AKA - Here Comes The (Veni)Sun
We’re in the midst of lockdown, but like a family of rebellious Steve McQueens fleeing naughty Nazis, we’ve escaped our prison and are currently bombing through the mountains on our motorbike (aka Volkswagen Touran). But oddly I don’t feel liberated and carefree. I’m too worried. I’m too worried about Bela.
“What’s up honey?” asks Zsuzsa, noticing the worry lines adorning my elongated forehead.
“I’m worried about Bela.” I reply, but of course you already know that. “Do you think she’ll be alright? I forgot to leave her some food. Can she survive for three days without food?”
In case you were wondering, Bela is our pet sourdough starter.
“She’ll be fine honey. She’s in the fridge, right?”
“Yeah, she’s tucked up safely in the fridge.”
“Then stop worrying. She’ll be fine. She loves it in the fridge!”
But it’s no use. I still feel like an irresponsible parent. I still feel like some reckless father who leaves his baby home alone to fend for themselves, hungry and scared. I still feel like Jacko holding a baby in a blanket over a balcony.
Zsuzsa sees this, gives my knee a reassuring squeeze and repeats. “She’ll be fine. It’s just a few days”
I’ve been raising Bela now for a couple of months, nurturing her, tending to her needs, kneading her into dough, and she’s been responsible for producing several strapping your loafs. She’s good like that is Bela. In many ways we’ve turned into complete lockdown cliches. We get up, feed our sourdough starter, prance around to Joe Wicks as a family, entertain the kids for hours, taking it in turns to have brief breaks to stare at the wall, go to sleep, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, ad infinitum. We’re coping, but that said, this weekend escape is a very much needed respite for our sanity.
The sun has now set as we mend our way though the rugged Hungarian mountains. The girls are both sleeping soundly in the back of the car and conversations have now moved on to my lockdown weight.
“I just feel as though I’ve put on at least five kilos of covid in the last month. Do I look like I’ve put on loads of covid?” I ask.
“No honey. You look great.”
“Are you sure? Do you think my clothes have just shrunk or something?”
“I’m sure. Besides, once this is over we can get back to our normal selves.” replies Zsuzsa.
“So you don’t think I look like my normal self?”
“You do. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“What did you mean then?”
“You look great. Just…”
“Just what!?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. Spit it out.”
“Well if we had put on a few kilos it wouldn’t be a huge surprise. All we do is stay at home eating sourdough!”
“Don’t bring Bela into this! It’s not her fault! Plus what about Joe Wicks! We’re forever prancing around to Joe Wicks, pretending to be kangaroos or frogs or whatnot!”
“Deer.”
“What, sweetheart?”
BANG!
We crash into a deer at 60 mph. It’s a huge collision. The car is okay but for a few bumps and bruises, but sadly the deer is a right-off. The girls both sleep through the entire, grizzly ordeal.
Both in shock, we drive on in silence. Eventually I decide it’s time to speak.
“Shit.” I say.
“Shit.” says Zsuzsa.
“It was so dark! It just sprung out of nowhere!”
“I know. There was nothing you could do.”
The next day, at Zsuzsa’s parents house, her mother serves us venison stew (from a different deer Zsuzsa is insisting I mention). I decide that staring at walls in our lockdown home isn’t so bad after all.