The artistic life

envelope

Typhoid
cholera
TB
stalked the Victorian house
they did not imprison
but took their chances
hoping and praying
for divine intervention
Darwin's fittest survival
not cowered in solitary confinement
where loved ones die alone
no cuddles,
no sweet caress
just a letter of gratitude
from kith or kin
read by a gentle nurse
with tears in weary eyes
frightened it will be their turn next
to pass the envelope

Annie Elliott

Ann writes much that is raw emotion, but direct, as she rails against confinement and petty hypocrisy. She also thinks deeply and produces work that is intense and moving, as in her new poem, envelope. We are all too aware of death stalking the country, looking for a way into our lives to cripple and destroy all it can. Relationships, trust, livelihoods, whole careers and hopes, are being taken. Even the young, immune we hope from the virus, will be affected by loss of education or close elderly relatives, and by rising unemployment, incipient inflation, and a reduction in available finance and support for university or work.

Many young couples in their twenties will have been devastated by the wrecking of their marriage plans, unable to arrange their future lives together or gather their clans to celebrate a birth or mourn a death. Edwin's partner, Andre, was due to fly home this summer for his sister's wedding but this too is cancelled and he does not know when he may see his family again.

My own efforts at poetry are more mundane than Ann's, and alas my artistic efforts are no better than the poetry. The art equipment arrived yesterday (see Doing time), though this sounds grander than the actuality, i.e. a pad of paper, a packet of brushes (made in China!) and a set of paints. I decided to do a portrait of Edwin as a young boy, and have learnt now why artists are considered so radical, with the world set against them. Though copied from an old photo, it looks like a parody of a young man. Edwin says it looks like Lucy, and Ann says I must have been thinking of her subconsciously. No I wasn't! Please accept, it was not meant to be insulting or an unconscious Freudian representation; I am just a poor artist.

Portrait of Edwin as a young man

A Scientific Epitaph

My life is run,
My journey done.
My telomeres drop one by one,
Till one more gasp
And John is gone.

Doing time

Sacrifice

sacrificing the old for the young
is now the mantra of democracy
who cares if corona's shadows
stalk the roof of wrinkled tiles
time to bring out your dead
paint the crumbling caravan
set the ancient wood afire
for the old have had their time

New Hell
If I am jailed much longer
I shall lose my fragile mind,
I would rather face my chances
with COVID's cruel caress
than live in a prison cell
with chains and slavery's manacles
within this lock down hell.

Tomorrow
tomorrow
will be a better day
God willing
I will put away my hating hat
find my compassionate beret
put it in cheeky fashion askew
on my very bemused head
and stop wishing myself ,
and everyone else,
would drop down dead

Annie Elliott

The powers that be now say we can go for a short drive to take a long walk. For me, even a short walk counts as long, and a short drive is anywhere out of Hundon, so after yesterday's rain when we could go nowhere, I drove out of the village to  walk along the reservoir approach road. This is concreted and less muddy than the fields, and the dogs enjoyed getting back in the car after all these weeks.

Ann does not come and has been prolifically producing poetry. Much of it is the inner scream against confinement; Ann more than most could not bear to be locked in, restricted, imprisoned. Even after her Caesarean section she was up in a day, and home two days later, only agreeing to be wheel-chaired to the car because it was a condition of her discharge.

Now we see no one, go nowhere, not even a simple drive, and the pain is growing intense, though eased occasionally with a better day, as in Tomorrow.  It is raining again, so no more work in the garden or more country walks. Just four walls, and moving from room to room to vary the scene. We even have a television in the bedroom so we can sometimes sit up there to watch it as a change from down stairs all day.

We do a lot more reading, and the crosswords. Ann has also sent for some paints and paper, so inspired by Grayson Perry's Art Club, we will try our hand at some art. The results will certainly be amusing, and it will pass an hour or two. Who knows, if the pictures are vaguely recognisable, I might even publish one or two in this blog!

Vitamin D and Covid-19

There has been much in the news recently about using Vitamin D to build up resistance against Covid-19. I am a great believer in this, and both Ann and I take a tablet daily, supplemented by vitamen C which keeps tissues in good repair.

There is a scientific basis behind the efficacy of vitamin D. One company for which I do consultancy manufacture and sell a high-dose version of vitamin D for elderly people in care homes, for patients with clinical D-deficiency, and as a nutritional supplement for people in winter when they don't get much exposure to sunlight. With an eye to a marketing opportunity, the company asked me to research evidence for vitamin-D in association with conditions such as respiratory infections and viral diseases. I found a number of papers that support this link, and though "prevention of Covid-19" cannot be added to the licence for the drug, I was able to make a persuasive general case for taking it as a food supplement to help build up resistance to infection. Interestingly, one pharma company in Spain are running a clinical trial to assess the benefits of the vitamin in CV-19, so they too are taking the connection seriously. It will certainly do no harm to take vitamin-D as a supplement, and I for one shall continue to do so.

President Trump has been giving medical advice again, now suggesting ingesting bleach to fight CV. I have only one word to add: whatever the Trump suggests, don't! If you always do the opposite of his advice, you will not go too far wrong.

Last night we had a Houseparty quiz night. This is an amazing ap: eight groups were on video call simultaneously. Edwin and Andre called in from Cambridge, Ben, Kaz and Luke from Telford, Lucy and Andy and the grandchildren from Hartlepool (even baby Theo made an appearance); and Mike from Thornaby, who was question-master for the evening. Rosie and Matthew joined from King's Lynn, plus one. We congratulated them and admired the recent ultrasound scan picture. It is great to be reminded that life will go on anew once this wretched time has past. Matthew always had the nickname Snibs, and they are already refering to baby as Baby Snibs or Baby Snibling! We look forward to welcoming him (or her?) amongst us.

One question in sport involved a women's football final, which Ben derided as not a sport, forgetting perhaps that Ann used to play for the Aston Villa Ladies team. Also, they are they only English side to do really well at international level, with the best chance of winning a cup so he ought to start backing them, at least until such time as Middlesbrough can leave the bottom of the leagues.

Yesterday we rearranged the furniture in what is now the dining-cum sitting room. Today Ann was still not happy and wanted to juggle it again, so I took the dogs for another long walk and left her to it. When I came back, she said, "The things are everywhere. It's still not right. We're going to have to move it all back into the other room!"

Her voice was so despondent and her face so miserable, I hid my own feelings about it, thinking I'd better offer some support. "All right," I sighed, "we'll just have to do it. But let's have a drink first."

She led me into the room to sit down, and everything was neat and perfect. "I was only teasing you!" she laughed. The women in her family are all terrible teases. I should have known after all these years, but she gets me every time.

A long walk home

Wild lilac

Because of the lockdown we always shut the dogs away when Mary-Ann brings shopping round, but walking with the dogs, I came out of the playing fields to see M-A and Sam with their two dogs walking along opposite. Bronte loves M-A and cries with delight when ever she sees her, and I had to restrain her on the lead as she started crying and whimpering, and trying to pull me to her. I held the dogs back as M-A went through the church yard and turned up the field behind. When I finally entered the field, M-A and Sam were already well up it and turning a corner, for they are fast walkers. Thinking it safe, I released the dogs, but Bronte caught the scent of her and raced across the field until she too disappeared in the distance while Byron stayed by my side. Eventually, whistling and calling, Bronte raced back, but I knew if I set off in that direction she'd race off again. I therefore walked a different and long way home.

The hidden phone mast 

The early blossom and spring flowers are fading now, but others are coming in profusion in the hedgerows, such as the magnificent bushes of wild lilac pushing valiantly through the briars. Suffolk has long, gentle, rolling hills, so different from Norfolk and the Cambridge fens. I seemed to walk miles and ended up seeing hills and farms that were all new to me. Finally I came out to a landmark I recognised: the telephone mast disguised as a dead tree. It is hidden in a corner field, and had to be built this way to overcome objections from the locals. Many of the trees in the hedges are equally dead, blighted perhaps by some fungus, leaving just brambles and thorn trees.

At last I could see Hundon, a tiny, quiet village nestling in the hills. It hasn't changed much in its boundaries or population since the Doomsday Book, and lies neglected by the rest of the country. Now there are plans to build housing on the fields above the town, turning it into another soulless commuter town, with too many cars for its tiny roads and the mini-shop manned by volunteers.

Back home, Ann found an old hip flask still filled with whisky from our sailing days. She poured a drop and tried it, saying it was quite good and the only whisky she had liked. Then she poured the rest into a glass, but it came out a thick sludge, solid with black sediment, perhaps from dissolving the steel of the flask and oxygenation from a false seal. Heaven knows what had happened to it, but it had not matured in a good way.

Hundon village across the fields behind a dead tree 

Meeting the neighbours

Whenever we get tired of the rooms and feel we need a change, we rearranged the house. Again. We do this often and yesterday we moved the table from the library to the sitting room, which is the new dining room. Somehow we had got it into the room, but it is a large table, and wouldn't go through the door. We took off the kitchen door to manoeuvre it round the corner and try and bring it through on an angle, but it wedged solidly. Eventually, we had to take the other door off too until finally we managed to get it through the gap.

Add caption

We celebrated with a glass of Cherry Brandy. Like the bird-table (see Forward Planning), this came from my parents house when we cleared it after their death. It was a favourite tipple of my dad, and must be at least 30 years old now, but it tasted delicious. I have now bought a new one, and the label has changed so completely I thought I might have bought the wrong brand! Let's hope it tastes as good as its mature forebear.

Our neighbour has cut down a number of trees between the properties, and we are suddenly very exposed. The other day, we were at the patio when his head suddenly appeared disconcertingly over the fence and spoke to me! Suddenly we are not alone, so we are planning how to raise the fencing to screen them off. The fencing is very old, and without the trees' support it has started wobbling even in a light breeze, so may blow down when the next gale comes. It is unclear who has responsibility for it, so Ann pushed a note through their box asking for clarity, and offering to pay all or half if we need to.

I then went to work trimming the hedging where it is growing over the pavements, when the next door neighbour suddenly came round the corner to discuss it. They haven't been there very long, and we'd barely met them before. She said she doesn't like to leave things hanging, but always like to tackle problems head-on, which suits Ann for that is her style too. Then Ann came out to join me, and her husband followed shortly after so we ended up having a big pow-wow on the road, while keeping a legal distance apart. They kindly said they had every intention of replacing the fencing and paying for it, as they are in the process of renovating the whole house and garden which had fallen into disrepair.

She intends to run a nail and beauty parlour, while he has retired from the building trade and wants to open a dog-grooming service, so they intend to build working rooms alongside their house. So now we just need to find a fast growing tree to plant to screen them off a bit.

Forward planning

tomorrow

tomorrow
will be a better day
God willing
I will put away my hating hat
find my compassionate beret
put it in cheeky fashion askew
on my very bemused head
and stop wishing myself ,
and everyone else,
would drop down dead

Annie Elliott

The Professor of Anatomy at my teaching hospital was then the current editor of Gray's Anatomy. I struggled in anatomy, but one of the girls in our anatomy classes was the great-granddaughter of Thomas Pickering-Pick who had been an earlier editor of Gray's Anatomy until 1905. She was brilliant and one of the professor's favourite students. She was also a good sailor, and I once crewed for her when she had to deliver the family boat out of Weymouth along the south coast to their mooring in Christchurch. The boat was one of the "Old Gaffers", and took part in the Old Gaffers regatta each year.

Though still in my scruff sailing gear, I was permitted to take tea with the family, a formal affair overlooking their lawns through the open French windows, when they told me a little of the history of the old place. It used to have some large oak woods attached, where the trees had been planted particularly closely together at the time of the Napoleonic wars, when many of the old oak trees had been felled to build boats for Nelson's navy. By planting them close, the branches of these new trees were forced to curve upwards as they grew, so their timber could be used for the curved frames of the hulls.

The old bird-table

Oak trees take up to 200 years to reach maturity when their wood can be used. To our present-day minds, this is unimaginable forward planning; those forebears clearly believed nothing would change in 200 years, and we would still be building wooden-hulled fighting ships of the line. Now, most of their old woods have been sold off for housing, and those valiant old trees felled.

Yesterday, our son-in-law Sam erected the old bird-table my father had built for mum. She loved her birds and fed them everyday, threading peanuts on string, or tying bacon rinds to the hooks. Dad too built things to last, and his bird-table is more than 50 years old, and as solid as he first made it. Sam also built the Saloon behind the garden, which is equally solid and built to last. These times of change and uncertainty make us long for some stability and durability in our lives, and such strength and quality are a reminder of the value of good workmanship in continuity.

In this throw-away society, the NHS dispose of everything when it's been used once, whereas they always used to have quality materials, even for the face-masks, which they could sterilise and reuse many times. Now they are running out of disposable essentials. We might not welcome the old recurrent European wars, but we could certainly do with some of their stability and forward planning. It is surely time to return to old-fashioned quality and durability.

St George's Day comes to Hundon

Today is St George's Day. Walking back through the village with the dogs, one solitary flag was raised in honour of our patron saint by David and Pam, opposite our own house. They were a family of four generations in our village; Pam was born in this house, as was her own son, who lived in the village with his own child. We are three generations now in the village; yet still we feel we are newcomers, outsiders to the old generations who were born here. Hundon life, like villages everywhere, is very cliquey, with a small group of people who are "in". We are definitely still "out", but as we don't socialise much, we are happy to stay so. St George may bind the nation, but he could never bind a village together.

Help: the 5G nutters are loose in Hundon

UK Deaths from CV-19 to 20 Apr 2020

Life in Hundon has always been quiet and uneventful; indeed we may have been the oddest people in the village, for once when Edwin was lying in the front garden behind the hedge reading, he heard some passing people comment, "The people who live there are very strange."

In Saltburn, we used to live next door to a refuge for people whose IQ was a little less than average, and who needed sheltered accommodation. They were pleasant, quiet people, whom we would see sometimes walking in small groups with a carer to make sure they didn't wander off or come to harm. The only interaction we had was with one man who used to wait on the doorstep, and greet us with, "Am I alright?". We would invariably answer, "Yes, you're alright!" and this seemed to satisfy him, for after this little reassurance he'd give a delighted grin.

Now we have a new contender for the title of Hundon Oddballs: one of our own local residents. Her Facebook page is filled with links to the 5G telephone conspiracy, which seems to be the current crackers-craze. New Scientist always called this stuff "Fruitloopery", but their taunts were usually against companies selling wonder water or magic pillows, often with the words quantum or resonance in their adverts: such things as "energised oxygen", though usually the only energising thing about them was the price. But as long as they didn't claim to cure cancer or coronavirus, such nonsense was generally harmless except to the credulous pocket.

The stuff the local Hundonite is promulgating is not harmless; it is vicious and dangerous. Besides the usual rubbish trying to correlate CV-19 outbreaks with the location of masts, and inciting everyone to "burn them down", her latest video shows an obviously well-educated, well-spoken woman haranguing two harmless foreign workers in London who were installing a fibre-optic cable. She demanded to know what they were doing, and when they told her she said, "You do know that when you switch that on, everyone will die!" She then asked if they had mothers and children, and told them "Do you really want to kill them? I hope they are paying you enough, because you will kill them!" She then added for good measure, "All those morgues they are building round London now are for all the people you're going to kill." The workers looked bemused as they just tried to do their jobs under this tirade of abuse. I don't know what school the woman went to, but her parents should sue that school for giving her such an appallingly low level of basic education.

This week, the chart of deaths from CV-19 has shown a dramatic drop to less than half its peak, and the total cases are levelling off. I know the government do not wish to trigger a second wave of infection, but at some stage they are going to have to let people return to at least limited normality. Now surely is the time to begin the process, and at least reopen some of the small shops and places where people can work in isolation from each other. I don't know how the nutters will link a fall in CV-19 cases to 5G, but one day it will be gone. Perhaps they'll switch their intolerant nonsense to some other mythical cause: TV waves, or ordinary 4G radiation, or telephone land lines, or alien invaders. Indeed, it could be anything that involves fanciful ideas with no logic or science behind them.

Getting out while we may

Bronte and Byron told to 'Stay!'

Seizing the fine weather and my right to walk, I exercised the dogs by walking round the fields. Border Collies are built to run all day and need exercise,  Most of us in Hundon are still following the instructions of the Stasi to avoid travel, but there were a good number of cyclists enjoying the day, plus other walkers and one on horseback. To stay in on such a fine day would be too cruel; the whole of nature is waiting to show off her finery, with the trees in bursting leaf and the hedgerows thick with blossom. Certainly, this time is drawing us closer, and everyone I pass shouts a cheery "hello", from their safe distance across the road, or retreating into a leafy layby off the path till we pass.

We all try to stay in touch in different ways. In Telford, son Ben and grandson Luke too are out enjoying time together. Living in separate households they cannot physically draw close, but very sensibly both happen to walk at the same time, meeting by coincidence in the same place, but keeping a legal distance apart. Last night, many of the family joined together for a quiz on the HouseParty ap. They are planning another for next week, which we hope to join. This clever ap allows everyone to be seen simultaneously in their own little corner of the screen. Very clever.

The Burial of the Free

A previous post (Set me free!) bemoaned our loss of freedom and the ready compliance with which we are following constraining, draconian instructions without protest. That piece quoted a poem by Browning, but a number of people have suggested The Burial of the Dead from Eliot's The Waste Land:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Mixing memory of freedoms lost with desire to be out again in the spring weather is surely apposite. An article in the Telegraph today reiterated these views. As usual, the pliant press kowtow to the government line, constantly repeating their refrain and transmitting the daily propaganda campaign on all channels, unedited and without criticism. We are told the government are curtailing our freedom in arbitrary ways, while dissenting scientific views from other epidemiologists or medical specialists in other European countries are dismissed and ignored.

No, we don't want to overwhelm the Health Service, but now we have gone too far and many beds lie empty and idle. Freedom is the right to choose, and people should be allowed to choose their own risk level. I am at high risk and would not wish to mix in crowds, but I should like to go for isolated country walks or simple drives to alleviate the tedium. Other people should be restricted if they are infected, and their contacts limited in their movement. But the majority of young, healthy people should be allowed to choose if they wish to meet their families, go to work, or open the shops on which their livelihood depends. Toby has opened a new website, Lockdown Sceptics, where people can share their views on this. Unlike many proponents of modern woke who blindly "no platform" anyone they disagree with, his site is not a blind rant and welcomes reasoned discussion from both sides.

Oh no!

splash
went my phone in the loo
I closed my eyes
and gave out a big sigh -
it was a doubly sad sight to see
for I had, just minutes before,
unfortunately had a huge wee.

Annie Elliott

On another note, I think Ann must have taken my plea to turn away from our reliance on China, because this morning she threw her iPhone in the toilet. Well, to be strictly honest, it was an accident. The phone was in the side pocket of her cardigan and fell out when she stood and turned round. The poor woman had to fish it out and wash it in the sink as thoroughly as if it had contacted the dreaded CV, but happily it seems to work again OK now.

Hares behind Hundon

Hares behind Hundon

Farmers used to burn off the stubble at the end of harvest, until the fire in one field grew out of hand and spread to some nearby woods. In another case, dense smoke from a field billowed across a main road like a thick black fog causing some accidents, and after that parliament banned the practice. Thereafter, they generally buried the stubble with deep ploughing, but even that seems to have gone out of fashion now. In the fields round us, farmers merely seem to flatten the stubble with the harrow, then plant the seed through it. Now the new crop is pushing up in neat green rows between the rotting remains of last year's crop. This must be more efficient, and leaves the fields a deep russet but dirty ochre, rather than the heavy brown loam of the bare soil. This is much better for we walkers too, for they often ploughed their deep furrows right into the footpaths, making it hard to walk even round the edges of their fields. Now the land is quite flat and hard after the long dry spell, and the walking is pleasant and easy.

Walking the dogs in the fields behind us, two hares were chasing each other in the spring sunshine enjoying last year's stubble. They were the other side of the field before I could point my camera, so could only be taken on the highest magnification, blurred and shaky, yet still worth capturing to remember a moment of nature's freedom. Seeing the speed of their race, I can well understand the saying, "run like a hare!" Country people used to set dogs coursing after hares, but it must have taken a fast breed of dog. Perhaps that's what the whippet and greyhound were bred for; they still chase a hare on the dog tracks. These dogs are called sighthounds, for they rely on visual pursuit rather than chasing a scent like foxhounds. Our Bronte is a scent dog. Whenever M-A has visited, Bronte picks up her scent, sniffing the path and following hoping to see her again. But it will be some months before that happens.

This afternoon, I asked my granddaughter to draw me a rainbow to celebrate the NHS. This evening, true to her word, she posted it through our letterbox, complete with clapping hands! Thank you so much - we love it, and it is going to get pride of place in our front window.

Rainbow over Hundon

SET ME FREE!

I do not want to die this month. April is a month for the return of warm days and flowering hope, not for dying alone in some forsaken hospital ward or nursing home. Amongst the fragrant flowers and cherry blossoms it is hard to remember how confined we are. But other countries are faring even worse, and perhaps Robert Browning would still plead his desire for home from his confinement in northern Italy.

Home-Thoughts From Abroad

Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!

As the lockdown continues, the economic cost of the devastation grows ever more huge. Thousands of shops and businesses may never reopen; many hundreds of thousands of people may be permanently unemployed; airlines are going under and even some universities may be forced to close through loss of fees. Surely it is time to reopen some shops and factories with shoppers and workers isolated by distance as they are now in supermarkets, rather than break ourselves completely on this catastrophic economic iceberg?

We are all being watched now…

ssh
ssh,
curtains
curtains twitching,
watch and tell
someone's not isolating
at least not very well,
phone
phone
the police
someone's cheating
in our very street.
Someone laughed-
I distinctly heard-
call the paper
spread the word
better still,
social media needs to know
shame your evil neighbour
to Facebook friend and foe.

Annie Elliott

I do not wish to die, and Ann and I would remain self-isolating as would most sensitive, vulnerable people, yet I yearn to leave home. People sitting alone in parks or walking the lonely moors should be granted that freedom. Surely it could do no harm to allow limited travel? To drive in the car to a remote place, for a quiet sandwich or flask of coffee with a change of view? To buy fuel from a self-service automated filling station? It is frightening how rapidly the English have become subservient, obeying arbitrary rules without question. Even worse, it is scary how we are being encouraged to become narks, spying on each other, reporting our neighbours to the thought police who are only too eager to attack basic liberties. How easily the Gestapo must have found it to impose control; how the Stasi would rejoice at the way we roll over at the slightest intimidation of a fine. No need for torture or reprisals here; at this hour, I think even Robert Browning might have second thoughts about returning to England, ex-land of the free.

Seeking companionship in memories and literature

Our April garden

It is spring, and all around the blossoms have burst forth and the trees are rich in their fresh green smocks. Son Edwin planted the flowering trees a few years ago, and are a reminder of him now we are kept apart. Walking in the silent fields, the skylark sounded so close and loud, yet too high for me to see him. This beauty in isolation is a small consolation for losing contact with friends and family, with the children and grandchildren we each miss, and the lack of fellowship in our homes or pubs. Ann and I are fortunate to have each other; but many older people living alone must feel totally isolated.

Books are an invaluable companion during lockdown. For a little while, we enter a world apart, carried to a realm we can only imagine by characters drawn from the mind of the writer, yet who seem so real we feel they are neighbours or relatives we have known all their lives. We follow their lives within the pages avidly, eager to know what happens next, or if they will succeed in whatever task the author has set them, or how they will escape some impossible situation. We admire them or hate them, or fall a little in love with them, or wonder how they could be so blind and silly doing something that will clearly bring them harm, and think either "I would never fall for that," or "I wish I could meet such a person!" At the end, if it is a great book, one wishes it could go on, to see how they progress through life, and feels the sudden absence of the protagonist as a death and sadness.

My current book, The Little Paris Bookshop, is such a one. The bookshop in question is a floating barge on the Seine. The bookseller, known initially just by his surname, Perdu - a name that means 'lost' or 'wasted' - likens books to an apothecary's medicines, prescribing them to his customers according to the sickness they carry within; but for himself, he has found no such balm. Yet one book gives him solace, written some years ago by an anonymous writer about whom he has often wondered, until a chance change in circumstance leads him to travel across France to trace this mysterious writer. Each page leads the story forward, and one wonders what will happen next and eager to learn. It is simple escapism in a forest of new characters and friends.

Kind comments and Chinese trash

One pens these thoughts and presses "Publish", only for them to vanish into the aether. I don't get many comments or feedback, and never know who is reading them, but a generous comment came from Hijaz Shaikh today: "This is my first time visit to your blog and I am very interested in the articles that you serve. Thank you for sharing and don't forget, keep sharing useful info." Thank you for this! It's nice to know it is being read somewhere in the world.

On a sadder subject, how many of you have bought "bargain" items on the internet, only for them to prove useless? For a long time, China has been renowned for forging counterfeit goods such as clothing or other goods. This obviously was harmful to the luxury goods market, but was generally harmless to the customer, who was happy to buy something marked Prada or Ralph Lauren, at a cheap price. But now, the Chinese are copying Western technology to produce inferior articles that simply don't work.

Some time ago, we had a good quality printer, needing expensive replacement cartridges. We bought them from a supermarket, but they wouldn't work. On examination, the little copper pads that connect to the printer controller didn't have any printed-circuit wires to them, and the cartridges had no chip inside. They were marked as made in China by HP, but we do wonder about the quality control.

Amazon is particularly careless in checking what it sells. Recently we bought a Crock-Pot and used it for a slow-simmered vegetarian dish. The old one had worked perfectly for a long time. We could leave it on all day gently simmering, and it never burnt the food, but not only does the thermostat not work on this new one, the non-stick pot is more like a glue pot. It wouldn't stop boiling even on the low heat, and the food burnt so completely round the edges I had to scrub it repeatedly to try and get it clean. I can only conclude that this too is a poor Chinese copy, masquerading as the real McCoy.

Ann was once recommended by her hair stylist to buy a set of hair straighteners made by ghd (good hair day), a reputable brand. She bought them on Amazon, but they were shoddy and the thermostat didn't work properly. If she'd tried to use them, her hair would have been singed beyond recovery, never mind straight! We had to throw them out and she then went onto the company website to buy them directly from ghd. These were perfect - so the others must have been Chinese fakes.

The old Trade Marks used to boast: "Made in England" or "Made in Germany", and one knew that meant good quality. They say, "Buyer beware", but it is hard to beware when we don't always know the true country of origin. President Trump has a good point when he says, "Make America great again". We should strive to make Europe great again, and stop being so dependent on shoddy Chinese manufacturing, or downright counterfeiting. It is time to stop giving China our technology, just for them to rip it off and sell it back to us. Far better to have fewer things, but better quality that lasts.

Projected CV deaths in UK to 12 April

Projected and actual deaths in UK to 12 April 2020

Continuing the graph of projected and actual deaths in the UK, the predicted death rate has fallen from the early projections, and hopefully reflects a continuing trend. The total number of deaths has continued to track the predicted (red) curve, but should begin to dip below the projection in the coming days as the hard lockdown continues to bite into the infection rates. These statistics only record people who died in hospital with confirmed CV infection. Many more, perhaps twice this number, die unrecorded at home or in care homes.

Today, 12 April, would have been my mother's birthday. I can't remember this happening before, but checking the calendar I find the last time this happened in her lifetime was 1936, when she was 29, so that is not surprising. Edwin was only 1 year old when she died, so cannot remember her, but the other children remember her fondly. Both she and my father ended their days in a care home for the blind. They, and countless millions like them, gave so much, not just to us but to their country, building the wealth we inherit, or caring for others as my mother did as nurse and midwife. Yet their deaths would have been unrecorded in the statistics of this chart, unnoticed and under-appreciated. It is time we recognised and saluted these other thousands of people who die alone, unacknowledged by the governement.

Boris has come out of hospital for recuperation at Chequers, raising everyone's hopes over this early summer that we may turn a corner and begin to return to some semblance of normality. This will probably not include me or Ann visiting the outside world for some time though, as we remain firmly in the "at risk" category.

Walking the dogs this week, I saw a horse being trained in a paddock. The girl handling it held the horse on a long rope so it could canter in circles round her. To keep it moving, she had a small dog running at its heels, yapping loudly and continually. Every now and then she yelled an order and the dog moved to face the horse, forcing it to turn round and run the other way, providing exercise for both animals with minimal trouble to herself. Today I walked past with Ann and our dogs, but everything was as still as the church yard graves we walked through. Not a car nor person was stirring, and we didn't hear a single dog. It was as though the plague had already swept through the whole village and every beast and person had died.

Coronavirus is getting close to Hundon

Coronavirus is creeping towards us. Walking back across the field I saw one of our neighbours working behind his garden wall, but we could speak from a safe distance. Two friends of his in their eighties were CV-positive, and now one has died. It is beginning to get close and personal. Yesterday we heard the first case had been recorded in Cavendish, two villages away; now there is a case in the next village at Clare.

Facebook in these situations is valuable, but can be vicious. to the point where Clare Facebook pages have split into two: The Clare Facebook Page, and The Real Our Town Clare Facebook. But Keddington is far worse: the nasty, snide comments make us glad we don't live there. Hundon in contrast is quite mild, with little more than someone asking, "does anyone have any eggs?"

We have just finished watching The English Game on Netflix, a brilliantly filmed and acted account of the historic FA cup final battle between The Old Etonians and the working man's northern club, Blackburn.  This was a watershed moment in football, when for the first time a paid professional team was allowed to compete.

In exile

Enforced Exile

early morning -
the birds are still singing
their songs have not changed
they ring out their chorus
their constant refrain,
as the grass goes on growing
and the trees start to bloom
the warmth of the springtime
lights up the dark room
when this nightmare is over
and our exile is done
we will join in the birdsong
to sing a joyful new song.

Annie Elliott

The first case of CV-19 was reported in Cavendish today - just the other side of Clare. They started a witch hunt on Facebook - wanting to know who it was and where they lived. Let's hope they don't start a village vigilante group. As it draws closer to us, it's a reminder to remain careful and avoid contacts.

Amazon remains a godsend in this time of isolation. After the invasion of mice and flies this week, Ann was able to get an ultraviolet light fly-catcher, but they seem to be reducing - we only saw one or two today and the fly-catcher is empty.

To measure arterial blood-oxygen saturation when I trained at St Thomas' Hospital, the doctor had to find the femoral artery in the groin and push a large needle in. We knew we were in the artery when the patient's blood pressure pushed the blood into a special glass syringe kept for the purpose. This was put on crushed ice, then rushed to the path lab for immediate measurement while another nurse applied strong pressure to the wound. Nothing more signifies the vast chasm that now exists between those years and medicine today. 

With the benefit of Amazon, Ann could also send for an Oximeter. This little device clips to the finger where it shines an infra-red laser beam into the capillaries to perform a spectral analysis and a computer displays the blood-oxygen saturation, along with a visual display of the pulse. A measurement of less than 94% signifies borderline hypoxia. Ann was once told she had the lungs of a smoker, possibly following childhood TB; she only measured 92-93%, so it is not just me who is vulnerable; while this virus rages, we both need to continue in isolation and avoid contacts. We just hope Amazon continues to be regarded as an essential service, and the police don't start intercepting parcels to see is they are "essential" items.

M-A continues to supply our other essentials. This week, she treated us to a bottle of traditional Mead, which we had in a section of the garden named by grandson Luke, The Secret Garden. The day was still with no sound but the birds; even the air was still, and warm as any summer day. On such a day, even I, usually tense and guilty when I'm idle, can relax and enjoy the tranquillity of retirement. Even Boris has been moved out of intensive care, so we can continue to be optimistic that he will lead us through this existential crisis.

Even the ice-cream van is silent

Decommissioned ice cream van in Hundon

It was a warm day, and I was already perspiring when, walking the dogs up the road, I noticed an ice cream van parked up behind a hedge for the duration. The poster on its side boasted so many delicious treats: Mint and Choc Chip Magnums and Strawberry dips; lollipops and whirly cones with great big flakes in, dripping with coloured sprinkles. Oh, what a mournful reminder of our lost days, no more to sound its clangy note above the gardens to call us into worshipful line - but I'm getting carried away, thinking of the life we cannot live for what may be many weeks.

I am not fit enough to walk round without stopping. There is a style half way round, where my lungs demand I sit for a while. The dogs generally mull round and amuse themselves during this interlude, and Byron loves to chew grass and root out sticks. He found one today in some thick, young nettles, and pushed his nose in only to leap back with a sudden yelp. It must be the first time he's been stung, and he looked at the nettles with new respect, carefully shunning them as we moved on.

The village is silent and strangely deserted; no one is out, no children playing in the park, no cars on the road. One police car cruised up the road in the distance, a reminder of what it must be like to live in a police state where we may face arrest if we break the curfew.

With Boris still in intensive care, an atmosphere of gloom seems to have descended on the country. One day normality may return, but we begin to wonder if we will make it through, for Boris's condition reminds us how easily we may succumb. With the still increasing death rate, many people won't see the other side of the lockdown, and we can but live day by day, wondering when we'll see the children again, but making no future plans. One day, we will hear the jingle of the ice cream van again and know the nightmare is over.

Of mice and flies

Since the lockdown, we see pictures of some towns invaded by wild goats or deer, enjoying the quiet streets and freedom from humans. We are invaded by mice. We had a plague of flies in the kitchen yesterday, hundreds of them swarming round even with the windows closed. I pulled one of the kickboards away from the bottom of the cupboards, and found several dead mice, some in an advanced state of decay, naught but scruffy fur left like a pile of fluff in the far corners. I pulled out what I could of the remains, but was not feeling well with sweat pouring down my brow, and collapsed on the Chesterfield to recover over a large glass of Remy Martin.

I was in no condition to pull off more kickboards, so Ann called our son-in-law, Sam, who is a life-saver on these occasions, and who promised to come round as soon as he'd finished walking his dogs, and had his tea. We are aware of the rules for isolation, but pest control is allowed under the restrictions, so I certainly would describe his work as an essential service and we didn't feel badly about him coming round. Ann kept a discrete distance down the hall; I remained on the couch.

He cleaned out another large number of mice in the far corner, and this morning came round to cement up a number of holes he'd found in the brickwork outside. Inside, we pulled everything from all the cupboards and had to scrub them hard to clean out the droppings. This in one disadvantage of rural living; but I suppose mice inhabit towns too. Between them MA and Sam have been so supportive, doing our shopping and helping in other ways. We can never repay them.

Our PM continues in intensive care, a lesson to all of how dangerous this disease is. It is not like the figure of death stalking in the night with his little scythe, but more like an army of  great tractors towing giant reapers round the world. Even in extremis, he is sent some messages hoping he suffers and dies. It is incredible the depths of dirt some people's minds grovel in; how vicious the on-line community can be.

Astronomical note: the moon is at its closest approach to earth tonight. From my window it is full and crystal clear, being the biggest and brightest full moon of the year. It even has a special name: a pink supermoon, but I missed the pink display when it rose above the horizon like a flaming red sunrise.

Predicting CV-19 Deaths in UK Week 2

One week ago, I showed a graph I produced showing how the infection rate and deaths from Covid-19 might change in the UK from week to week (see Predicting Covid-19 deaths in UK). Yesterday, I updated the published figures, shown below.

At the moment, the black crosses of actual deaths are rising slightly above my red line predictions. The daily rate of deaths was also rising much more rapidly than my predictions (blue line), but the rate of increase is now tailing off. We are all in virtual house arrest, so must hope this represents a genuine slow down from the huge restrictions to liberty we all face.

The graph below shows the same data, but with the projected deaths shown on a logarithmic scale. This shows the increase in deaths more clearly, but also suggests the curve is beginning to level off. Anyone with comments on the projections or wanting copies of these is welcome to contact me (Gandad_John) by the message link.

Meanwhile on a brighter note, following the Queen's Address to the Nation, Ann has written a new poem celebrating the same sentiments.

Tomorrow

We will party again
blow out birthday candles
walk freely in the park
enjoy God's sunshine
smell the cut grass
touch hands
kiss cheeks
feel once more
the comforting embrace
of a well loved family face.

Annie Elliott

Deaf or daft?

Deaf

Tumbling world

fired up in anger,

flames burning

like Notre Dame

its holiness

rising in smoke

or burning bush

with unheard message.

Annie Elliott

With age, deafness becomes an increasing problem. As I grow older, I find  people have more difficulty in hearing me. They ask a question, I reply, and they ask, "Why did you say that?" They seem to think I am answering a question they didn't ask. Really, of course, I am answering the question I heard them ask, but it doesn't always match their memory. This is particularly true of Ann. Both she and I grew tired of me constantly asking, "What did you say?", so I've started to guess the question, and answer in a general way, and hope that will cover it.

Sometimes, I get away with this technique, but Ann does look puzzled sometimes. The biggest problem is when Ann brings something up and I'll answer, "I didn't know that! Why hadn't you told me?" and she will say, "I did tell you. I told you last week." Then I have a dilemma; I don't know if I didn't hear the first time, or if my memory is going.

One solution will be to get a hearing-aid, which I've resisted. My father had one, and my recollection is of us having to shout, "Dad, turn your hearing aid on!", or listening to a horrible feedback screech if it fell out. Now, however, I have the perfect excuse: no one can go for hearing tests during the lock-down.

This morning, I tackled another job that has waited for a few months: painting the kitchen door frame, which had become very grubby. The dogs feed in the kitchen, so although I cleaned it and rubbed it down some days ago, I intending to paint it at night once I'd put the dogs to bed. The trouble with that idea is, by that time I'm ready for bed myself. So this morning I woke early to a brilliant warm day and had the thing painted before the dogs got up. Clever, eh?

Doing something physical that requires no thought, it is fascinating how the mind drifts from one idle idea to another. As I painted, I found myself singing, "Bless this house," probably through an association with doors. That led to thoughts of my mother who, being from Lancashire, was an avid fan of Gracie Fields, a local lass made good. Mum listened to her as often as possible, drawing us in to share her liking. Not many know "Our Gracie" now, but one song of hers made an appearance in an advert recently: "...and it's the girl that makes the thing that holds the oil that oils the ring that works the thing-ummy-bob that's going to win the war," written in 1942 at the middle of the war, boosting the role of otherwise unnoted people in the war effort. Interestingly, the advert edited out any reference to war.

The doctor is in

I have received an unexpected letter from the General Medical Council: they are reinstating me as a GP for the duration. I am still on the GMC register as a pharmaceutical physician, but haven't had direct contact with patients for some years. Now the government is so desperate, they are looking for anyone they can get to help.
The trouble is, as someone at high risk, I am supposed to be self-isolating, so I suppose I can do no more than offer telephone assistance. But all our conferences and work is done remotely these days, so perhaps I will have to see patients using a video link to ask them questions, and ask them to point their phone at the area needing examination. Perhaps I can ask them to press their own stomachs too, and tell me if it hurts. Not sure how I can listen to hearts and lungs though - I wonder how sensitive the iPhone microphone is when pressed against the chest.

Repairing the Chesterfield

We continue to fill our day as best we can, introducing variety in our surroundings to break the day. In the morning, I have breakfast at the kitchen table. We take lunch in the dining room; then for our evening meal we laze before the television and I eat with a tray on my knee. Ann has moved the furniture around a few times to get some variety, but currently it has ended back where it started a week ago.

We have a large Chesterfield we bought at action some years ago. I have mended a few of the springs, but it had grown tired. Some of the old underlying sacking had torn through from children bouncing on it, and I have been meaning to mend it for some time. Six months ago, I bought the sacking on Amazon. Three months ago, I bought the tacks. Yesterday, we upended the beast and I finally tackled it, replacing the old sacking. At this rate, I will get the outstanding jobs done by Christmas.

The Nightingale in empty skies

I wake at dawn. No cars disturb the peace, only the joyful greeting of the birds awakening in the garden trees to join their morning chorus, not as a choir but as a company of different voices, like a great Mozart opera where individual soloists sing their own lines to make something whole, greater than its parts. Above all, the nightingale, who never sings the same note twice, or in the words of an old English writer who did not mess with short terse phrases:

But, independent of all combinations of time and place, so various, sweet, and continuous, are the notes of this bird, that, in comparison, the songs of other warblers, in their utmost extent, are insignificant. His variety appears inexhaustible; he never repeats the same note twice without some change of key or embellishment. As often, indeed, as this leader of the feathered choir prepares to conduct the hymn of natures he begins by feeble, timid, and indecisive tones, as if to try his instrument. By degrees he assumes more confidence, becomes gradually more warm and animated, till he captivates and overwhelms his audience, with the full exertion of his astonishing powers.
Nature displayed in the Heavens, and on the Earth, according to the latest Observations and Discoveries. By Simeon Shaw. (1823).

Or, apt now for our present time, Keats' Ode to a Nightingale:

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
  What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
   And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
   Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

though what, one wonders, drew Keats into contemplations of age and death at the age of 23? But he died aged 25, so perhaps his foreboding was not misplaced.

My window looks East towards the approach path for planes coming into Stansted. Usually, it is criss-crossed with contrails but this morning, the air is clean and still. Not a single plane litters the sky, and Flight Radar, usually heavy with its yellow-flagged morning traffic, confirms the desolation of lost holidays and business. Two solitary crosses mark the death of aviation.

Solitary Skies over Stansted

Drawn together by isolation

As the period of mutual isolation continues, there seems to be a mood developing of comradeship, and "we're all in this together". Walking the dogs, people I've never seen wave and say hello, before we cross the road to avoid each other. If we see our neighbours we shout down the road to ask how they are, and we are getting phone calls from people we rarely hear from, as though keen to know the world is somehow continuing outside our four-walled cells. Today, Ann Hynard, an old friend from Edwin's school days, rang for a chat, mentioning the difficulty of looking after her aged parents. She only lives in the village, but normally we don't see her or hear from her. Simultaneously, our friends Rae and Malcolm rang to swap stories of how we are all managing, and who buys our food now we're confined to the house.

We are lucky that MA does ours, though this week we shared our Tesco shop so she came round again to pick her bags up from the garden and shout through the window. Even while she was here the phone rang again and it was Anne in Luxembourg who we never usually hear from. Her children live in UK, so she has to rely on church members and neighbours to help out. Her husband Colin's Alzheimer's is worsening since he had a fall, and he remains in a care home in high dependency. Anne had been visiting each day but is now barred from doing so, so their son is trying to fix up a FaceTime link for them to use; at Colin's end, the carers can help, but the hardest part will be getting Anne to use it by remote-teaching.

Our Hundon Men's Group can no longer meet as an excuse for drinking. We are not given to long, intelligent conversations, so we don't do long or expressive e-mails or phone-ins, but today we went each other a simple email expressing our sentiments: various ways of saying "Cheers!" and each raising a glass in absentia.

It is announced that a mortuary is to be built in Epping Forest for CV19 victims from the new Nightingale Hosptial. Epping Forest is an appropriate site for this, because there are so many bodies buried there already (see Picnic in the forest); but another one at Milton Keynes Icerink less so; people won't want to think of skating over the bodies when this is over. Another bizarre thing is the new government slogan: "Stay home, protect the NHS, save lives!". If Dominic Cummings dreamt this one up, he must be loosing his touch, or perhaps we was touched with dilerium from his own CV infection. This is too negative: the NHS is supposed to protect us. A better slogan would simply be, "Stay home, Save lives".