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