Dearest friends, I hope you are all keeping well. Hector, myself and the Tiny Terror (muvver) are still at home, with the addition that Nelson is self isolating with us. He had been living by himself in a flat above the specialist magazine emporium, but it was decided that we would gather him under our flappy bingo wings during these strange times and move him into Spindle Towers. He is always safer when under observation, so is staying in Mavis the camper van, who is parked forlornly in the garden. The main reason he is in the garden is that I was keen that my reputation would not be sullied by rumours of Nelson based hanky panky. Considering that we had only just glacially arrived at second base, in our case this was Nelson showing me his buttock toupee collection, it was unlikely to be an issue, but that was not the point.

He arrived with a small case of belongings, a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and a family size box of Jaffa cakes. He was clearly relieved not to be isolated on his own as he can’t get to grip with any technology, thus rendering any attempts at video calling futile and frustrating…and on one horrific occasion, nude. This was especially upsetting as it was a group conference with the local WI that he is…well…was a honorary member of. I shall not comment any further on the honourable member…as it certainly wasn’t on that occasion. He did wrote a letter of apology, but as yet he has not been reinstated.

The other reason that Nelson was banished to Mavis is that he has a large collection of unsavoury foibles that he has amassed over the years. We can forgive most of these (usually) but he is now learning the cornet. As yet he has only managed two notes with any degree of confidence, we concluded that the haunting strands of the Last Post  emanating from Mavis, was not helping our mental well being at the moment. 

In turn, Nelson was quite used to the usual sorts of daily happenings here, so he was not in any way alarmed when the spectral manifestation of a beloved children’s television presenter began to rear its head again, the day after he moved into Mavis.  

For those who are initiated in the way of previous diary entries, you will be familiar with the notion of Brian Cant haunting the office printer at Spindle Towers. For weeks, his printed obituary kept randomly popping out of the printer to great consternation of all inhabitants. Muvver was quite pleased in a way as he had been a great favourite of hers as a child.

Anyway, it would now seem that Brian Cant has now infiltrated her laptop. I merrily tootled into her work area to see her wrestling with the laptop, muttering outrageous oaths and generally flapping her arms about. I decided to do the right thing and ask her what had happened. It would seem that whilst she was working with great diligence and fervour, the laptop would intermittently launch into ‘And she was’ by Talking Heads. Now I know she is fond of this tune so I was perplexed as to why it was a problem. She explained it was more the manner of the suddenness of each performance, and also the excessively high volume level that was bothering her pulse and testing her bladder muscles. I myself have been exercising my Pelvic floor muscles for years and continue to snap shut like a well oiled purse, indeed it has been the envy and talk of many a dinner party.  Just a moment of contraction and concentration a day can ward off unexpected dribbles, and keep the vet away.

Being helpful, I handed her a rolled up bath towel and left the room, as the beginning boings began signifying “Psychokiller” and she attempted to try and contact Brian through the ether, to kindly request he stop until she had finished working.  

I had described the inhabitants at Spindle Towers as ‘slowly marinating in an isolated madness’ on my twittersphere page, and it seems this may be the best description I can muster for it.

Nelson and I have noticed several changes in our daily lives during lockdown. Biscuits (Hobnobs and Kitkats) have garnered great importance, and meal times now delineate the day, much like in a hospital…or in fact any institution of your own choosing.  The apparel also seems to have changed, and is now may I say somewhat sloppy, haphazard and mostly elasticated. 

More distressing is that my walkies are now randomly timed. This has the effect that my body clock has similarly altered and I have been needing to make a steamy sacrifice to the altar of squat and drop, at quite uncivilised times of the night. Naturally, once I am up and I have performed, I feel ruddy marvellous and full of exuberant beans, but my excitement fails to enthuse anyone else at 2am. I have begun to slink off to my nocturnal nest with my best duck and make it quack until one of them huffs, gets up and removes it from me. 

All in all things have changed at Spindle Towers, but it seems a very small sacrifice to make in the grand scheme of things. We have been out banging saucepans (one of them was being worn by Nelson at the time) and clapping to try to convey how grateful we are to the wonderful people who are working very hard while we hibernate.

I shall leave you, as Nelson and I are soaking up the sun in our garden, laying like discarded bagpipes, with knotted hankies covering our sensitive portions. 

Until next time, keep safe and well my great pals.