Marcus, Monica and Nigella are getting me and my sofa through the last week of lockdown

Resilience is the thing for lockdown, everybody says. Either having it, or not having it, but resilience is what it is all about. My own resilience primer is very simple. Montdog (my spaniel) and I have become one. Yes, we are the most dynamic blonde and ginger double act. All we seem to do is sleep, eat and walk aimlessly searching for friends to play with. To no avail. So until the restrictions  lift next week we have reverted to a strange sort of “normal for lockdown”.  It revolves around food. Now, I am not saying I am sitting on my sofa gorging on tubs of Ben and Jerry’s, while chucking Monty scraps from my Deliveroo roast (yes that’s a thing) — alas, far from it. The vitals I’m particularly enjoying are, in the main, vicarious but virtual, and therefore virtuous — well mostly.  My sofa and I are now the culinary centre of the world.  

From here I can enjoy the delicious Marcus Wareing and Monica Galetti putting the professional chefs through their MasterChef paces. And aren’t they so filled with passion? For an industry struggling I have never seen such determination and drive. When they are asked to leave, they are not returning to their bustling kitchens, but the dust and desperation of lockdown hospitality. One cannot but feel for them and their industry. I am cheering them on and feeling their highs and lows like never before.  

Then of course there are the final stages of Bake Off.  I remember the tent so well — although I’m sure Prue and Paul would rather forget my own Tofftastic creations — and I am one of those who thought Hermine was robbed, but it is all to play for before they melt in the summer heat. Most of all I’m hooked on the new Nigella. The flavours and her insistence in using ingredients that are pre-prepared makes her lasciviousness almost approachable — perhaps I am summoning up the courage to, God forbid, cook my own roast dinner.

There is one aspect of my “normal for lockdown” I cannot imagine myself doing after December 2nd (I can’t promise  watching cookery programmes on the sofa won’t continue). I have, for some unknown reason, taken to going to the local supermarket in my jim-jams. I know, I know, I’ll be going out in curlers next, but it just feels well, comfortable, and given the streets are empty, there is nobody around to raise a quizzical or worse eyebrow. Monty? He just demands there is something in the expedition for him.  

ONE thing that is worrying me — and must be worrying us all — is the question of Christmas. After last year’s debacle, where I wound up in a holding cell at an island airport as the authorities scrutinised a small tear in my passport, this year I was going to spend it in the bosom of my family. But not even my family can be said to have the bosoms required to have the confidence the regulations will make it possible. I want to see my family — don’t we all —and though it is clear that the Government recognises this, the sight of health officials essentially saying, “Fine, have a family Christmas, but don’t come to us when you kill your grandparents”, is taking the joy out of planning for the season of goodwill. We all know the risks, but if you are 80, how many more years have you got? For many this year of enforced isolation isn’t just a few months, but a significant proportion of the rest of their existence. Are they not old enough and wise enough to be trusted with their own lives?