No chimneys? No problem. Let him bake bread.

Despite the impression I may give from time to time, life is not all bread and circuses and parties for Ottawacker Jr. Despite existing almost exclusively on a diet of Lord of the Rings, Monopoly and back garden soccer, he does occasionally get put to work. So far this week he has been up a ladder to get the leaves out of the eaves troughs; chopped wood for a barbecue pit; started to dig the barbecue pit (through a layer of permafrost); chased off a pack of feral dogs on his bicycle; changed the car tyres from winter to summer and back again; and been out hunting moose with his bow and arrow (I even removed the sucker from the end). It came as some surprise to me – probably less than to those who know me – that when it came to today’s chore, I was stymied. I wanted him, you see, to do what generations of English kids have done through the ages, take a brush and sweep the chimney. As I voiced his orders for the day, I heard a voice from the other side of the kitchen. It was Mrs. Ottawacker.
 
“We haven’t got a chimney.”
“Well, what’s that thing sticking out of our roof then?” I asked, unconvinced.
“It’s for the furnace flue.”
“What’s that when it is at home?”
“It takes the exhaust gases from the furnace out of the house.”
“Does it need cleaning?
“No.”
“Bollocks.
 
So what does one do with a seven-year-old who has been prevented from climbing a chimney to clean it (ridiculous, they’ll be making him wear seatbelts next)? Answer: one gets him to make bread. As he hadn’t finished – or indeed started – the barbecue pit yet, we (and by we, I mean Mrs. Ottawacker) had to use more conventional tools. The bread maker was out because, as of Day 4 of my self-isolation, it had given up the ghost. So to the Internet hied Mrs. Ottawacker and got a recipe for the slave labour hired help to try. And here’s the thing: it turned out really well. After goodness knows how many oopses and not agains, the dough finally made it to the oven… and came out resembling, smelling and ultimately tasting like bread.
 
He was justifiably proud of his effort – and the singed t-shirt and fringe will remind him to be more careful next time. (It didn’t affect the taste of my slice of bread, in case you were worried.) So, to celebrate, we had another chapter of Lord of the Rings, a scarier one this time, as the hobbits had left Tom Bombadil and were making their way across the moors to the barrows. I could see his eyes open wide as I described the barrow-wight crawling over the ground to get Pippin and Merry and Sam… for a second, I was tempted to put on the ‘make-things-alright camp voice’ again, like I did for The Hobbit, but I decided not to. He took it well, and then stumped me with a question: what is a wight?
 
“A wight? Erm, it’s like a dead person, I think. I don’t know really.”
“Do they come from the Isle of Wight?”
“Erm, no, I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“So why is it called the Isle of Wight?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, what…”
“They’re just bad things trying to kill them, OK?”
“OK.”
 
I really had forgotten how difficult Lord of the Rings can be for a kid. Not just for a kid, I suppose, the language is archaic, and honestly, Tolkien could have used a good editor. So much guff in his descriptions “going up a hill, then down a hill and then around a hill and up a hill again, looking westwards and then eastwards and then northwards and then westwards again…” My God, stop it. Part of me just wants to cut the excessive descriptions out of it, but Ottawacker Jr. doesn’t seem to be getting bored yet and is quite happy with a three-page description of Goldberry’s dress. I think I read LotR when I was 18 and again when I was 25 or 26 – and I don’t remember it being this heavy going. Maybe I was under a barrow-wight spell at the time. I remember reading it on a train from Paris to Irun, and maybe the link to excitement comes from that. Because the last two chapters have been a slog. Hopefully, once there is slaughter and terror again it will improve.
 
Other than that, another day checked off the list. I was doing fine today until I made the mistake of going on Twitter and watching an interview with Professor Hugh Montgomery, a British doctor and researcher, who said people get sick around 10 days after their infection. So that still leaves me a couple of days short following my sitting in front of the blonde Atletico Ottawa (or whatever it is called) doxy on the Toronto-Ottawa flight. I should name and shame, I really should. All of a sudden, my mood dropped and hasn’t really recovered. I had been going on the impression that most symptoms show after a five days to a week. Teach me to operate on rumour and hearsay.
 
Anyway, whatever. I got an email from the LCBO telling me they had shipped my order of wine, Ricard and scotch. Given the speed at which Canada Post operates, I might just get the delivery before I lose the will to live.