those people should be banned from Tesco.

Anyway, I’ve not been offered my first dose yet. I think it’ll be another month, and there’s some uncertainty as to which vaccine it will be: the Oxford one seems to make people feel unwell for a while, the Pfizer one uses a slightly different method and the Moderna is only just being released into the population. I’d just like to get on with it.

Meanwhile, it’s best to keep up with the social distancing measures isn’t it. My sister and I disagree on almost everything to do with the virus, but I know I’d do every single thing I could to prevent her from contracting the disease she doesn’t believe in.

The Five Dates

Back to School Day: 0 days

Back to Sixes Day: 0 days

Haircut Day: 3 days

Big Travel Day: 38 days

Liberation Day: 73 days

TONE IT DOWN

A colleague rang me early. He's actually the only one who just calls; I'm pretty sure most people ask by chat whether it's a good moment. Not that that's a problem. I took it.

I had just logged on and was barely awake, so to overcompensate for a croaky morning voice, I blurted out an enthusiastic "Hiya!" - which, now that I think about it, is probably is the 'hiya' you give your pals at a party, rather than colleagues who ring you without checking.

"That was a very enthusiastic hello," he said. There wasn't a great deal of sunshine in his voice about it. In a flash, I replied:

"Aw yeah! I'm sorry; I'll tone it down a bit. Hellooo." And then I self-laughed at the demure way I'd tried to say hello and how it had come out as sarcastic.

-

For the rest of that call, I was sitting in front of my screen wondering why I'd felt the need to 'tone it down'. What is this? Fitting in? Dialling back because it's not... what... appropriate? Why had I said that?

I'm not suggesting that I go back to the office and start tap-dancing on the tables with a top hat and feather boa, but when natural enthusiasm is squished by the very culture it's meant to change, that's not a good sign is it? It's a little microcosmic reaction that tells me the story that I'm really not supposed to be happy at work and must 'tone it down' to be accepted. Enthusiasm ain't tolerated in these here parts.

Or perhaps, I'm just not supposed to be quite so happy first thing in the morning? Which is a wider cultural 'rule' than just work of course, but is still a story we tell ourselves and replicate. And to be fair, I really was overcompensating.

SNOW IN APRIL

Call me an old-fashioned so-and-so, but I don't really think it ought to be snowing in April, especially after such a glorious Easter weekend.

Nevertheless, the frozen grey clouds have shifted overhead, and thick white snow is currently flurrying across the green grass and the daffodils.

"Put it this way," said Andy, my colleague, "I was in shorts and t-shirt, drinking wine in the garden a couple of days ago. Next thing I know I'm indoors with a pot of coffee and a blanket!"

Good old Blighty. And did those feet, in ancient times, walk upon England's mountains green? Well not in open-toed sandals, I'd wager. I mean Jesus would have at least needed a thick pair of socks.

I sometimes wonder how I'd get on living somewhere with less interesting weather. What do people in California (for example) talk about? I mean, when they meet up and it's awkward (and it's always a little bit awkward), and saying, "lovely weather again," still sounds ridiculous for the three hundredth golden day in a row, what is there left to say?

We Brits rely on that handy, coded, small talk. It punctures the awkwardness - it sets us at ease; we know everything will be alright when we've bonded on how awful/wonderful/splendid/unpredictable the weather is.

And, my Californian friends, for us over here, the weather forecast is both square and central indeed to most of our plans - like a sort of sacrosanct bit of daily badinage. In fact, it's so holy that when we were kids, we were required to be completely silent while it was on the telly; a ritual that has been passed down unspoken through the generations. And with good reason - Will we need a coat? Should I take my sunglasses? Where are my waterproof ski trousers? Am I going to need sun cream?

It seems like the miraculous answer to all those questions is probably 'yes' today. Snow in April indeed. Tsk. Oh, apart from the one about the ski trousers, to which the answer is of course, 'still stuffed inside my rucksack from the other day when it turned out to be surprisingly hot'.

If the 'Countenance Divine' did 'shine forth upon our clouded hills', I hope He turned to Joseph of Arimathea to remark on how atypical it all was for the time of year.

TWO-CAR WASH

I washed two cars yesterday - my parents' little white Toyota Aygo and my not-much-bigger Auris.

It was great fun. I don't even know why, but I enjoyed it so much I told them I could happily do it again in a few weeks' time. I sloshed around the bucket of soapy water, I streaked the paintwork with a sopping chamois. I sprayed the windows with glass-cleaner and watched the sun sparkle off the suds. Magic.

Now that we're at the next phase of lockdown-easing, we're allowed to mingle outdoors. I had decided to drive to my parents' house where I could very generously let them supply me with teas and biscuits, while I got on with the job.

"Ooh, you missed a bit," laughed a passer-by. It's an unwritten rule that you have to say something like that of course. That and...

"When can you come round and do mine?"

I hope I didn't roll my eyes. I don't think I did.

"It took you three hours to wash two cars?" asked Sammy later, laughing at me. I nodded wistfully. I hadn't mentioned the percentage of the three hours that could be filed under the category: tea and biscuits.

Anyway, it was great. I think it was enjoyable because I was away from a screen. It's so nice to not be locked into the digital world, to do something old-fashioned and manual for a change. I haven't done that in such a long time. Plus, it was just so lovely to spend an afternoon with my Mum and my Dad.

Sometimes we prefer the easiest solution to a problem, but it isn't necessarily the best. I thought it through: I'd have paid for someone else to do that job pre-lockdown! Either at the carwash, or at Sainsbury's, where the hustlers in yellow-jackets used to go around with their car-cleaning trolleys.

The truth is, either way, I'd have sat in Starbucks with a big tea and a Belgian bun staring at my phone. Or I'd have been in the car while the brushes tickled my wing-mirrors. And what would I have been doing? Checking my emails, writing a pithy tweet, scrolling Instagram again. Boo.

The two cars glistened in the drive. I tipped the bucket of filthy water down the drain and guzzled the final cup of tea that had been resting on the window sill. I sighed, satisfied. That was a good day.