Jazzing It With Nuns

And so, the second lockdown begins. They say that the sequel rarely surpasses the quality of the original, with from the possible exception of Sister Act 2, but as it turns out I have a stunning lack of nuns in my life with which to jazz up this month of fun. 

Thinking about it, this could all just be a big scheme to dampen the unbridled festivity that the post-Halloween period brings - perhaps Boris is sick of seeing Santa hats sitting on shelves where only weeks ago there were skeleton masks and buckets in the shape of pumpkins, as he trudges round his local Mozzers on his weekly big shop. Because without Christmas, there isn’t much else to look forward to any time soon, apart from bonfire night, which, it would appear, Bojo isn’t a fan of either, as he’s chosen the same date to lock everyone down again. Coincidence? I think not. Not that I can blame him on this one; without organised fireworks displays, the remembrance of the time a man with a much too tailored beard attempted to blow up the then king in the houses of parliament will likely be reduced to four year old children attacking each other with sparklers while their parents attempt to light a selection of shop-bought fireworks at the bottom of the garden, none of which tend to move in any direction at much more than three-point-five miles an hour, apart from the one that falls over and pursues your father up the garden at a fair pace as he impresses his children and much of the surrounding community with a wide range of select and impressive vocabulary.

Then there’s apple bobbing. I’m still undecided as to who thought up this uniquely depressing game and introduced it as a way to pass the cold winter nights. We did it years ago on Halloween, rather than trick-or-treating. The whole family gathered round a large bowl of water placed on the table top, and took turns attempting to fish some wet apples out of it. Oooh, is it a Pink Lady? Is it a Braeburn? Who can tell? Who can guess? Who cares? After about five rounds of this I attempted to bring an early end to the festivities by subtly and morosely drowning myself in the bowl. Suffice to say, no more fruit was bobbed that night, and I’ve possessed a substantial hatred for pink ladies ever since (the sub-genre of apple, not Olivia Newton-John et al in Grease.) 

So with all this in mind, I can see why this lockdown may not be approached with as much of the ‘blitz spirit’ that was so often mentioned in lockdown mk. 1. Especially with what we may have to look forward to out the other side in January. But that’s a bit deep for now - more on that in next week’s election special. Now, how does one acquire nuns…