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.