Sonic boom over Hundon

 My lunchtime telecon today was disturbed by a loud bang. I thought it was a door slamming, or possibly someone shooting on the hill, but it turned out to be a sonic boom. A private plane en route from Germany to Birmingham lost radio contact with air control, so two RAF Typhoons were launched with orders to intercept and bring it down if it threatened harm. They were given clearance to fly at Mach 1.6, and as their route took them over Cambridge to intercept, the sonic boom was heard across the whole area of Cambridgeshire, West Suffolk and Essex. The plane was forced to divert and land at Stansted - the routine place for highjacked aircraft, but it this case I believe it was just a radio failure. 

Work is getting more busy with more and more telecons and writing assignments as we prepare for our next clinical trial. I sometimes think it's as well I still have a job, for I'd be walking round the carpet in circles if I had nothing to do. But at a personal level, my pruritus remains as intense as ever, if not more so. I am sleeping poorly, unless I take some knockout pills, and in the day I have to keep gripping my hands to control myself from scratching. Someone has suggested that it's worse in the cold weather, and it is certainly cold enough at the moment. We have no heating in the bedrooms and the window is kept open, so I'm glad to dive under the covers. Unfortunately I still get up every hour or two from discomfort and the need to wee, so I end up shivering every couple of hours anyway just to keep everything ticking over. 

The cold is nothing to what we had as children though. I had a bed by the window, it was north facing and I remember the clouds of our steamy breath hanging in the air. The panes regularly freezing over on the inside where the condensation froze in wonderful patterns of hard crystals. If the condensation had puddled on the window-sill, it too froze to hard glass pools. I generally had a hot water bottle, but I woke in the morning cuddling a cold clammy mass of rubber. I huddled with knees to my chin, reluctant to stretch out to the icy sheets at the foot of the bed. I would pull my clothes in beside me to warm and wriggle into them under the sheets, trying all the while not to expose more than the top of my head.  I guess I'm lucky I didn't suffer from such severe pruritus in those days.

Into the new year

 What a New Year. We celebrate with our extraction from the tenticles of the EU to launch a time of independence. Boris Johnson is getting remarkably little flack for his Brexit withdrawal agreement; does this mean he's got it right or is it just to complicated to understand? Probably the later, though the problems will only emerge with time as people try to live by the new rules. So far, lorry drivers seem to be passing through Dover with no holdups, perhaps because the traffic density is still low; but the EU has already agreed to waive much of the paper work for the first year, to give it a chance to work smoothly.

On a positive side, the UK is pushing ahead with a green and considerate agenda. They have banned the cruel and wasteful practice of pulse fishing, or "electic shock stunning," to knock out all fish just to catch a few flat fish. Though even here, reading past the headline, we note that the EU are banning it in 6 months anyway, and the UK could have banned it before the 31st December, but timed it to look good. As usual nowadays it's hard to differentiate truth from whatever message the powers that be wish to push.

In Scotland, Nicola Sturgeon has restated her intention to leave the UK (surprise surprise!). She is determined to gain independence so she can be free to rejoin the EU, just as other countries seem to be building pressure to leave the EU and gain independence. It's hard to understand her logic in all this.; experts suggest it could take her 10 years to leave the UK and be accepted as a member of the EU. At that stage, I'm sure she'll be welcomed in, for by then it could be that the EU only has three members: Germany, France and Scotland. 

I am trying a new method to control my pruritus and scratching. I have given up on the many potions and lotions, and instead am using a new technique of conditional learning. It consists of a rubber band round the wrist, which I twang every time I feel the urge to scratch. The only down side so far is I sometimes forget to twang it, but am reminded by Ann saying, "what happened to the wrist flick?". I guess I may need another band on the contra wrist to remind me to twang the first wrist. But I must say, over the past two days, I subjectively think I am itching and scratching less.

Autumn in Lockdown

On the art front, I continue painting and have completed an autumn view of the river Stour in Clare from the old railway bridge. There is something magical in painting in oils. They are very expresive, yet at the same time forgiving. I could paint the bland autumnal scene, then add the dark railings of the bridge, to show my frustration at the current restrictions.  

Some good news in 2020

Rosie & Arwen - Good News for 2020

The year has almost ended. After Covid with so many deaths, the terrible lockdowns, and the disgrace of a government bringing about such vast swathes of unemployment and the traumas of leaving the EU, many will say us to say, "Thank God". 

In Edinburgh, where the Balmoral Hotel clock runs 3 minutes fast to help people be in time for the trains, this year it is being left fast at midnight because they can't wait for the year to end. Here, we must celebrate alone, but we have some bubbly to welcome in the next year and wish 2021 good cheer.

One welcome piece of news is the happy and successful birth of our newest granddaughter Arwen to Rosie and Matthew, after the traumatic time of prematurity, and Matthew being barred from the hospital from seeing his own partner and daughter. Today, she is 3 months old, and has more than doubled her birth weight. 

Second good news of course is the Oxford vaccine, also approved this morning and holding such great promise for health and freedom. Thirdly, it was the year I took up painting, under the prompting of Grayson Perry and his series on Channel Four. I have now completed a larger portrait of Rosie and Arwen to celebrate. I'm pleased to see some constant improvement over the year from my first tentative endevours, though I readily admit there is still have some way to go with colour and techique to reach a truely high standard. Perhaps next year I shall be truely adventurous and have confidence to try a large canvas.

Happy New Year to you all - Grandad John

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.