Some good news in 2020

Rosie & Arwen - Good News for 2020

The year has almost ended. After Covid with so many deaths, the terrible lockdowns, and the disgrace of a government bringing about such vast swathes of unemployment and the traumas of leaving the EU, many will say us to say, "Thank God". 

In Edinburgh, where the Balmoral Hotel clock runs 3 minutes fast to help people be in time for the trains, this year it is being left fast at midnight because they can't wait for the year to end. Here, we must celebrate alone, but we have some bubbly to welcome in the next year and wish 2021 good cheer.

One welcome piece of news is the happy and successful birth of our newest granddaughter Arwen to Rosie and Matthew, after the traumatic time of prematurity, and Matthew being barred from the hospital from seeing his own partner and daughter. Today, she is 3 months old, and has more than doubled her birth weight. 

Second good news of course is the Oxford vaccine, also approved this morning and holding such great promise for health and freedom. Thirdly, it was the year I took up painting, under the prompting of Grayson Perry and his series on Channel Four. I have now completed a larger portrait of Rosie and Arwen to celebrate. I'm pleased to see some constant improvement over the year from my first tentative endevours, though I readily admit there is still have some way to go with colour and techique to reach a truely high standard. Perhaps next year I shall be truely adventurous and have confidence to try a large canvas.

Happy New Year to you all - Grandad John

Wasteland

An abbreviated representation of The Family

Yesterday the government presented us (i.e. we, the people of England) with a Christmas gift – throughout most of the country, no one was to go anywhere. In the absence of church services, and fearful of huge gatherings at the Boxing Day sales (those new places of mammon worship), they have surrounded London by a new ring of Tier 4 steel, whereby family and friends and casual social gatherings, even maintaining full social distancing and face masks, is verboten. As Ann says, it would have been simpler and fairer just to shut all the shops and forbid the sales. Her ire is reflected in her new poem, The Wasteland.

From 'permission' to see one's family for a few days of Christmas, we have suddenly been restricted to one single day, and then only two groups. Or was it one group? The rules are so frequently changed and changeable it is difficult to keep up with the current situation. Be that as it may, on Christmas Day we saw two of our family groups: Mary-Ann, Sam and the girls, and Edwin and Andre, with Andre's sister Flavia who is staying in Cambridge with them. She was supposed to be returning to her studies at Harvard in early January after a little sightseeing in the UK, but all travel is now uncertain. On the positive side, at least we're not stuck in the position of thousands of foreign lorry drivers who can see no one but the police and each other, thanks to the arrogant belligerence of the French president. Thank God for the capable army, able to provide hundreds of mobile Covid tests at very short notice to get them moving again.

Wasteland

The whole world it seems

has become a dictatorship

watching, controlling

demanding cold obedience

while locking us from father

mother daughter son

until we huddle starving

in a deep and rancid cesspit

of politicians' shit

and NHS piss.

Annie Elliott

The vicious rash and itching has continued to bash my body unabated. In my desperation, I even attended a local hypnotist in Clare last week, hoping she could induce a state of relaxation whereby I could ignore the temptation to constant scratching and bleeding. In the old days, I used to practice hypnosis myself for selected patients with severe pain. Of course under the NHS we were not allowed to charge our own patients for any services, but it worked well, and generally the patients appreciated it. I therefore approached this woman with complete trust, and was willing to surrender my mind to her control for the potential gain. She offers free consultation for half an hour, but then charges £95 per session. After half and hour's general chat, she dimmed the lights and I lay on her couch to listen to her quiet voice suggesting I count down from 100 to distract my conscious mind, and allow her to reprogramme my unconscious thoughts. She then started to suggest the itching would grow less intense, and similar hopeful ideas. I did my best to comply, but I must admit my mind wandered a little, wondering both at the cost and on reflecting that the need to make me count from 100 did not display much self-confidence in her abilities. I used to induce a deep state in susceptible patients my just counting aloud to them down from 10. Also, when on my back I like to relax by crossing my legs and arms. She made me uncross them and lie straight. In the silences, I wondered what she was doing, perhaps reading a book? and found my eyes sneaking open sometimes, wondering if I dare look round as I listened to every noise: the feet in the flat upstairs; a car drawing up; the voices of a couple coming out of the Co-op. After the hour, she told me to sit up, promising I would now itch much less that evening. 

"I noticed you weren't scratching at all, during the whole session," she proudly stated as she took the cash. Well, no! I had wedged my hands under my bum and was determined not to scratch during the session, but I made up for it on the way back to the car park. At least I know one job I can turn to if ever we're desperate for a new stream of income.

Clare declares war on Essex

Meeting Arwen

We met baby Arwen on Sunday at a mutual location in the ancient Barn Restaurant at Wisbech, where we could swap Christmas presents and share a late Sunday lunch. She has grown well, and is now up to the mean birth weight of 7lb. Coming home in a pure deep blue twilight, we could spot the so called "Star of Bethlehem", namely the grand conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn, low in the western sky just after sunset. Ann managed to get a picture, and we were still able to just distinguish it as two planets. 

The new strain of Covid has frightened the government who foolishly announced to the world that "it was out of control". The French, rejoicing in being able to attach Les Rosbifs in any way they can, have imposed an arbitrary blockade without warning on all traffic from UK to France. Hundreds of poor lorry drivers are now stuck on the M20 in a huge tailback, anticipating having to spend Christmas locked in their cabs. However, many of them are of course foreign making their way home for Christmas: French, German, Dutch, Polish or Hungarian truckers are venting their anger at Macron, so it is possible he may reverse the blockade soon, no doubt presenting the climb down as a "humanitarian act of kindness". 

One unfortunate family consequence has been that Lucy's ex, Marco, was driving home to Spain with his new partner for Christmas. Like everyone else trying to get abroad, he got stuck at Dover, and has now had to return to Middlesbrough, not knowing when he will be able to travel again. 

The Star of Bethlehem

In Suffolk, we are still in Tier 2, but the other side of the River Stour is Essex, and our friends Robin and Yvonne live in a tiny village just over the border, so they have been placed into Tier 4. Some shops in Clare, that always prides itself on its position in the world's geography stakes, have already posted up notices in their windows: "no one from Essex will be served!" Not sure if they will demand to see passports, but there must be a lot of ill feeling from neighbours and family who cannot meet up over this supposedly festive time, even though they live in tiny neighbouring villages. 

Watching the hunt and remembering Lady Docker

The hunt passes before me

Coming back from Clare, I was held up at the sight of a hunt in the far fields, the riders behind a distant hedge going slowly after the hounds. The hounds broke through, circled a wood, then came up the fields towards the road, crossing in front of me. The Master crossed behind them, sounding his horn to summon the stragglers as they ploughed through the mud and across the road ahead; then away through the next field in pursuit of the scent (a drag, since live hunting is banned), and called across the fields some strange shout to the hounds to steer them back to the course.

A lone farmer patrolling the perimeter of one of his fields, came up beside me. I asked him what he thought of the hunt, traipsing across his newly sewn fields, but he didn't mind. He added that the saboteurs were entitled to their opinion, as long as they didn't resort to violence. But out here in the quiet lanes and fields, there was no sign of opposition, and most country people respect these ancient traditions and pursuits.    

We watched Andrew Marr's show, The New Elizabethans, tonight. It was the last episode of three enjoyable reminders for us oldies of our shared past 65 years. One feature was Lord and Lady Docker, and their gold-plated Daimler. My brother, Richard, phoned to remind me that it was built in 1951 when our dad was working at the Daimler plant in Coventry. We lived in Leicester, but he travelled each day to Coventry by motorcycle for work, until we finally moved there. He was a wood worker responsible for the wooden trim, and fitted the trim and veneer dashboard for that very car, so his work toured the world and now sits in a motor museum.

Lady Docker's gold-plated Daimler dash

On skin - perfect and not

When I was a GP, I held a post as theatre doctor to the Forum Theatre in Billingham. It is a huge theatre, with a stage second only to Drury Lane. It was built by money from ICI in its glory days when they were the town's biggest employer and poured money into social amenities for the town. There, they used to design and build sets ready to open in the West End, but the various shows always rehearsed and played to Billingham first, so we saw many great plays and performers. One such was Barbara Windsor, who starred in the title role of the musical Calamity Jane. I was called to see her one afternoon before the show opened, and was taken up to her dressing room. She stood there, 4ft 10 inches of blond beauty, wrapped in a dressing gown, describing her symptoms of a sore throat in her laughing cockney accent. Suddenly, she threw the dressing gown wide open, and said with her innocent grin, "do you want to examine me?" Underneath, she was completely naked. I managed to reply, "I only need to look at your throat," and left after giving her a prescription. I followed her career with interest after that, and was sorry for her death, but she leaves a wealth of great films and memories.

I was called back to the same show a couple of days later to examine Henry Miller, the bar tender. He had gone down with measles, so they had to find a replacement at short notice. Fortunately it was not a singing role, so they found an actor who could read his lines. They taped the scrip to has tray, so he could read it as he went round serving drinks and clearing tables. I was called back several times after that, as various cast members developed odd rashes or spots and worried in case they had measles too.

It is 4:00 a.m., and I am awake scratching. My skin is the opposite of Barbara Windsor's perfection: it is covered in pock marks, open sores and bleeding scratch lines. Despite taking Night Nurse, and using some new emollient Ann sent for, I have been woken  each hour with severe itching demanding to be scratched. I can only think that people who have constant pain must be worse, but it is a terrible state to be in. It is now the whole body, from scalp to toe, and I am scratching in my sleep, covering the bed with blood. My arms seem to be not under my control, and I fight them to try and stop them scratching, but they always win. The bed shakes, and poor Ann has been sleeping in the spare bed downstairs this last week. I take antihistamines, and am very tired through the day, unable to concentrate on work or find energy to do much. It is a dreadful state.

Outside is not much better. It is dark by four, and has rained most days so the paths are mud and I have to wear wellingtons to walk the dogs. Although the Prime Minister has graciously allowed a few days remission to see friends and family at Christmas, Italy and The Netherlands have joined Germany in enforcing a strict lockdown over Christmas and New Year, so all family gatherings are banned and Boris is under pressure to do the same for England. Whatever happens, it is doomed to be a gloomy time. People have already made plans for gatherings and reunions; to ban it now will trigger much frustration, and we are already talking about if we dare break such a ban, and if so wondering if our guests would also be prepared to come. 

Now I have made a cup of tea and will get back to bed to attempt another hour's sleep before waking for the next bout of scratching.

Old age in winter

 Dolly Parton once said, "Old age is not for sissies". It is certainly not a time I would recommend anyone to look forward to, despite the hype about "having time in retirement", or "being free for the first time in your life". 

For the average healthy person, one's strength and mental abilities are on a slow upward trajectory from 20 to 40. Thereafter they seem to plateau for 10-20 years as one gains in experience and "wisdom" (I have made and seen many mistakes), but declines in strength and mental dexterity. After 60, the downward slope begins, where one can remain in reasonably good health but gets slower and gradually weaker, tiring more easily and taking longer to learn new abilities. After 70, this downward slope begins to steepen rapidly, and I'm speaking from experience. One acquires more ill health or disability; innovative thought is like wading through porridge; my muscles are like thin strings; and my lungs like leaky squeezeboxes. Looking ahead one awaits the return of cancer, or a stroke or heart attack and sees the abyss to which we all must plunge, the final fall over a cliff edge with no wings or safety net. More and more bits of me ache and my skin is being chewed by rats -  not your gentle, domesticated, tame, soft furry white things, but large, brown sewer beasts that bare black fangs and carry infective poisons in their jaws. Unfortunately, I'm bleeding over the sheets, the quilt cover and the pillows, so Ann had to arrange extra bed changes and laundry this week. But - as our wonderful neighbour from Clare, Pauline, told us when I was but a youthful 50 and she in her arthritic 80's, "what's the alternative, dear?"

Hundon people had organized a tree-planting dig in for the community yesterday in part of the old allotments. They had persuaded a local solar energy firm to donate a large sum to buy the saplings, and wanted as many folk to turn up with spades as possible. About 50 people turned up, and I had every intention of going and doing my bit to green the community. Only later in the afternoon did I remember, when Ann suddenly said, "weren't you going to the tree planting this morning?" Ouch - 'tis but one more example of my forgetfulness for it had completely slipped my mind.

The daughter of Sylvia, one of Ann's friends, has tested positive for Covid. She's hardly ill, no more than a cold, but she was tested because her son has it. Ann herself has been unwell the last few days. Her BP has been oscillating wildly, and her pulse with it. But she has had no cough or temperature, so although it was probably some viral infection, we don't think she's had Covid, so will not be going for tests. Today it was more settled, so hopefully she is on the mend now. 

Winter comes to Hundon

I woke early for two telecons, and through the window was unforcast snow, falling heavily all morning. By the afternoon when I walked the dogs it had mostly melted, leaving wide spread flooding. 

We have now received good news that a vaccine is riding to bring salvation from this interminable lockdown. It will be interesting to see what sort of organisation the government and NHS bring to its distribution. It certainly won't be through GPs - they've been invisible for the past nine months, and are already insisting they must be given more money if they're to do their job. A&E have been all but closed, and routine admissions are close to zero. However, we have one hope: the army are being involved in the distribution, so there's a chance of success. On a personal level, I'm classified in the third group to be offered vaccination; Ann is in the fifth group. We have been careful recently about meeting people or going into shops, and Ann hasn't been to the hairdresser for much of the year. But now we are taking extra care, as it would be unfortunate to get Covid so close to being offered immunity. Though we may just break our rule for Christmas.

Our conspiratorial neighbour has an interesting take on Pfizer's role. She states that Bill Gates, who wants to achieve world domination, has shares in Pfizer and is a major contributor to WHO, so naturally this makes him complicit in starting the pandemic and plotting to make a vaccine available through which he can inject microchips into the world population. The contortions her mind goes through is mind boggling - but she firmly accepts it all as gospel. 

I have broken another wine glass. I am very clumsy, and knocked it off the table as I put it down. Last week, Bronte broke one. I had set it on a low table next to me and she came up wagging her tail and flicked it off. They make a hell of a mess, with wine and glass splinters scattered across the floor and carpet. We have to shut the dogs out, and I end on my knees fishing up shards with wine sodden tissues.

Flooding following snow in Clare

The impenetrable fog of politics

Driving over the hills to Clare, the fog lay impenetrable as that surrounding the future of so many in this Covid time. We have been upped to tier 2 with its greater restrictions; other areas fare worse, being jacked up to tier 3, full lockdown in all but name. My own instinct is still that, for freedom's and the economy's sakes, the tiers should have been arranged by personal risk rather than blanket bans to everyone by area. The young and healthy (say all under 50 or 55 years) should be given total freedom for work, education, and visiting each other, with isolation only if they are ill with the dreaded CV. All others should isolate according to age and risk factors. I have been sent an official notice that I am extremely vulnerable, so it makes sense for me to lock myself away and see no one from outside; but healthy people in their 60's or 70's could take minor risks by going to shops, or meeting people at a distance. But sense does not rule this country. If Doom and Gloom (Whitty Vallance) were advising to reduce overall deaths in the population, they would no doubt make drinking and smoking verboten. 

To emphasise the gloom of the fog and the lockdowns, they were preparing a horse drawn hearse in Clare park ready for a funeral this afternoon. It looks as though the Clare Godfather has died. We were all told to keep clear of the area and keep dogs on a short lead. 

The safety and efficacy of the Oxford vaccine is being doubted because the effective dose appears to have been discovered accidentally. I would like to reassure my few readers that serendipity plays a major role in chemistry and drug discovery. Most people know that Viagra was a new Pfizer drug  expected to work in the treatment of angina but, instead of relieving anginal pain, it induced unwanted penile erections in some patients. I was with Pfizer when they held the biggest party I’ve been to with the launch of Viagra. Librium was placed on the shelf but was found again by accident literally during a, laboratory cleanup, and submitted for clinical trials before they threw it away. Aniline dyes, LSD, penicillin, Warfarin, digoxin, the anti-depressant Tofranil, the anti-psychotic Largactil were all serendipitous discoveries. Indeed, it is thought that 6% of useful drugs are found by luck, so my guess is that the Oxford vaccine will do very well..

We still hope to host our Christmas day family celebration. It looks as though three families will be allowed to gather, so that's us, MA and Sam and their children, and Eds and Andre plus Andre's sister. She comes over from Brazil at the weekend and will be staying for a couple of nights. Ann has ordered the traditional lucky dip presents in anticipation that all will go ahead normally.

Good news all round

AstraZeneca are about to release their vaccine, shown to be effective and safe. This is wonderful news towards restoring normality and freedom, and we can't wait to get in line to receive it. A few people we know are hesitant because it is so new and has been approved so quickly, but the speed is only a reflection of its rating as an urgent top priority, with research funding poured in, and thousands of volunteers readily available. I know this personally, because a couple of times the study I am engaged in has been put back because recruits were being snapped up for vaccine trials! However, its safety has been proven as rigorously as any new drug, and it still has to be approved by regulators, but they are fast tracking it as a priority. 

Not withstanding, a few people like our neighbours are posting total fiction in their Facebook pages, proclaiming such unbelievable rubbish as "It is a plot by Bill Gates⋯ to inject humanity with a vaccine for covid19 that will change your DNA. ⋯ I want to reduce mankind using vaccines. ⋯ I have already destroyed millions⋯ , How am I able to get away with this? Because you think this is a dumb conspiracy theory." Against such blind ignorance, there is no debate. One can only accept there are dangerous idiots at large in the world and try to mitigate against it.

Further good news: Andre has received a good bonus from his company in recognition of the excellent work he's doing; and to break up the monotony of home imprisonment, we went for a picnic in Thetford forest to enjoy the beautiful autumnal day with the dogs. We took them for a long walk, then had coffee and some of Ann's wonderful home baked cakes in the car. It is great to get out and feel alive again.

Walking in Thetford Forest

A Haverhill actor in The Crown

Edwin and Tom Byrne in Bugsy Malone

We have all been watching The Crown although, with it's emphasis on the marriage and arguments of the Prince and Princess of Wales, the most recent series has been less gripping than the previous ones. Interestingly, Ann realised that the actor who plays Prince Andrew, the Duke of York, is Tom Byrne. His original name was Tom Bailey, and he played Fat Sam alongside Edwin who was Knuckles, in Bugsy Malone in a Haverhill drama production 13 years ago. He has come a long way, and we all send him our congratulations. 

We still can't get any slots with Tesco for home deliveries, so have to visit for a shop. Coming back we took a circuitous route to get a breath of air and see different surroundings to the four walls of our lockdown prison. One of the village butchers is in an old thatched house, and Ann suddenly spotted an unusual piece of thatch work on the roof - a dog running off pulling a string of sausages hanging from its mouth. We were so impressed we stopped to take a photo.

The fields are so muddy, it's hard to walk the dogs there as they come back needing a bath. To help sleep, two days ago I took a dose of Night Nurse. The next morning, I was still dead to world when there was a tremendous, repeated banging on the door. It was 8 a.m., and Wayne the wheel repairer was there to see to the car which I'd kerbed. I had completely forgotten. This morning, I didn't get up till 8:30, long after my normal time, and I still feel dopey! It's powerful stuff - better than any sleeping pills! But it meant I was late getting to Clare to walk them. Clare is getting more and more crowded each week, and today was particularly bad with their Saturday market. There was nowhere to park in the centre, and people were queuing to get in the car park. I went on to Stoke by Clare, a tidy, typical Suffolk village, and was able to park by the village green and walk them there.

Official Secrets

 In this time of lockdown, we are watching more films than ever. We were particularly moved by one on Amazon Prime last night - Official Secrets, the story of Katharine Gun who exposed a communique from GCHQ describing how the US spied illegally on a number of diplomatic representatives to the UN to pressure them into supporting the invasion of Iraq. Her defence was that the Iraq war would have been illegal because the then Attorney General, Lord Goldsmith, had stated it would not be a lawful war. His advice was later changed following pressure from the US government. Even before Gun's disclosure, a majority of the population disbelieved that Iraq was capable of going to war against the west. This was supported later by Dr David Kelly, an authority on biological warfare who had leaked details of the 'dodgy dossier' which stated that some of Iraq's chemical and biological weapons were deployable within 45 minutes at the insistence of Alastair Campbell.

The most Saddam Hussein had been able to do was to invade Kuwait and set fire to the oil wells. I remember marching against the invasion and war in London on 15 February 2003. It was the largest protest event in human history with 6-10 million people marching in 60 countries, and the only occasion I have ever bothered to protest by my physical presence. The bus and tube into central London were packed with anti-war protesters and the ticket people refused to take fares. I emerged in bright sunlight at Westminster to join more than 1 million protesters. It was an amazing feeling of unity, which Blair and his government ignored. Worse, they produced false evidence, were complicit in breaking the law governing diplomatic privilege, and lead us into an illegal and unnecessary war. I remember reading in The Lancet that the wave of Awe and Terror alone killed an estimated 120,000 civilians. The invasion and subsequent war killed up to 1 million people in Iraq and cost the lives of more than 4,500 US and British troops. 

Hitherto, Blair had been one of the most popular leaders in recent history. His Northern Ireland peace agreement alone would have secured his legacy. If he had had the courage to stand up to Bush rather than appease him. Bush denied that Blair was his "poodle" but remarked that his style of leadership was "dogged". It is customary for we on the left to denigrate Margaret Thatcher, but her war against the Falklands was technically legal and justified; her worst crime was ordering the sinking of one ship just outside the official war zone. Her crimes against the unions (particularly the miners' union) are beginning to seem farsighted and necessary, bringing Britain screaming and kicking out of 19th century practices. Compared with Thatcher, Blair was an evil warmonger, a betrayer of true socialism whose actions pushed Labour into the wilderness for a generation.

Not another lockdown!

Bronte

Bronte has bounced back to health, despite the vet's prognostication of doom. I assume the sarcoma must still be there, hovering like the dark angel as it slowly grows prior to some fearful sudden collapse, but we are enjoying as much quality time as we can. Ann found a fortifying puppy food and this seems to have given strength and rejuvenation -  she wolfs the food down, and runs around like a lively young dog in the park. I thought I'd better do a portrait of her while in fine fettle, to add to that of Byron. She has a few dark spots above her nose that the breeder called "her naughty spots", so I've included those as well.

Last week before the great lockdown we entertained our friends Rae and Malcolm. Unfortunately we can't see Robin and Yvonne as they're trapped in Essex, which was under a Tier 2 restriction. Even though they're a hamlet of few houses just over the border from Suffolk, they count as "unclean" while we remain relatively pure.

Then at the w/e we entertained Ben and Kaz. They had been due to have a week's holiday at a caravan site in Yarmouth, but it was cancelled at the last moment because of the impending lockdown, so we had them for a couple of nights. On Tuesday we visited Matthew, Rosie and Arwen with them for the last time for a while, then on Wednesday they set off for home via the coast for one last trip, getting home like Cinderella, just before the stroke of midnight.

Ben

The only "entertainment" on TV at present is the wretched US election. They have the most bizarre system whereby as many as 20 electoral votes can hang on a tiny difference between two huge state-wide votes, so the whole thing is being contested by Trump who demands the counting stop, and multiple recounts until he gets a favourable result. 

I am fortunate that I can still work from home. We have regular t/c's and mail work to each other. Many throughout the country are now furloughed, or have lost their jobs. So many places are closing, never to reopen, it's sickening. I have received a "personal" email from our glorious Secretary of Health and local MP, Matt Hancock, advising me that I have been identified as "clinically extremely vulnerable and at highest risk." It goes on to advise me what I must no longer do: it allows me to breath, but basically there is nothing else I can do. However, the dogs need walking and we want to visit a garden centre (for some reason they must be considered essential, whereas pubs are not!) So today I drove to Clare to walk the dogs; that is my only exercise, but with everything else shut the park was crowded and it's hard to avoid people. It would have been so much better to leave us to take responsibility for our own health: this dictatorial attitude is destroying people and communities, as well as livelihoods and independence. 

Clare ghosts

 

The old station, Clare

A fine, sunny day to walk the dogs. Bronte has made a remarkable recovery from the sickness that took her to the vets, so today I took her to Clare Park. Walking along the old station platform, we saw an eirie group of people spaced out along the other platform like ghosts waiting for the train. They silently stood in line unmoving, with the dogs looking across unbelievingly. Standing on the platforms, it is too easy to hear ghost trains whistling on the approach, and imagine the puffs of smoke glimpsed through the trees in the distance. The buildings and platforms are unchanged; only the tracks are missing like a sad case of Alzheimer's, when the shell is present, but the light has been turned off. 

 Today as the clocks go back, Ann created the Christmas cakes. This is a yearly ritual; she used to make half a dozen for various friends and relatives, but this year it is down to four cakes. The kitchen becomes a wonderfully scented mass production line, and both ovens are turned on ready to receive them. Later, as the cakes were still cooking and blocking the oven, we went on to Long Melford to walk the dogs in the huge Rodbridge park in the lingering autumnal sun. We had al fresco coffee at Jenny Wren's cafe; she is an artist, selling her work as cards. Ann mentioned I had taken up art, so she invited us to a small art group she runs that meets to sketch in the area, weather permitting. Then, the ovens still being occupied, on for an early dinner at the Bull.

The BBC demand a fee

There has been much protest by the older faction of society by the reintroduction of charges for the BBC TV license for the over 75's. I never used to mind paying, for we got good programmes with no adverts which alone was worth the fee. But nowadays, the Corporation's avowed intent is to woo the young - with scrappy soaps, modern music and woke plays. Nothing gets performed unless its by a black person or a young woman - preferably both. The news is now more of a social media filled with vox-pop than a sober and balanced account of the world at large.

I eventually had a demand through the post to pay or face some unspecified consequences, so wrote a cheque and completed their form to post back. By the time I reached the post office, the envelope had gone AWOL, but getting home I found it shivering and soaked on the drive. I had dropped it and run over it in the rain, so it was dripping wet and muddied, its innards timeless twins stuck together and my poor pen marks streaked like modern art. I had to admit defeat and pay the bill on line.

Because my shoulder still hurts from the fall weeks ago (see a touch of sun), today I visited the physiotherapist. An efficient grey-haired woman with a commanding voice, she unleashed a barage of tests for the shoulder that covered every possible movement, and some I would have thought impossible. She pinpointed the trouble to some tendons over the joint, inflammed from the fall. She suggested some passive movements to help ease it, with an appointment to return in a week for another battering.

   

Meeting baby Arwen

Grandad John gets a cuddle

We are fortunate that quarantine has been lifted from Santorini, allowing us freedom to roam immediately on our return (except for Wales, and most of England, since so many have been forced into Tier 3 lockdowns). We were thus able to legitimately travel to King's Lynn to finally see our new granddaughter, Arwen, now two and a half weeks old, and back up to 4lbs weight. She is a model baby at this stage, only waking to cry for a feed every 3 to 4 hours, and taking her milk so easily even I could feed her. She is perfectly formed yet still so weak her head feels far too heavy for her tiny neck. She sat on my knee while we were eating, but I went rigid, frightened to stir in case I woke her or she wriggled her unsupported head free to flop. Matthew and Rosie are taking to parenthood brilliantly and have successfully adjusted their lives round her already, as one always has to with a new baby. 

On the home front, Edwin is scheduled to return to Cambridge today, ready to pick up his partner Andre from Heathrow in the early morning. Edwin too is fortunate not to have to quarantine from Greece - he has had to do so twice this year already, and will have to again from tomorrow as Brazil is in the midst of the raging epidemic. According to Wikipedia, "Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) rights in Brazil are among the most advanced in Latin America and the world, with LGBT people having marriage rights available nationwide since May 2013", and it seems the São Paulo Gay Pride Parade is the world's largest LGBT Pride celebration. Despite this protection in law, gay rights are socially not acceptable in Brazil with huge prejudice against them fuelled by Bolsonaro's declared opposition, and in – contrast to the law – Brazil is reported to have the highest LGBT murder rate in the world (380 in 2017), leaving Andre rightly reluctant to come out. However, Brazil also has one of the highest homicide rates in the world, with 68,880 murders in the same period. The percentage of gay murders is therefore only 0.5%, yet they account for 14% of the population in Rio de Janeiro, which suggests that it might actually be safer to be gay than straight! These figures seem contradictory, so I must ask Andre about it once they're out of quarantine. Nevertheless, Brazil must be a strange contrast to Cambridge, where all their colleagues and friends are so accepting of them.

Good news from King's Lynn

 

Rosie, Arwen and Matthew

Arwen's first walk

Some good news from King's Lynn. Baby Arwen is home, just two weeks old. She had lost weight, down to just over 3lb, and had been moved to ICU with tube feeding. But gradually she began to feed from the bottle, and her weight has now returned to her birth weight of 4lb. The tube has been removed, and she is definitely more interested in the world, though we gather her interest does not reach much past her bottle just yet. We now have a picture of the threesome at home, and she has been for her first walk on one of the rare sunny days. 

We finally returned home, a day late but glad to be back and relieve Rae and Malcolm who had gamely stayed an extra day to manage the dogs. Bronte is very weak, mostly just lying down and eating little, but she does not seem to be in pain or distress. We visited the vet this morning to get an update first hand. she has a large splenic mass that the vet thinks is a hemangiosarcoma, a particularly aggressive cancer with a poor prognosis, with or without surgery. We are reluctant to move straight to surgery as there is a high risk she might die under the knife, so we have opted for a needle biopsy to confirm that it is malignant and not benign. In the meanwhile she is to be kept quiet, with gentle walks on the lead and no running or jumping.

Clouds gather over Santorini

 How quickly does honey turn to ashes. We are stuck in Santorini, and though the sun still shines it has turned into a cold and malevolent prison. This afternoon, we had a phone call from the vet in Haverhill to let us know that our dog, Bronte, was seriously ill with a large sarcoma in the spleen. There was already evidence of metastases, and she was considered to have but a short time to live. Mary-Ann is going to pick her up and look after her. But BA have just rung to say their flight home tomorrow has been cancelled, and we will be stuck here until Friday at the earliest. Edwin has been looking for other flights, but nothing is available, all alternative flights have already been booked or cancelled by the other airlines. It is as though war has been declaired, and we are caught behind the lines, desperate to get out.

STOP PRESS: We now learn that the Air Traffic Controllers are going on 24hour strike tomorrow (Thursday) and that's why the flight's cancelled. All flights have been cancelled from Santorini, and Athens, so no one is leaving Greece until Friday. Apparantly, the strike is because they haven't been paid their wages - Greece is nearly bankrupt, so we can't even blame their greed. Everyone needs to be paid for the work they do, but it's the poor travelling public who are paying. It is certainly not the way to encourage a return of tourists to Greece. We have had to fight for one more night in the hotel: everyone who should have left needs an extra day too, and they've run out of rooms. We've managed to keep ours, but poor Edwin has to change rooms early tomorrow morning.

Santorini sun

Our holiday in Santorini has finally happened. We originally chose October to go, thinking the world would be well past Covid by now. Ha ha! When we left, we even faced two week's quarantine on our return, though Greece has had so few cases, but happily that restriction has just been dropped, so we should be free to roam on our return - unless we face new local lockdowns. We hear on the news that three areas circling Hundon have rising cases: Haverhill, Newmarket and Bury, so they may impose some local restrictions for West Suffolk.

Santorini is the after effect of the biggest volcanic eruption in recorded history. The huge blast blew out a volcanic ring 18 km wide, now erroded in many places to form the cyclades, round a vast, deep sea-filled caldera.  Our hotel is built down the nearly vertical side of the ring, and in common with all other hotels in this part of the island, the rooms are cave-like holes drilled into the rock, lit by windows facing the caldera. The town above, Oia, is a single narrow road that peters out to a footpath paved with marble slabs and lined with beatifully clean pristine shops, that still seem untouched at the end of the season, through lack of visitors. Everywhere is quiet, the many restaurants and bars mostly empty. The locals are delighted to get our custom, and cheered when they heard on the BBC news that the Cyclades had been removed from the British quarantine list.

The steps up to the town from the hotel rooms are steep and irregular, cut into the side of the cliff face. The porters run up and down carrying suitcases, or heavy industrial cleaners, or even one with a fridge balanced on his shoulder to replace some failed appliance. But we find the steps hard going, with me gasping for breath and having to pause regularly, and Ann struggling with her broken foot. We have bought her a walking stick to help her balance and footing. We did not chose this hotel, having selected one further round near a beach, but it closed early and BA transferred us without giving choice. We manage by limiting our trips to town, and timing them carefully.

   

Preparing for Santorini

Ben captured in oils

Ben has been the hardest subject to capture in oils. He has deep set, thoughtful eyes, and a half smile in a rugged, handsome face that hides a deep personality. I have worked over and struggled with this portrait for a long time, but have to end at some point. Mere canvas does not do Ben justice, but I hope he will not be too dissatisfied. 

Today, finally, we are off on our much delayed holiday. We have been unable to build excitement by looking forward to it, knowing it could be cancelled at any moment. Also, the treat is dampened by the thought of having to wear masks all day, possibly even when walking in the streets, and browsing in shops or casual meetings are no-gos. We were originally going to Thailand but that was cancelled long ago. Then we had a holiday booked with Lucy and her family at CentreParc and that too went by the board. Now we leave for Santorini in the morning. It is an early flight so we will spend a night in a Heathrow hotel. 

We spent yesterday getting ready with a last minute visit to the garden centre for hay, sawdust and food for the guinea pig, and extra dog treats and food. We have to make sure the animals will be alright.

Byron - another picture completed!

The smallest pub in England

We visited Bury last week, the first time for a while. I bought a book and a few bits from the art shop while Ann looked for holiday clothes. She found very little - the shops have removed their summer things, and replaced them with drab winter gear. Everywhere is quiet; customers have deserted the town. The Nutmeg, billing itself the smallest pub in England, that can normally only take ten customers crowding together at the bar and was always busy, has been forced by the new regulations to put tables on the pavement, but even there, there were but two customers. 

Our two gardeners have been slaving in the continuous rain for eight hours. They insisted on coming, despite the weather. It wasn't raining when they started, and hoped Ann's description of the weather was pessimistic, but they are just starting out and need all the work they can get. They did a brilliant job though.

I have been working on a portrait of Byron, as a commission request from Ann. He only has a black coat flecked with white and brown, so compared with subtle skin tones it didn't take too long. I finally finished it this afternoon as the gardeners buzzed outside with their lawnmower and hedge trimmer. I do love working with oils though, as the colours seem to shade so well and give such crisp outlines.

A portrait of Byron

 

Welcome to some good news

Welcome to baby Arwen

 Good news at last - after a tumultuous day and evening, during which Rosie had bad pre-eclampsia with all its symptoms, they team at King's Lynn decided to operate this morning to get baby out quickly. We had a message just after 10am that Rosie was going down to theatre, but then silence. We could only wait anxiously, fearing for them more with each moment that dragged slowly past. Then, in mid afternoon came a call from Matthew to say she had been delivered safely and was well. Baby was small as expected - but just over 4lb (nearly 2kg), so bigger than we feared, and able to breath unaided, though incubated and given oxygen like any prem. So welcome to the world, baby Arwen, and we all look forward to meeting you. Alas it may be a little while, as under the new rules we are all barred from hospital visits.

Last night, we had an unexpected invite to visit Eds and Andre for a meal, to celebrate the end of their two week quarantine. They made us welcome and served a grand veggie roast meal for us with all trimmings. It will be the last time we see Andre for a while; he goes back to Brazil on Sunday for his sister's wedding, and will be in quarantine again for another two weeks when he returns. 

And Luke gets a new car

Now another bit of good news - grandson Luke, having passed his driving test (delayed because of Covid) has got his new car.

Tonight, we will welcome Rae and Malcolm again to another take-away meal, and hopefully a chance to watch the video we couldn't see last week because of the blackout. They will be coming to look after the dogs on Sunday while we're away, so this is the last chance for a get-together before then.

Fish and chips by candle light

Candlelit supper with friends

The ice cream van no longer sits in Clare park, a sure indication of summer's end. Yesterday, an autumnal gale swept Hundon, dislodging branches and carpeting the road and lawn with an early fall of green leaves. Miles away, a falling tree brought down a power line, leaving Hundon and many other villages without power for twelve hours; normally a small problem, but tonight we had invited our friends Malcolm and Rae to a meal and video. Happily, our local pub, the Rose and Crown, now does meals to take out, so we were able to have a candle-lit supper of fish and chips for them, and mushroom stroganof for us, helped along by copious wine. We were able to make coffee with a portable gas stove, but we have no portable heater and the room grew steadily colder, falling to below 15 degrees, leaving us wrapped in coats and blankets by the time we went to bed. The power came on again about 2 a.m., waking me with the television coming back on and the door bell chiming.

I am tortured by three demons who straddle my body each night. The first strikes when I go to bed, with pruritis moving as ball lightning across my body; first the neck then the arms, migrating to the back which I can't scratch, like a plague of red ants digging in with pneumatic excavators, leaving vivid red spots to mark their passage and each bite. I take ibuprofen and plaster various creams and lotions to the points I can reach. An hour or so after getting to sleep, I awaken with the pain in my arm where I fell (see: A touch of sun in darkening days). I take co-codamol and go down stairs to make a cup of tea and lie in my chair where it gradually eases and I can return to bed. Then an hour later the third devil strikes, bringing cramps to both legs. I take a quinine tablet and hobble round the bathroom on blended knees massaging my legs till it eases. Then in another hour, the arm pain returns. Ann has propped a pillow under it to see if soft support helps, then generously gets up to see to the dogs giving me another precious hour to try and sleep. 

We get two gardeners

 We finally managed to get a gardener in response to Ann's request on the Hundon Facebook page, following the failure of the previous one to return. He is called Henry, and came round immediately as he's just starting out, and had bought a sparkling new lawnmower. He eyed the garden and said it would take two people all day, so I'm glad I didn't attempt to start it. He then left to pick up his mate, George, and between them they have done a very thorough job. At one point, there was a sudden deluge, and being green they tried to keep mowing the lawn though the rain must have been blinding them. We suggested  they put the mower in the side shed and wait in the house with a cup of tea and a biscuit.

Going to Clare with the dogs, I was unable to park anywhere on the High Street or in the Market Square, so ended up behind the Swan again. Like falling from a horse, I think it best to face the place of the fall without trepidation or hesitation. Getting back, I thought it only fair to order a drink as a token payment towards using the Swan's carpark. The new government rules are complicated. I sat in the garden with the dogs, but the garden serving hatch is now closed so I went in. It's table service only so we're not allowed to order drinks from the bar. I duly ordered a brandy to take out, but Nick brought out a glass with only a two-thirds measure, as he'd not got the new order in yet. But at least he let me have it "on the house", as I carried it carefully back into the garden. 

The pain in my shoulder from the fall is now reduced to a dull ache. If it were in the mouth, I'd see a dentist and have it out, as it does make driving harder. The shoulder won't easily move round to follow the wheel, so I have to feed it through the right hand using the left. 

A touch of sun in darkening days

Sunrise over Hundon

 It was raining much of yesterday and overnight, but this morning, as I listened to Bach before seven, the sun broke suddenly through. It came in an unexpected blaze, throwing huge red rays across the sky for a few moments before dark curtains of cloud rolled across and the rain returned.

Being elderly and susceptible, Ann and I were meant to have our flu jabs yesterday. We arrived to find the hall locked, so contacted the surgery for information. They said it should have been the day before, and swore they had told us the correct date, but I know Ann wrote it straight on the calendar when they phoned us. Also, the same thing happened to Mary-Anne, so they have previous. They've now given us a new date which I asked them to write down, so we now have the evidence if there's another error.

Being in Clare, we arranged to meet for a drink in the Swan after Ann did one or two errands and I walked the dogs. Coming back, I took a short cut between two paths down a grassy slope when my foot caught in a strand of barbed wire hidden in the grass. It gripped my shoe so I couldn't regain balance, and toppled like a felled tree onto the grass. Happily, I'm just bruised and nothing seems broken. Fishing mud and greenery from my arm and trousers I rejoined Ann for a welcome brandy, its warmth and vitality a brilliant restorative for aches and shock.

Yesterday was grandson Luke's 18th birthday. We send a card and money towards the new car he hopes for, with apologies for not being able to see him but wishes for an enjoyable day. He replied saying, much as he'd love to go wild, the curfew, sixth form work and mid-week tiredness prevented him. Oh, sober youth - how you are restricted. 

Yesterday too, Ann phoned her cousin, Joyce, in Kent. She's 92 and full of life. She's recently taken up a vegan diet and says she's never felt so healthy! Her granddaughter is a clairvoyant and told her she still had many years to live, but would die quietly in her chair. Now whenever she feels under the weather, Joyce refuses to sit in her chair until she feels better.

Hospital visits and the lack thereof

Traditional Selfie with Rosie, Matts and baby Snibbling

We drove to King's Lynne on Sunday in Ann's super new Mini, to offer some little support to Rosie through her late pregnancy. Her infant girl is called Snibbling whilst she lies in utero, but unfortunately she is on the low side of the normal weight line for her age. This requires Rosie to sit quietly at home and repeated visits to hospital for scans to monitor her progress. Happily, she has the benefit of her mother (also Ann) in residence to sit with her while Matts is at work. We managed to take them out to a good restaurant to provide a break.

Yesterday she attended hospital again. They did the scan, but her blood pressure was elevated so they added a blood test and made her wait for the result. They said it would be one hour, but it ended up a six hour wait. Covid has proved a cruel disease, separating parents during scans and labour, such critical times for developing early bonding with a new baby. Matthew was at work yesterday, so Rosie's mother went with her, but was not allowed to wait with her, so she had to sit alone in a bare corridor for six hours. Happily, Rosie was then allowed home; but the whole thing is completely uncivilised, even barbaric, for its inhumanity. 

Even worse than the long wait alone, many people are being denied treatment altogether for serious diseases such as cancer or heart disease. I know from personal experience, as I should have a cancer checkup every three months but haven't seen a specialist for nearly nine months, with no future date given. All I get is a phone call asking if I'm still alive. For people in pain or potentially dying, this is more than barbaric, it is cruelty. GPs and hospitals should be ashamed of themselves, refusing treatment to those most in need just in case beds are needed for Covid patients. We went out for a meal last night in case we can't go again with more lockdown looming. We meet waiters and receptionists like everyone else directly though with caution. But GPs are too frightened to meet patients face-to-face, preferring to leave them to suffer or let A&E sort them out. 

I am currently medic for an early-phase clinical study being run at a hospital in London. The study has already been halted because of the first lockdown, but had just restarted when last week we had a message to say recruitment for our study was being put on hold again for a few weeks because they had a Covid-related study to run. So even here, Covid has been given priority over our disease, which is hard for non-Covid sufferers, and leaves us twiddling our thumbs again. It is all madness, my friends.

Birthdays and car days

Ann's (my?) new Mini

Ann has bought a new car, a red Mini automatic. We had gone to the Mini showroom in Bury to look at a Green Mini Cooper on display in the front showrooms, but then wandered round the back of the building and saw the red one parked in an anonymous corner without a price on. It seems it had been brought up from the Milton Keynes showroom for a customer who had looked at it three times, but still couldn't make up their mind. It was due to go back to Milton Keynes on Monday morning for another demonstration, so we only had a short time to consider it. Ann fell in love with it, so on Sunday we paid a deposit ready to collect later in the week. When we finally collected it, the salesperson told us Milton Keynes had already sold it to their customer there! Unfortunately, they hadn't flagged it up on the system before it was sold in Bury, and as the salesperson said, "possession is nine-tenths of the law".

Ann liked her previous Mini Clubman, but not the manual gearbox. Unfortunately, since she fell off the step three weeks ago, her foot is still painful and swollen, so it's possible she's fractured the calcaneus or another tarsal bone. Ann refuses to waste time trying to get into A&E so we've strapped it up, but the pain prevents her from driving. The result is, in effect I now have a second car as I will have to drive Ann in it to anywhere she needs to go. Interestingly, the trim is by "John Cooper", which was the name of my sister-in-law Chris's brother (see Remembering three deaths), so we can remember him whenever we use the car.

Last night was another meeting of the unofficial Hundon Men's Society, but it may be the last for a while if Boris choses to curtail our liberty once more in the name of science.  Five of us attended, so we were well within the Government's new guide lines. The chat wandered across many subjects, but circled for a while round our mortality. One guy used to work in joiners shop in his youth, making coffins. He still lived with his mother at that time, who gave him a Lyons Individual Apple Pie to take to work each day, He described how the coffins were fashioned in the traditional way from English elm, planed to a smooth finish and lined with velvet and a cushion. The bottom of the coffin was flushed with molten pitch to keep in body fluids, and the lining had a deep padding below it to keep the corpse comfy. The padding was made from the wood shavings, but as a young man he always included the box from the apple pie, and an empty box of Wills Embassy cigarettes to bulk up the padding and keep the deceased company.  

I continue work on my paintings, but oils are much slower to complete than acrylic, which dries quickly so one can add new layers. I have now tried my first non-portrait subject, an old Brixham sailing trawler in full rig. The result is tolerable, but I find it is a much harder subject than portraits. I shall stick to painted faces for a while yet.

Brixham Sailing Trawler

Ben is going north today for grandson Luke's birthday celebration. It was to have been held at his mother's, the Great X, when my other son Dan could flaunt his intolerance by refusing to go if I were there. But we are reluctant to mingle with crowds in the north, so the venue has now been moved to Dan's house for him to host it. As things have turned out, we may be needed more down here anyway, as Matt's partner Rosie has a small-for-dates baby. Her care is being transferred from the local hospital in King's Lynne to the regional centre at Norwich for more detailed scans and possible induction, so we are going to see them tomorrow.

Lanzarote Lament

 Edwin is scheduled to fly home today from his week's 'holiday' in Lanzarote. The holiday was a good idea originally, a chance for the four friends to fly out for fun and sun by the beach on a cheap, off season break. The first hint of trouble was when BA completely cancelled flights to Lanzarote. Edwin, a whiz at all things travel-related, immediately arranged for a transfer of their direct London BA flights to go with Iberia Airlines. This unfortunately involved travelling out via Madrid, and returning via Barcelona, with lengthy waits at both stopovers, but was an acceptable alternative. However, the Iberia flights only went Sunday to Sunday rather than Saturday to Saturday, so he then had to contact the AirBNB owner to persuade them to let them change their days. Also, it was a much earlier flight, so they'd need to get up about 2am to get to the airport on time.

By the time of their flight, Spain and all its islands were blacklisted by the British government, so they faced the possibility of two weeks quarantine on their return. However, three of the four have Brazilian passports, and when they arrived at Heathrow they were told that Brazilians were not allowed to fly to Spain, so only Edwin would be allowed to board. They eventually persuaded the Heathrow officials that all three Brazilians held British residency permits, and were therefore exempt from the ban.

They were not many days in Lanzarote when Edwin developed fever and a sore throat. Andre had to drive him over the mountains to the medical centre where they did a Covid test and started him on antibiotics for tonsillitis. Then next day, Andre and Lucas went down with severe food poisoning, laying on the floor being sick. Edwin became worse, his fever even higher and his throat on fire, so next day Andre had to drive again to the medical centre despite his sickness. There, they said the good news was the Covid test was negative, but the tonsils were in danger of rupturing, and he might not be fit to fly home. They give him an enormous shot of penicilin in the buttocks, making sitting painful in the bouncing car, and leaving Edwin unable to sit or lie on his back. They were due to fly back today, but had to go once more via the medical centre for an 8am appointment to see if he would be certified "fit to fly".  We've just had the message through to say the doctor has given him the certificate, so they're finally heading to the airport for the return via Barcelona. We can only wait on events and see what happens next!

On loosing liberty

 Now I must add my weak voice to the cries of the imprisoned of England. Draconian lock-down rules are being reimposed on many towns throughout the land. From Monday, no more than six can congregate in a private house. Family gatherings are effectively banned. The Greek island we had planned to visit in October is on the quarantine list, even though they've had no cases there. This means we can go, but can't get health insurance. 

Yes, the numbers of people being diagnosed with CV are rising, but they are all young healthy people, the vast majority of whom suffer no ill-effects. Indeed, often they don't know they've been infected. But the critical hospital admission rate and deaths from CV are almost static, suggesting that more vulnerable people (such as me!) are being sensible; we're not going to group raves, or crowding into pubs. We're not even going on public transport or into major centres to work. The whole scheme is madness. Having large numbers of young people getting the infection is probably a good thing, meaning community immunity will be reached sooner, and - assuming there is some degree of immunity once one has been infected - the number of cases should start to fall again rapidly. Any restrictions should be based on rising hospitalisations and death rates; other than that, the young people should be encouraged to go to school or college or work, and to socialise with each other. The only precaution should be to avoid elderly and infirm people, and not to visit care homes. Even this should be guidance, not dictat - it ought to be up to us how much risk we want to take in our lives. These excessive, draconian and thoughtless restrictions are turning us all into prisoners in our own homes - something no foreign power or government has ever done in the history of England. 

The death rate from CV is currently less than the death rate from ordinary flu, and much less than the death rate from other illnesses, such as the cancers and heart disease that are not being treated by the NHS. We were among those who did not applaud and clap the NHS workers each week, and I'm glad we didn't. The hospital wards are empty; the consultants and GPs are refusing to see patients, and my consultations are strictly telephone affairs now. I am better off consulting Google than my GP, for the GPs do nothing now. The government might as well close all GP surgeries, and move the doctors to doing rota work in hospital outpatient clinics, where patients can just turn up, for all the good they're doing patients at the moment.  It would save the NHS a fortune.

Back in the real world, Edwin has phoned from Lanzarote with the good news that his CV test is negative, so he should be able to fly back on Sunday if his temperature stays down. Unfortunately, two of his party (Andre and their friend Lucas) have gone down with severe vomiting. This apparantly was from eating re-heated prawns, always a very dangerous thing to do. I'm glad I'm vegetarian.

 

Cut toes and the problems of foreign holidays

 Age brings a number of disabilities, some major others usually minor, but even trivial ones can blow up to cause problems. One of these is an inability to bend sufficiently to cut my own toe nails, so after a few futile aims with the scissors, I asked Ann to cut them. She responded with great enthusiasm, unfortunately unmatched by technical ability. She seized the clippers and began snipping, but unfortunately snipped a few of my toes as well. Blood spattered the bathroom floor, and she reluctantly surrendered the clippers and went for a plaster. I thought it was time to turn to the experts, so a contrite Ann found and phoned a local chiropodist in Haverhill, and today I limped into her surgery. 

We'd had our friends round the night before, Robin and Yvonne and Rae and Malcolm who knew the chiropodist and warned me she could be garrulous. I bared my feet and lay on the couch, but before she began to either cut or speak, we were interrupted by fierce shouting from the street outside, and she rushed out to see what was happening. It was too early in the morning for drunks, but there is a big problem with drugs in the area so it may have been drug-related. The chiropodist thought there was also a problem with mental health patients, many of whom are treated in the community and refuse to take their medication. Whatever the cause, there was a big police presence for one man, and they were still there when I left the chiropodist half an hour later. I had dropped Ann off at Rae and Malcolm's on the way in, and returned to pick her up and share coffee and a cake. 

Meanwhile, Edwin is on holiday in Lanzarote with Andre and two of their friends. He phoned last night to say he has a high temperature and swollen throat. Today he saw a doctor and had a nasal swab test for corona virus and is awaiting the result. If he is positive, they will all be confined to the house they've rented, and won't be able to fly home, so it's a big deal.

Bird strike

Bird strike on the patio window

We had another bird strike on the patio window last week. I saw the dead pigeon lying on the patio when I got up. It was warm, but quite lifeless. Then I noticed where it had hit the window. Feathers were sticking to the glass where its head must have hit, with wings outstretched. The imprint was still clear upon the window this morning, despite the storms and heavy rain, until I finally washed it off. With the low sun shining off the window in the early morning, birds mistake the glass reflection for open sky beyond. Not sure what I can do though, short of putting up netting. Even that would probably not help, for sometimes they hit the upstairs windows, or the front windows in the evening when the sun's gone round.

Today was a day for tradespeople. This morning, a roofer called Josh came round to see Sam's side shed, where the roofing felt has pulled back exposing the wood. This afternoon a plumber called back with a quote for the water pump which has become noisy (a new guy - not the disaster who fitted our dish washer); and this evening our fencing guy, James, came to trim back the trees where they brush against the power lines. When we first moved to Hundon, the electric company used to trim them back (they own the overhead lines up to the house), but now they refuse to, and would probably charge us for the damage if the trees bring them down!

I have been careful to use the neutral term, tradespeople, but even well into the 21st century, everyone has been male: both plumbers, the electrician, fencing person, gardener, roofing man, builders, window fitters and carpenters. Women are so keen to get into "top" professions, doctors, politicians and board members, yet they are still notably absent from traditional trades. It is hard to see where this comes from, if not innate, for all children's books now are "balanced", with an emphasis on women filling all the traditional men's roles. Yet I do not think it can be "inbuilt", for we see pictures from Russia and China where women seem to fill as many jobs as men, so perhaps in England we are still instilling some bias at a  young age? Perhaps it comes from within the family, with father's encouraging their sons to take up their family business? 

Our nutty neighbour

 I have mentioned before some of the strange beliefs held by our neighbour (5g-nutters-are-loose-in-hundon). Now she is adding to her the list of nuttiness, having attended the anti-mask wearing march and rally in Trafalgar Square this weekend. Thousands of people were crowded together, free of masks, and excited to hear the arch-nutter Piers Corbyn spout his nonsense. If her outlandishness were confined to 5G, it would be harmless except to the damaged masts. If it were just a refusal to wear masks, it could be considered anti-social and dangerous to vulnerable people she coughed on, but not to the wider community. The biggest problem though is the idea held by so many of her group that the whole thing is a conspiracy by the pharmaceutical companies, to make vast profits from a dangerous vaccine that will only cause ill-health. This group firmly believes that all vaccines cause autism in infants. The fact that the Covid vaccine will only be given to adults does not register with them; perhaps she imagines that all adults will become autistic after the injection.

Polio "survivors" in Nigeria

The thing that really disturbs though is the ignorance and denial of the good that vaccination has done throughout the world. Polio, particularly damaging to children under 5 years of age, leads to irreversible paralysis for 1 in 200 infected children, of whom up to 10% die when their breathing muscles become immobilized. Today, only Pakistan and Afghanistan still have endemic polio thanks to a world-wide vaccination programme. As long as a single child remains infected, children in all countries are at risk of contracting polio. 

Smallpox has now been eliminated from every country. Cases of diptheria and measles have declined hugely, and now cause few deaths in childhood. The fact that their incidence is rising again following the anti-inoculation propaganda of people like the Hundon fruitcake is an indictment of everyone who argues against vaccination programmes. On their heads alone are the needless deaths of many infants, and I can only hope that they may see their folly before they learn the hard way through the death of their own children.

A murder mystery in Sudbury

Following her checkup, Ann had a second visit to the dentist's on Friday. This is something Ann never minds doing, and this was only to the hygienist so she actually enjoyed her visit, the first since lockdown. Coming back, we stopped at the Mill Hotel in Sudbury for a drink overlooking Sudbury Water Meadows, a huge flood plain flanking the Stour, popular with dog walkers and used for cattle grazing. The Mill is a beautiful old building, converted as its name suggests from an old water mill. The water wheel has been retained following the conversion and now sits slowly turning in the centre of the restaurant, covered in by glass panels.

Ordering at the bar, I overheard the bar staff talking about a local murder inquiry we'd just read about. Sure enough, when we walked through the field later, our way was blocked by police tape, and a lonely policeman stood eyeing us from a small gazebo-like tent set up to keep him from the rain. It seems that two bags of human bones had been found dumped in the river, along with a shopping trolley. This is not the normal news for quiet Suffolk, but to date no more details have been released: not even the age or sex of the victim, so it remains a complete mystery.

On Saturday, Ann fell headlong from the step outside the back door. Her foot is very swollen and bruised, and she's taking painkillers with the foot bandaged and kept off the floor. Then yesterday, walking in Clare park, I caught my foot in a fallen branch, brought down by the storms, and went flying full length. Unlike Ann, I was not hurt, only annoyed, for I fell flat into the muddy path so the landing was soft. Unfortunately, Bronte was just before me and I also fell onto her, so she acted like falling onto an airbag. The poor dog yelped in surprise, but happily she too was unhurt.

Then yesterday, on Bank Holiday Monday, we were invited out for a cream tea in Cambridge. We were greeted at the door by Edwin, the Maître d', and offered Champaigne as we were escorted to our seats, for the boys had prepared a full English cream tea. We started with a selection of thin-cut sandwiches laid out on a smart cake stand, followed by scones with jam and cream cooked fresh by Edwin, and then a wide selection of small cake deserts prepared by Andre, all accompanied by a selection of special flowering herb teas prepared in a glass teapot to watch the petals open as the teas brewed. The whole experience was amazing, and fully up to the standard of tea at the Dorchester. Later, Andre showed us his new hunting game, Horizon, for the PS4, and Edwin demonstrated his skill at designing cars, and with a Pokemon game. We got home late.