To all those united by distancing
After four and a half months of lockdown, advised to stay in the house whenever possible, forced to fill the long hours in any way we can, it seems odd that it is only now, as fitness centres and gyms reopen that my family resort to a Lord Of The Rings marathon. Maybe we just wanted to see 10,000 Orcs refusing to socially distance [apparently arrows and spears are the only way to encourage strict adherence to government guidelines], or perhaps we needed the inspiration of the quiet Shire Folk who set out on a dangerous and, dare I say, intrepid journey; out of the home which has been their entire world for as long as they can remember. However, I suspect it is more likely that we learned the value of stopping a walk for second breakfast, elevenses, twelveses and all the other wonderful meals that hobbits build into their day. Inevitably, my family took the epic film trilogy as an opportunity for a drinking game. Sadly, my suggestions based on various double entendre were vetoed so it was just any time a hobbit messes up or someone whips their sword out.
It seems we had started a film week even before our Lord Of The Rings weekend had been suggested; we watched Notting Hill, a Richard Curtis work that I have never seen before. The most surreal part of Notting Hill came after we finished, when I headed upstairs and found a WhatsApp message from a young American lady not dissimilar to the character from the film. We tend to communicate in fits and starts through voicemail messages. I listened back to the minute long recording I had sent her, to which she was responding, it was a recording filled with the word umm, a recording that offered bumbling explanations and apologies for not responding sooner, a recording that made me sound exactly like Hugh Grant! With this horrifying revelation echoing through my mind, I tried to leave a voice message that sounded cool, calm and collected, no ums, no errs. The result was possibly even worse! Curt, clipped and impatient, I fear I may have destroyed that friendship forever… unless someone wants to take me on an insane high-speed car race to the airport for one last hopeless scene? If so then section two clause 4 of the Magna Carta comes into play and I think we legally have to get married and live happily ever after. At least I think that’s how the Richard Curtis lore works.
The second half of the Lord of the Rings weekend was, somewhat surprisingly, totally unaffected by my father’s early birthday party on Saturday evening, for which my brother brought a champagne tasting to our house. That was great fun and it turns out that a blind tasting is easier to organise when you have a blind brother assisting.
So I now know I am a cross between Hugh Grant and Gimli and that my favourite types of Champagne are Deutz and Verve Clicquot. I hope you have learned as much about yourself as I have over recent weeks.
With love and best wishes
Richard
Richard Wheatley BSc BPBH
P.S.
I’ve just remembered another film we watched last week: Eurovision Fire Saga, the Netflix movie about… well, the Eurovision song contest. It is possibly one of my favourite films ever. It is terrible, deliberately terrible with the least subtle plot devices you can imagine and all the insanity from decades of a flamboyantly insane show condensed into one story. If nothing else, watch it for the elves that don’t appear in the film.