Corona Alf

It’s been an age since I had inspiration enough to string a whole blog together. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t through lack of material. The lapse of time in between notable Alf-related antics is never that great and I have taken note of many such skylarkings. It is more a combination of my time and efforts required elsewhere and the simple fact that I have become an almighty lockdown bore. Yoga…work…walk the dog…redecorate…repeat. I am loathe to admit that I have enjoyed the simplicity of my days which starkly contrasts with my usual feverish schedule. It hasn’t however been the stuff of fuel for the imagination.

Also, Alf has been locked down in Florida. He assures us he is taking good care, even pushing his shopping trolley from the wrong end at the supermarket to ensure he in using a less-handled area.

Here we are again on Father’s Day and the blog becomes a homage to Alf in lieu of the card that I should have posted a couple of weeks ago. I do not feel over-guilty in this regard since Alf is himself known for his tardy recognition of important dates and he wholeheartedly embraces it. In fact, I have been imagining a time where I announce to my friends and family that I will send cards and messages when I have something meaningful to say rather than when I am overstretched trying to send cards to everyone I love over the holidays and I will give gifts when I see something that makes me think of them rather than when I am panic buying under the pressure of time. In fact, I hereby proclaim that this is my way forward. Comments welcome.

Alf was disappointed not to have made it back to the Island by springtime as in previous years. He has usually spent weeks in the garden by this stage, repeating past successes, making changes to his previously less rewarding efforts and experimenting with new visions dreamt up over the winter. He seemed particularly pleased this year to have sourced some spaghetti squash seeds for me, something which we don’t see in this part of the world. Alf’s absence has been a source of mixed feelings for my husband, I think, who on one hand can usually count on Alf to help manage the garden when it is at it’s most weedy and bountiful but on the other hand he seems to be relishing in his complete domination over the land. Mwahahaha he is thinking as I watch him roamin’ in the gloamin’ in his blue crocks that came with the house.

It was also a bit of blow for Alf not to be getting use of the boat he bought over the winter. It has sadly spent more time in our drive, a breach of our deeds, than it has in the sea. No freshly caught smoked mackerel for us this summer.

Our contact with Alf over this unreal period of time has been via Messenger video for the most part, a medium which has thrown up frustration and hilarity in equal measures.

Unfortunately for me, when the world of video chat opened up for Alf, it cooincided with me having to get to grips with various means over which to hold virtual meetings while working from home. This meant I could be chairing a Group wide HR meeting by WebEx while Alf’s shaggy facebook profile repeatedly takes center stage on my phone while I decline his attempts to call, one after the other turning the air blue around me. Even though I am pretty sure it could not happen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Alf would suddenly be linked in to my meeting. The temperature eeked upward on the Alfometer.

Thursday night for us has been family night for some time now and we attempted to carry on the tradition by lockdown. This has seen varying degrees of success. Unfortunately dinner time for us means mid-afternoon for Alf so he makes his calls from a tractor in the middle of an enourmous stretch of land.

At best, he is far from the camera. He looks around and we see the blue sky. There were several weeks where we were allowed a view of either Alf’s forehead or his chin. Father’s day love exhibit number 1 is that I refrained from using the word chin in its plural form. I jest really as that particular camera angle could, I’m sure, make even Eva Longoria look like a bullfrog on steroids.

The worst of the supper links with Alf saw him waving a hotdog around in front of the camera, an unsightly scene, his humour, that of a 13 year old, distracting from any potential chance to converse sensibly. My fault. I tried to get him to stop which for some reason inspires Alf to continue more vehemently.

Easter was a particular low, when Alf sent a joyous Easter message involving a photo of what can only be described as a double-fanny-bunny which managed to incorporate both the British and the American interpretation of the word fanny. I was not on the receiving end myself funnily enough, but I had messages throughout the day from those who were. I put myself metaphorically into my father’s size 10-wide docksiders that Sunday morning, to try understand his decision-making as he must have scrolled through his contact list:

Great-niece -heh heh heh, send

Ex-wife – double-fanny-bunny, send

Gorgeous, lovely friend of grand-daughter – double-fanny-bunny it is

Son-in-law – why not

Step-daughter – send

Friends of daughter – worldwide sendings of double-fanny-bunnies

Daughter of neice’s husband – Happy-double-fanny-bunny-Easter to you.

Grand-daughter – Nooooooo. She will lecture me.

Daughter – Definitely not. She has no sense of humour. (I do.) She has a stick up her arse. (I don’t.)

Shout out to my lovely cousin for telling him off on this occassion, in my stead.

My problem in conversation in company with Alf and others is that I shut Alf down while he is still being amusing, because I know that the laughs he recieves will encourage him to edge closer and closer to the line before eventually hopping, double-fanny-bunny style, right over it.

Happy Father’s Day Dad. I love you. Come home soon.