Lockdown: 3 Weeks In …

The Warden

Despite being resident at Glenalmond for just over a month, my wife and I are still putting to rights the packing idiosyncrasies of the removals’ men; an innocent request for a single item can necessitate a domestic search that would make a sniffer dog proud. At the same time, however, the somewhat haphazard ordering of our possessions is throwing up delights - a physical version of Facebook’s timehop. For example, I spent an hour last night looking for a particular tome but en route re-discovered Kipling’s Plain Tales from the Hills, nestled between a biography of Donne and a guide to Land Rover repairs. As ever, this chance discovery resulted in time spent browsing before I continued with my evening; as the brain works in mysterious ways, the theme of Kipling re-surfaced this morning in its Disney incarnation as I whistled my way through its soundtrack before segwaying into another habit, that of translating songs and idioms into French while singing. I was particularly pleased with my King of the Swingers, although Mrs Alderson’s bilingual ear ruffled in disapproval to challenge my partly and deliberately inappropriate rendering [this must now be a French party piece]. The last three weeks will have doubtlessly taken on elements of a groundhog day for the many of us who have the privilege of being safe and well, and I am certain that the enforced confinement has brought us to discover long-forgotten interests as well as new activities. Here at the College, we have had on-line drinks’ parties, virtual dramatic performances, a bake-off, and as we prepare to celebrate Easter, a tree is richly decorated with symbols of joy and the Resurrection. There will be many legacies of COVID-19 and some challenging questions, but I hope that the re-affirmation of personal relationships, social contact, and care for others in our communities remain priorities. And in the loose connections of my brain, I end with Kipling:

‘If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same …’.

The Dog

While Himself can be a tad sparing in compliments, he is rarely wrong when he pats me on the bonce and utters those delightful words of ‘good lad’. My sense of humility demands that I gaze meekly upwards at such moments, while my sense of pedantry forbids me from challenging this clear understatement. It is a truth universally acknowledged that I have many talents - athleticism, my general good looks, social charms [when I wish] – but chief among these is my sneck. Admittedly, it is a big hooter but it is an all-powerful tool that Mr Dyson would do well to harness: I can breathe in through one nostril and out through the other all at the same time, I can detect scent that is weeks old, and my sense of smell is only about a million times better than yours.

It’s all down to the size of my olfactory bulb which is, quite frankly, massive.

So, while I haven’t seen or heard much action around here recently, there is still a strong odour that this place is busy; the lawns have a whiff of activity, of rubber balls, of people playing and having fun, not to mention a lot of toast. Curiously, over the last few days, I have picked up the scent of food wafting through the air and discovered chocolate hanging from branches – one thing is for certain, I shan’t be barking up the wrong tree.