ALEXANDRA SHULMAN'S NOTEBOOK

ALEXANDRA SHULMAN’S NOTEBOOK: My man’s so like George Clooney (in just one way)

George Clooney played a blinder when he revealed he was doing the laundry, the washing-up and even a spot of darning during lockdown, leaving wife Amal to get on with her job of saving human rights. Can that man do no wrong?

Clooney sounds pretty sanguine about being confined to base with his wife and three-year-old twins. He certainly hasn’t given any interviews saying he can’t wait to get on the first private jet out of here for a bit of roistering with some old mates on Sunset. Or even party with a case of the finest Italian red at his villa on Lake Como.

While in most ways he sadly doesn’t resemble that many men of my acquaintance, in this particular way he’s one of the boys. It seems that men aren’t missing their friends as much as women.

It seems that men aren’t missing their friends as much as women. Pictured: Alexandra Shulman

Of course, as it’s been shown again and again that women are still doing the lion’s share of domestic chores and home schooling, often alongside their own work.

The much-pilloried Government Stay Home, Save Lives advert, picturing the woman of the house ironing, sweeping and teaching while a man relaxes on the sofa with his arm around the kids, was rightly denounced as appalling messaging. But that’s only part of the story.

It’s not escaping the chores that we crave – though that would be jolly nice – but the relief and joy of outside company.

Men seem to be far more content with these reduced lives, satisfied with the occasional game of online poker or hours in front of the Test match. I live with two men, and while neither would choose to be in this situation, I’m way more bothered than they are about being shut at home.

I and many of my female friends are climbing the walls, desperate to get away from our families and hang out with some other sentient adults.

We miss a good old natter: the gossip, exchange of plans – even the slagging off of our nearest and dearest. FaceTime or Zoom calls don’t cut it. And how we miss our social life. Oh to have friends over for dinner, oh for the prospect of a real live party. Men don’t seem to be nearly as reliant on friends for emotional sustenance. Do they even need emotional sustenance?

In fact, many of my pals report their male partners are blissful in this quasi-solitary existence. Delighted that they don’t have to see anyone and perfectly happy never to go to a party again.

What a ghastly prospect. But perhaps it would be different if you were locked down with George Clooney.

George Clooney (pictured) played a blinder when he revealed he was doing the laundry, the washing-up and even a spot of darning during lockdown, leaving wife Amal (left) to get on with her job of saving human rights

I’m dreaming of a room with no Zoom

When my generation of house-owners moved into our homes, we knocked down the walls wherever we could.

Open-plan was the buzzword, encapsulating an escape from the pokey, front-room-for-best lifestyle of suburbia and replacing it with freewheeling, multi-generational, sociable spaces. Dining rooms? Who needed them? Sitting rooms? Why bother when it’s so much nicer to have everyone within eye contact in the huge kitchen.

And so it has continued until now when, with the whole family stuck at home, working and schooling, there is no greater luxury than being able to have a bit of privacy. Somewhere you can’t hear someone else’s Zoom meeting booming out. A place the children can muck around in and mess up as much as they want and that you don’t have to stare at 24/7. That thing with four walls and a door which you can shut firmly.

Suddenly everyone’s craving a space, no matter how small, that they can call their own. Open-plan, your time might be up.

Suddenly everyone’s craving a space, no matter how small, that they can call their own. Open-plan, your time might be up (stock image)

Not going out? It’s cost me a fortune

The Bank of England calculates that households fortunate enough to have stayed in employment have saved up a mind-blowing £125 billion over the past year. How come we’re not one of them, I wonder?

After all, with no restaurants, cinemas, theatre, travel, dinner parties or hairdressing, what have we been spending our money on? Yet that doesn’t seem to have made a jot of difference to our bank statements. I fear we must have eaten our way through it.

Certainly my email inbox is filled with temptations. ‘Panettone bread and butter pudding’ lures us in – a message from Alistair Little, the Notting Hill and Soho restaurateur who now delivers his delicious meals to the door.

Next up is Ruth Rogers at the River Cafe with gnocchi alla romana, roast turbot and pannacotta with champagne rhubarb. More restaurateurs and chefs pile in every day suggesting scrumptious deliveries to tempt us.

Now and again we succumb and treat ourselves, but more usually it’s another night on the home-cooked sausages and baked potato.

But like travel and property porn, just gazing at and dreaming about the gastronomic possibilities is entertainment in itself. Imagine how wonderful it will be to experience not just the food but the restaurants again.

Emerald’s the latest jewel in our crown

Congratulations to all the British Golden Globe nominees. Usually I don’t much care about such awards, but having spent the best part of a year endlessly watching the box, I’m highly invested in all their performances.

Hugh Grant, Anya Taylor-Joy, Daisy Edgar-Jones, Emma Corrin and this year’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge (the woman who has it all) – actress, writer and director Emerald Fennell – have all kept me going of an evening.

All these talents and the Oxford vaccine too. The patriotic cup overflows.

Hugh Grant, Anya Taylor-Joy, Daisy Edgar-Jones, Emma Corrin and this year’s Phoebe Waller-Bridge (the woman who has it all) – actress, writer and director Emerald Fennell (pictured) – have all kept me going of an evening

The virus that caused 40 years of terror

Unfortunately, Russell T. Davies’s exceptional AIDS drama, It’s A Sin, was probably too late to be a contender.

Following the lives of a group of gay characters in the 1980s, it highlights so brilliantly the suspicion, secrecy, fear and prejudice that was as much the horror of AIDS at that time as the illness itself. Thank heavens, as nightmarish as the pandemic is, we are spared that.

Discussing the show with a gay friend, he said that when he hears people going on about the uncertainty and restrictions of Covid-19, he thinks to himself: ‘Well I’ve been living in fear of a virus my whole life.’

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