As it's all done over Skype or Zoom or Hangouts I can make it visual so I'm toying with the idea of a round in which either the contestants have to guess which animal I'm pretending to be with kitchen utensils or alternatively I might challenge them to come up with the best animals they can with kitchen utensils and then everyone guesses. It's quite a responsibility.
I originally declined the Thursday quiz mastery because I like to start work at 8.00am during the week but then someone pointed out that this Friday is Good Friday and I won't be working anyway. This left me with nowhere to go and I conceded.
I always loved Easter as a kid. Every year until I can't remember when, we went as a family to our grandparents, my mum's parents, over in Poulton. Invariably the extended family would gather there too with my mum's brother John & my auntie Elaine, and my cousins Sarah and Peter. My mum's sister Anna would join us too on a rare release from the Epilepsy Society in Chalfont St Peter, along with her boyfriend Fred in his zip up cardigans and his roll up cigarettes.
Anna, but mostly Fred, loved nothing more than to spend the afternoons over the Easter break in the Thatched House or another of the village pubs, necking pints and getting pissed. In turn the alcohol would diminish the effect of both their medication and they'd come back to the house and proceed to have seizures. Anna's fits were something to behold and quite scary. Not because we were unaccustomed to them as children, we'd grown up knowing all about what happened when someone had an epileptic seizure, but because they were so loud and surprising.
Without any kind of warning Anna's body would completely stiffen, from head to toe, like rigor mortis just without the mort bit. This temporary petrification would often send Anna sliding or falling to the floor where, once made safe, she'd be left until the fit passed. Accompanying the stiffening was a monotonous, and deafening, deep wailing noise. Whether or not she was in pain I couldn't tell you but it was a sound I'll never forget. A haunting sound, and not a spooky haunting, a horrific, tremendous noise that could be heard throughout the house and went straight to your core.
Fred's fits on the other hand were an all together more romantic affair. From an observer's point of view it was like watching someone astrally project. His out of body, and as it happened, out of mind experiences would find him rocking to and fro, often hanging onto something like a door handle or the back of a chair, and gently whistling, unaware of the world around him. Like the wind blowing in through a window that hadn't quite been closed properly.
In both cases, and whether it was the seizure taking it out of them or the pints of beer they'd knocked back beforehand, they'd usually retire to their bedroom and sleep like the dead, not to be seen for hours.
As a child, Easter in Poulton meant chocolate of course, long warm days sitting in the sun as it blazed through the sash windows, and watching boring TV. One of my enduring memories of childhood is in fact, being bored all the time. I'd whine to my parents and be told in no uncertain terms that only boring people get bored, and to read a book.
Grandpa would be up early while Granny slept late when she wasn't working. It wasn't unheard of for her to emerge mid afternoon and then stay up to the small hours reading. The house felt vast, and calm, despite so many people being there at the same time. Clifton House had a way of slowing everyone down.
If we were lucky my grandparent's cleaner Mrs Gray would be there. She lived a few streets away, made marzipan animals, pronounced breakfast as if it was two words - break fast - as if to make a point about its meaning, and had a large round growth next to her nose, the size of a marble. I always wanted to ask about it but never did. I would do now but I was very polite as a child.
She'd occasionally bring her dog Tish round to wait while she was cleaning. Tish was a particularly mean Dalmatian. She'd sit there in her bed in the kitchen or the pantry and growl at anyone that came too close, baring teeth and generally being grumpy. We grew up with Dalmatians - Dylan, Skipper, Dougal and then after I'd left home, Jake - and all of them were delightful compared to Tish.
Dalmatians are known for being friendly, approachable and completely mad. In fact Granny once told me a story about a woman's Dalmatian that had got off its lead in Blackpool, trotted to the end of a pier, and launched itself into the Irish Sea at full tide for no apparent reason.
More exciting than Mrs Gray and her marble sized growth was her husband Mr Gray. Mr Gray had tunnel vision and wore a flat cap. That's all I really remember about him, other than his name being Larry, so why I thought he was more exciting to talk to than Mrs Gray remains a mystery. We would usually only see him if he was passing by along Victoria Road and we were in the garden. His whistle would give him away and we would rush to climb the fence in the corner near the big black gate behind the incinerator.
One Easter when I was maybe ten or eleven years old I asked Granny if she would take me to church because I was curious about it. She agreed and I think was quite pleased that I'd asked her rather than my parents. The fact of the matter is that she was the only person I knew that went to church. We were not a religious family, Granny was no exception, after all she was a woman of science. She loved the old language that was used and picked her churches based on which prayer book they used. St Chad's in the heart of the village used the King James Book of Common Prayer and this was right up Granny's street.
Grandpa was a lapsed Methodist and loved nothing more than poking fun at the pomposity of the church. His father, a mill owner, who was terribly disappointed when Grandpa decided to train as a doctor instead of going into the family business, would have been equally disappointed by his son's love of wine and his daily pre-dinner tipple - the gin mix, made up of one part gin, one part sweet vermouth and two parts dry vermouth, poured into a stemmed glass with no ice and served at room temperature. I learned at an early age that the gin mix wasn't for the feint of heart and would take a layer off the roof of your mouth. It was delicious all the same and the smell of it on a family member's breath is something I associate with my childhood.
(This photograph and another childhood story about the Pirate can be seen here.)
Granny and I got the entrance of the church and went into the cold stone building. We were evidently late as the place was full so we sneaked into a pew at the back, as quietly as possible in the echoing church, so as not to disturb anyone, and took our seats. I was quite disappointed to be so far from the action but still, I was there and I was about to find out what church was all about, and on a special day too - Easter Sunday.
I was idly flicking through the pages of the prayer book on the shelf waiting for the service to start properly when the congregation rose to their feet and, expecting to sing a hymn or follow in a prayer, we followed suit. Then the strangest thing happened, one by one people started to drift out from the pews and walk towards the back of the church. We stood there watching, confused, as the good people of St Chad's left their seats, gathered up their belongings and filed out into the sunny churchyard.
It was when Granny spotted the vicar heading our way that she got suspicious and collared him. It took just a few words with him for her to work out what had happened and she realised that with Easter being a moveable feast, and this year it being early, Easter Sunday had coincided with British Summer Time starting and she'd forgotten to put the clocks forward the night before. We'd arrived for my special Easter service an hour late and missed the whole bloody thing.
Since then my only experience of church has been weddings, funerals and a tedious debate about fracking at Preston Minster a few years ago.
This year Easter will be spent, much like the previous three weeks, at home. The papers are saying that the lockdown might be lifted by the end of May if, and only if, we the British public stick to the emergency measure and stay at home like good citizens.
The Government, concurrently, are issuing pleas to stay in as the weather improves this week, and thinly veiled threats that the lockdown will become less of a 'we're all in it together so let's do the right thing' affair, and more of a 'you will stay at home or we will set the police on you' type thing.
I suspect, and this is after a brief chat with a police officer this week, that the powers that be have been easing us into what will become a more draconian state until this passes. Taking a society from total freedom to complete lockdown is far more difficult than introducing it in small steps as they have done. We're all used to staying at home now and less likely to balk at the idea of being told to rather than asked to. Anyway, time will tell and I'm not going anywhere any time soon.
