Stay at home to stay active

We have a lovely fishpond in our garden. I can speak fondly of it for I dug it out myself many years ago, when I was young and healthy and capable of solid labour. The pump and filter were powered by a cable underground to a switch in the house, but a couple of years ago it stopped working and each time we switched it on it blew a fuse in the fuse box. The cable itself was old: it had been installed before we moved in to feed a light in the garden. Beside being buried, it now lies under the patio and somehow comes up inside the wall to the light switch, so it cannot be simply replaced.

Since the pump stopped, the pond has become green and overgrown, though the fish still seem to survive and breed. We've had it cleaned a couple of times, but now I have time off I decided to lay in a new wire, so spent the morning drilling through the garage wall and connecting a new cable to the garage supply, which is easier than trying to go back to the house. Unfortunately, the old pump has now seized up, but our son-in-law had a spare one, larger and better than my original, which he's brought round for us. As the pump wire is also buried until it emerges at the pond, I have had to send for an underwater connector. Next job will be to connect them up.

We had another family quiz night last night, run by Andy. It was much harder this week, but next week Edwin and Andre will run it, so it might be even worse! I will plead for a few easy questions. However, an article in today's paper suggests that social isolation is even worse for our health than smoking, so I'm grateful for all contact to keep us in touch with each other, even difficult quizzes. Also, a lovely snippet in The Irish Times: "For God's sake reopen the pubs soon, before we all become alcoholics!" A nice thought, but what with that and with isolation being as bad as smoking, I think they are killing us all off without any need for a doomsday virus.

A problem with painting

A room with a view

 Ann sits by the window reading as she sups her wine. The sun is streaming in, and it's hard to believe the world is not to rights. I did a little more work this morning, meaning I clipped the hedge back. The garden is so green and peaceful, Ann couldn't resist taking a photo to record these days of confinement.

I cannot believe painting is so fraught with problems. I expected it to be a peaceful, relaxing task to fill an hour or two during our lockdown, but there always seem to be complications to the simplest thing. A couple of days ago, Ann painted a modern skyscraper scene with a background of bright stormy cadmium yellow (please note, I am beginning to learn the technical details already!). Our painting set has quite small tubes, and I had used a lot of titanium white, so we ordered some replacements. The tubes are no bigger than 15 gm, so we tried to order a slightly larger size. Today, the yellow arrived with a note saying they were out of our order, so they were sending a substitute. It is a two litre tub of the stuff, enough to equip a whole art school for a year or two, I should think. How I am supposed to pour a drop or two onto my palette to mix in with some other colour I do not know.

We plan to have our second quiz night tonight with the children. Even that is not easy; it has grown more popular, so more of our extended family want to join in. However, HouseParty can only host 8 groups, so we tried a new one: Discord. I can only say, its name describes its problems. I logged on with Matthew to test the system, but even the voice channel kept breaking up to the point of being inaudible. I think we will have to revert to HouseParty, and take turns to drop out each week.

One helpful bit of news: we have identified the shrub I asked about yesterday (see Art and identifying shrubs). Robin was quite right: it is Red Robin. A neighbour of ours has planted some for his hedging, and seeing him outside today I was able to call across and ask him. Further verification came from a fellow villager in Hundon, who sent a comment to yesterday's blog also identifying it. Now we will try to order some for home delivery. Thank you all for your help and support in these difficult times.

Art and identifying shrubs

What hedging shrub is this?

We are hoping to plant some hedging between us and our neighbour's house. We have some in the front hedge which has lovely red stems, and bright red leaves that die down to a nondescript green. It grows to well over 2 meters and seems to be in leaf all the year, but is not a beech. Our friend Robin, a keen gardener, thinks it might be Red Robin, but the book of words thinks this is a smaller shrub. If anyone can recognise it, I'll try to order some more.

I received my letter from the NHS today, confirming I am on the list of vulnerable people and therefore to be treated with kid gloves. The restrictions they advise are too onerous: not going out at all, even for exercise or to walk the dogs; wholly separate facilities such as room and towels; even sleeping in separate beds. It's bad enough as it is - I would not like to be forced to endure further confinement.

Daughter Lucy

Ann and I continued our art therapy this afternoon, whereby I attempted a portrait of Lucy. It is very therapeutic, for me if not for Lucy. The total concentration forces one to relax and move at a slow pace, with a vague sense of achievement even for such poor efforts. Lucy is a sport and says she loves it! Thank goodness her name isn't Meghan or she might have sued me.
 I still have much to learn in this game while it is still fun. For the eyes, particularly, I must find a thinner brush as they look like heavy mascara. Also I need to learn how to graduate shading; at the moment it looks more like "painting by numbers". Perhaps I would do better just sticking to leaves, like the picture above.

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