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.