Not another lockdown!

Bronte

Bronte has bounced back to health, despite the vet's prognostication of doom. I assume the sarcoma must still be there, hovering like the dark angel as it slowly grows prior to some fearful sudden collapse, but we are enjoying as much quality time as we can. Ann found a fortifying puppy food and this seems to have given strength and rejuvenation -  she wolfs the food down, and runs around like a lively young dog in the park. I thought I'd better do a portrait of her while in fine fettle, to add to that of Byron. She has a few dark spots above her nose that the breeder called "her naughty spots", so I've included those as well.

Last week before the great lockdown we entertained our friends Rae and Malcolm. Unfortunately we can't see Robin and Yvonne as they're trapped in Essex, which was under a Tier 2 restriction. Even though they're a hamlet of few houses just over the border from Suffolk, they count as "unclean" while we remain relatively pure.

Then at the w/e we entertained Ben and Kaz. They had been due to have a week's holiday at a caravan site in Yarmouth, but it was cancelled at the last moment because of the impending lockdown, so we had them for a couple of nights. On Tuesday we visited Matthew, Rosie and Arwen with them for the last time for a while, then on Wednesday they set off for home via the coast for one last trip, getting home like Cinderella, just before the stroke of midnight.

Ben

The only "entertainment" on TV at present is the wretched US election. They have the most bizarre system whereby as many as 20 electoral votes can hang on a tiny difference between two huge state-wide votes, so the whole thing is being contested by Trump who demands the counting stop, and multiple recounts until he gets a favourable result. 

I am fortunate that I can still work from home. We have regular t/c's and mail work to each other. Many throughout the country are now furloughed, or have lost their jobs. So many places are closing, never to reopen, it's sickening. I have received a "personal" email from our glorious Secretary of Health and local MP, Matt Hancock, advising me that I have been identified as "clinically extremely vulnerable and at highest risk." It goes on to advise me what I must no longer do: it allows me to breath, but basically there is nothing else I can do. However, the dogs need walking and we want to visit a garden centre (for some reason they must be considered essential, whereas pubs are not!) So today I drove to Clare to walk the dogs; that is my only exercise, but with everything else shut the park was crowded and it's hard to avoid people. It would have been so much better to leave us to take responsibility for our own health: this dictatorial attitude is destroying people and communities, as well as livelihoods and independence. 

Clare ghosts

 

The old station, Clare

A fine, sunny day to walk the dogs. Bronte has made a remarkable recovery from the sickness that took her to the vets, so today I took her to Clare Park. Walking along the old station platform, we saw an eirie group of people spaced out along the other platform like ghosts waiting for the train. They silently stood in line unmoving, with the dogs looking across unbelievingly. Standing on the platforms, it is too easy to hear ghost trains whistling on the approach, and imagine the puffs of smoke glimpsed through the trees in the distance. The buildings and platforms are unchanged; only the tracks are missing like a sad case of Alzheimer's, when the shell is present, but the light has been turned off. 

 Today as the clocks go back, Ann created the Christmas cakes. This is a yearly ritual; she used to make half a dozen for various friends and relatives, but this year it is down to four cakes. The kitchen becomes a wonderfully scented mass production line, and both ovens are turned on ready to receive them. Later, as the cakes were still cooking and blocking the oven, we went on to Long Melford to walk the dogs in the huge Rodbridge park in the lingering autumnal sun. We had al fresco coffee at Jenny Wren's cafe; she is an artist, selling her work as cards. Ann mentioned I had taken up art, so she invited us to a small art group she runs that meets to sketch in the area, weather permitting. Then, the ovens still being occupied, on for an early dinner at the Bull.

The BBC demand a fee

There has been much protest by the older faction of society by the reintroduction of charges for the BBC TV license for the over 75's. I never used to mind paying, for we got good programmes with no adverts which alone was worth the fee. But nowadays, the Corporation's avowed intent is to woo the young - with scrappy soaps, modern music and woke plays. Nothing gets performed unless its by a black person or a young woman - preferably both. The news is now more of a social media filled with vox-pop than a sober and balanced account of the world at large.

I eventually had a demand through the post to pay or face some unspecified consequences, so wrote a cheque and completed their form to post back. By the time I reached the post office, the envelope had gone AWOL, but getting home I found it shivering and soaked on the drive. I had dropped it and run over it in the rain, so it was dripping wet and muddied, its innards timeless twins stuck together and my poor pen marks streaked like modern art. I had to admit defeat and pay the bill on line.

Because my shoulder still hurts from the fall weeks ago (see a touch of sun), today I visited the physiotherapist. An efficient grey-haired woman with a commanding voice, she unleashed a barage of tests for the shoulder that covered every possible movement, and some I would have thought impossible. She pinpointed the trouble to some tendons over the joint, inflammed from the fall. She suggested some passive movements to help ease it, with an appointment to return in a week for another battering.

   

Meeting baby Arwen

Grandad John gets a cuddle

We are fortunate that quarantine has been lifted from Santorini, allowing us freedom to roam immediately on our return (except for Wales, and most of England, since so many have been forced into Tier 3 lockdowns). We were thus able to legitimately travel to King's Lynn to finally see our new granddaughter, Arwen, now two and a half weeks old, and back up to 4lbs weight. She is a model baby at this stage, only waking to cry for a feed every 3 to 4 hours, and taking her milk so easily even I could feed her. She is perfectly formed yet still so weak her head feels far too heavy for her tiny neck. She sat on my knee while we were eating, but I went rigid, frightened to stir in case I woke her or she wriggled her unsupported head free to flop. Matthew and Rosie are taking to parenthood brilliantly and have successfully adjusted their lives round her already, as one always has to with a new baby. 

On the home front, Edwin is scheduled to return to Cambridge today, ready to pick up his partner Andre from Heathrow in the early morning. Edwin too is fortunate not to have to quarantine from Greece - he has had to do so twice this year already, and will have to again from tomorrow as Brazil is in the midst of the raging epidemic. According to Wikipedia, "Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) rights in Brazil are among the most advanced in Latin America and the world, with LGBT people having marriage rights available nationwide since May 2013", and it seems the São Paulo Gay Pride Parade is the world's largest LGBT Pride celebration. Despite this protection in law, gay rights are socially not acceptable in Brazil with huge prejudice against them fuelled by Bolsonaro's declared opposition, and in – contrast to the law – Brazil is reported to have the highest LGBT murder rate in the world (380 in 2017), leaving Andre rightly reluctant to come out. However, Brazil also has one of the highest homicide rates in the world, with 68,880 murders in the same period. The percentage of gay murders is therefore only 0.5%, yet they account for 14% of the population in Rio de Janeiro, which suggests that it might actually be safer to be gay than straight! These figures seem contradictory, so I must ask Andre about it once they're out of quarantine. Nevertheless, Brazil must be a strange contrast to Cambridge, where all their colleagues and friends are so accepting of them.

Good news from King's Lynn

 

Rosie, Arwen and Matthew

Arwen's first walk

Some good news from King's Lynn. Baby Arwen is home, just two weeks old. She had lost weight, down to just over 3lb, and had been moved to ICU with tube feeding. But gradually she began to feed from the bottle, and her weight has now returned to her birth weight of 4lb. The tube has been removed, and she is definitely more interested in the world, though we gather her interest does not reach much past her bottle just yet. We now have a picture of the threesome at home, and she has been for her first walk on one of the rare sunny days. 

We finally returned home, a day late but glad to be back and relieve Rae and Malcolm who had gamely stayed an extra day to manage the dogs. Bronte is very weak, mostly just lying down and eating little, but she does not seem to be in pain or distress. We visited the vet this morning to get an update first hand. she has a large splenic mass that the vet thinks is a hemangiosarcoma, a particularly aggressive cancer with a poor prognosis, with or without surgery. We are reluctant to move straight to surgery as there is a high risk she might die under the knife, so we have opted for a needle biopsy to confirm that it is malignant and not benign. In the meanwhile she is to be kept quiet, with gentle walks on the lead and no running or jumping.

Clouds gather over Santorini

 How quickly does honey turn to ashes. We are stuck in Santorini, and though the sun still shines it has turned into a cold and malevolent prison. This afternoon, we had a phone call from the vet in Haverhill to let us know that our dog, Bronte, was seriously ill with a large sarcoma in the spleen. There was already evidence of metastases, and she was considered to have but a short time to live. Mary-Ann is going to pick her up and look after her. But BA have just rung to say their flight home tomorrow has been cancelled, and we will be stuck here until Friday at the earliest. Edwin has been looking for other flights, but nothing is available, all alternative flights have already been booked or cancelled by the other airlines. It is as though war has been declaired, and we are caught behind the lines, desperate to get out.

STOP PRESS: We now learn that the Air Traffic Controllers are going on 24hour strike tomorrow (Thursday) and that's why the flight's cancelled. All flights have been cancelled from Santorini, and Athens, so no one is leaving Greece until Friday. Apparantly, the strike is because they haven't been paid their wages - Greece is nearly bankrupt, so we can't even blame their greed. Everyone needs to be paid for the work they do, but it's the poor travelling public who are paying. It is certainly not the way to encourage a return of tourists to Greece. We have had to fight for one more night in the hotel: everyone who should have left needs an extra day too, and they've run out of rooms. We've managed to keep ours, but poor Edwin has to change rooms early tomorrow morning.

Santorini sun

Our holiday in Santorini has finally happened. We originally chose October to go, thinking the world would be well past Covid by now. Ha ha! When we left, we even faced two week's quarantine on our return, though Greece has had so few cases, but happily that restriction has just been dropped, so we should be free to roam on our return - unless we face new local lockdowns. We hear on the news that three areas circling Hundon have rising cases: Haverhill, Newmarket and Bury, so they may impose some local restrictions for West Suffolk.

Santorini is the after effect of the biggest volcanic eruption in recorded history. The huge blast blew out a volcanic ring 18 km wide, now erroded in many places to form the cyclades, round a vast, deep sea-filled caldera.  Our hotel is built down the nearly vertical side of the ring, and in common with all other hotels in this part of the island, the rooms are cave-like holes drilled into the rock, lit by windows facing the caldera. The town above, Oia, is a single narrow road that peters out to a footpath paved with marble slabs and lined with beatifully clean pristine shops, that still seem untouched at the end of the season, through lack of visitors. Everywhere is quiet, the many restaurants and bars mostly empty. The locals are delighted to get our custom, and cheered when they heard on the BBC news that the Cyclades had been removed from the British quarantine list.

The steps up to the town from the hotel rooms are steep and irregular, cut into the side of the cliff face. The porters run up and down carrying suitcases, or heavy industrial cleaners, or even one with a fridge balanced on his shoulder to replace some failed appliance. But we find the steps hard going, with me gasping for breath and having to pause regularly, and Ann struggling with her broken foot. We have bought her a walking stick to help her balance and footing. We did not chose this hotel, having selected one further round near a beach, but it closed early and BA transferred us without giving choice. We manage by limiting our trips to town, and timing them carefully.