Our world has changed forever, they say, yet some things have not changed at all.
The streets are just about as deserted as on a 1960s Sabbath in downtown Stornoway. Quiet, quiet, quiet.
The occasional drunk wibble-wobbles out of the grounds of Lews Castle, where the thirstiest islanders always kept a Tennent’s stash in an old tree, looks right and left and, deciding there is no public conveyance available, starts to weave an unsteady path towards an unmade bed in Marybank, Laxdale or, sometimes, even Point.
People said the animal kingdom knew when the seventh day was being observed here on God’s own island.
Cattle, sheep and pheasant ventured closer to the road then because the roads were quieter that day.
Fewer Morris Minors and Austin A35 vans – except just before the doors of the kirks were flung open, and just after the intimations and chucking-out time.
Now it is so quiet that deer are getting bolshie.
We were out in the van on essential deliveries recently and as I drove past Newmarket, just north of the town, a young stag was by the side of road.
I toot-tooted to alert the venison dinner on legs, as I expected it to turn and flee.
Nope.
It turned slowly, disdainfully, with an irate look visible under his junior antlers, to see who was trying to put him off his leisurely graze.
I slowed right down. I stopped. No fear, but none from the deer either.
That stag knew where to look to stare straight at me. Gulp.
Stare right back, Maciver. Engaged in psychological combat, I heard Mrs X pipe up: “You took too long to react. You were almost on him.”
Listen hon, I didn’t take too long. That stag and I were locking in a mental duel.
This is a male thing. You’re a woman. You wouldn’t understand.
That withering “wait till I get you home” look faded as she realised the unpredictable and very stubborn deer was now a couple of feet from the van.
It held its piercing, annoyed look and did not flinch. Mrs X realised a battle of minds had begun and she began to slowly wind up her window.
The stalemate continued. A Woody’s Express Parcels van whizzed past but the deer still stared at me and stood its ground.
Of course, this particular cereus elaphus scoticus may have had the antlers but I had a big horn myself. Beee-eeeep.
Deciding that an advancing Vauxhall Vivaro with a revving engine and an extremely deafening horn, and an extremely annoying driver, were not something he needed to suspend an afternoon’s grazing for, he was off, hip-hopping over the heathery clumps and heading for the Achmore TV mast.
Phew, that was so unusual.
It’s also unusual for a guy who sang songs in the 1950s to still be around. But it’s not unusual for people to say Tom Jones is amazing and this week he turned 80. It is even more unusual because he was one of the people who had to endure lockdown earlier in his life.
He contracted tuberculosis and at just 12, had to be isolated. Stuck in a bedroom for two years, for most of that time he could not get up out of bed.
Many people are isolated now, as they were then. Yet, now, we resent it. Two and a half months in and we are climbing the walls.
The less-intelligent among us just ignore the rules to avoid transmission of the disease and have decided that sitting in and doing nothing is too much to ask of them. They put themselves at risk – but, more seriously, others. Changed days.
And a changed message from the government. Not yours, Nicola. You can sit down again.
I saw Hancock’s Half Hour on Monday, presented by UK Health Secretary Matt Hancock and it was exactly what we wanted to hear.
We are beating the pants off Covid-19 and everything is under control. Just one problem, it is difficult to believe that there is not a huge risk still of another wave that could also cause more misery and suffering.
We must still help the NHS. Some people give blood.
As Mr Hancock said: “I don’t mind giving a reasonable amount, but a pint? Why, that’s very nearly an armful.”
Wait, that was the other Mr Hancock. Tony. Phew, I’m glad I cleared that up. The message is the same – Help the NHS.
That earlier encounter with the young stag reminded me that my pal Joe and his brother came back from his Canadian holiday before lockdown.
Being from Clydebank, he had never encountered the joys of Canadian hospitality until then. They went to Nova Scotia and stayed in a wee town called New Glasgow.
After downing a few drams, he noticed a large, stuffed animal head with giant antlers on the wall.
He says to the barman: “Ah didnae realise ye had deer o’er here.” The barman says: “We don’t. That’s a moose.”
Joe was aghast. “That’s a moose? How big are yer flamin’ cats?”
