I cannot speak for anyone else in this mad world but myself and can vouch that I am going fruity, losing the plot along with the marbles. You see it’s the pressure to produce, to be creative, to use this time constructively and prolifically. Don’t mind the virus, it’s going to be the death of us. It’s not enough to bake a few scones or banana bread. We’re expected to produce Bake Off standard. Go for a walk. Nope, not enough. Run a marathon around your back garden at least. And don’t talk to me about virtual exercise videos either. Tried that before. I should have known as the receptionist in the gym who recommended it had a number of angels pinned to her jumper. It’s easy, she said, no pressure, she said. The instructors on the big screen were like a team of Australian borgs, shouting out instructions to squat and lunge using instruments of torture masqueraded as weights. I couldn’t walk for a week, my knees buckled. Not for me, I’m out. Some people have a lockdown book written already? Ah lads…Small mercies but at least our younger ones are older. Otherwise I’d be gone wrong in the head with egg cartons, pipe cleaners, glitter and crepe paper. That never ceased to amaze me as an 80s child. Who had pipe cleaners in their house when Mary-Make-And-Do was on the telly? No one in Corrib Park that’s for sure.
I digress. In an effort to foster a positive industrious spirit in this nutty lockdown I took it upon myself to have a crack at learning the ukulele. Yes we had one already and no it’s not mine. It’s the youngest dawthers. I dusted it down and last week I learned a song. I know, musical genius me, 10,000 hours and all of that. It might as well have been cause it certainly felt like it. The wonderful Bacharach’s ‘Close to You’ famously and dulcetly sung by Carol Carpenter has been butchered within an inch of itself in the interests of sanity. The middle dawther said I sound like Kermit the Frog. Kids are great for an aul confidence boost all the same, aren’t they? The other night, as is becoming more frequent, wide awake at 3.30am looking at the leak stain in the ceiling I had a brainwave. I could re-write the lyrics of the Close to You and turn it into a lockdown song. So there I was at the kitchen table, pen in hand, staring at the clock waiting for inspiration to cradle me in its creative arms. It’ll be hilarious, I convinced myself. I could be a sensation, might get on Dermot and Dave. I was even writing up my interview notes. I’d be made.
The following morning I attempted to share my new ditty with the young ones. Oh Mum, seriously, not one of those? No interest - tumbleweed. In fact, nigh on repugnance. Had they dragged their eyes off their TikToks to even heckle me it would have been something. So apparently it’s shite. Mario Rosenstock, your job is safe. But if this thing goes on any longer I just might have to inflict further misery on the world by sharing it to the masses. Now for my next song…