Like all Irish people living in England, being away from family back home has been tough, as has having to do so from a distance now mandated by the state. Keeping up with what the government is saying on any given day is a bit trickier when you have to do it for two countries at once, inhaling charts, statements and op-eds from two places and trying to make judgments based on their diverging paths.
For those of us from the Northern Irish border this effect is amplified again, and the distinctions between Irish and British approaches become more pressing. My father’s is the last house before the border with Ireland. By March, his neighbours in the Republic were told it would be best to sleep in warm bubble wrap, and set an alarm to wake them up around November. Eleven metres away in the United Kingdom, my dad was being encouraged to operate kissing booths at horseracing events and to eat all his meals at large, out-of-town Stereophonics gigs.
My family hoped Covid-19 was as confused about the rules as we were. In practice, our worries meant ringing Dad and scolding him for not taking things seriously, which reached a head after he snuck out to mass while my siblings Caoimhe and Conall were asleep.
Scolding my father was unwise for two reasons. For one thing, he hates being coddled more than he hates broccoli, or missing mass. His stubbornness is legendary. This is, you must remember, a man so committed to his own way of doing things that he refused to bump into other dodgems during a trip to the funfair because ‘they’re called dodgems, not crashems’. And he once reacted to our demands that he throw out some gone-off milk by chugging its lumpy contents in front of us.
But the other reason this was unwise is that it turns out we never should have worried in the first place. I’m happy to report my father is flourishing in isolation, or whatever you call isolation with three permanent house guests, a dog, and a burgeoning interest in all the lockdown tech that’s become ubiquitous. Originally annoyed at having his temperature checked, he’s now developed a fondness for it and delights in telling everyone their own temperature, and that of the dog. He hasn’t climbed down regarding broccoli, but as lockdown meals get more inventive, I can confirm he did try moussaka and a spicy naan, without reverting to frying up some sausages immediately after.
Most important of all, he’s grown to enjoy the livestream mass, and takes great pleasure in sharing the link on WhatsApp to taunt those of us heathens who don’t attend since, as he quite accurately attests, ‘Yous have no excuse.’ Not that he’s averse to tiny acts of sacrilege himself. He still gets in his Sunday best, of course, but he’s been known to have a cup of tea and a wee bun during service. ‘There have to be some perks to lockdown,’ he says.
Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats
