The Nightingale returns

Waking early, as the first light edges into the room above the dark curtains, I hear the magic notes of the nightingale. It is only late in March, but he has returned early this year. Last year I heard his arrival in April when we were in the first full lockdown with silent, empty skies and roads (see The Nightingale in Empty-Skies). I have opened the window to hear better, and lie for hour listening to his trills as he soars through an unrepeating repertoire. Perhaps his early arrival signals a long, warm summer to come. Finally, the boring pigeons begin to cut in and steal the peace with their multitudinous single strain of noise. 

Grayson Perry Alter Ego

My first portrait of Grayson Perry was in Acrylic on paper when from when he started his Art Club on Channel 4 last year (see Painting Grayson). We are now enjoying his new series, for which I have completed a more contemporary portrait of him in oils on canvas as his alter ego.  We live in a strange, confusing society where to take on certain styles or fashion ones hair in a forbidden way is now absolutely tabboo. If Grayson were to suddenly aspire to be a cowboy, that would be OK (white western men), but a Native American? Definitely out - cultural appropriation. A woman wishes to wear dreadlocks? Verboten. That is stealing Afro-American identity.  Don't dare to come to a fancydress party as an Arab person; that's out now. People moan so often and loudly if a white man dares to dress as another race of person of colour (I can't even say BAME now, that term was suddenly decreed wrong by the thought police) and you will bring down the wrath of the mighty media. Yet it's fine for Arab people to dress in European clothing, or Afro-American women to straighten their hair. It's fine for women to power dress in city suits and boots. Shall a man wear a skirt and hair ribbon and the fashion of a teenage chick? Fine - don't dare to criticise or question, or you'll be labelled an intolerent trans-hater. My point here is not to question Grayson, but to ask in what world is it now forbidden to dress as someone of another culture? It used to be a mark of admiration and respect for other peoples, but now this is where the intolerence lies. Once, men could dress as minstrels because we admired the people and that style of music; indeed, a popular BBC show was built round this theme. But now, one touch of the black grease paint and you're dead in the ground. That is not cultural respect; it is complete intolerence for other people. One day it will reverse, and we will be able to copy any race or culture because we admire it. 

Now I am working on a portrait of Ann, not in a contemporary style but a more classical interpretation. I look forward to completing it and presenting her with it. She is my fiercest critic, so I will try hard to make it worthy of her.

More moans from the front: my tooth socket is as painful as toothache, even though the tooth is now consigned to the bin. I am taking CoCodamol to ease it, supplemented by a large shot of brandy, but was so tired today I went back to bed twice. It was not helped by getting despairing messages from the company I work for demanding urgent replies, and saying they need to get hold of me, and why wasn't I responding to the stream of emails they sent? I don't like to admit the truth on these occasions, for although they haven't shown any overt age discrimination, I am conscious that it is the first thing they might blame if I don't come up to the mark. I simply replied that I had been away from the office (true), but would work on it straight away.

Reminiscences

Work has been excessively busy lately as we approach the start date for our new clinical trial. Ann had an appointment with the glaucoma clinic, but work prevented me taking her, so happily Edwin was able to come over and do the honours. Happily the glaucoma is well under control, but Ann has a cataract in her 'bad' eye. Because she still has some peripheral vision in it, they will make another appointment for her to have this cataract removed.  Now I sit under my blanket (I seem to get cold easily), tired from the day's work and in pain from the tooth removal. It's strange, but I had no pain from the cavity before the removal; now it is like intense toothache. It eases with CoCodamol, but I don't like to take them too often, so am waiting until nearly bedtime so they will kick in as I go to sleep. 

Strata 2 Crete

It is a day for reminiscences. For some reason, perhaps because I'm curled up under my blanket, I am remembering when I had to stay at my grandfather's house in Burnley for some months. He was dying, and she went up to look after him, taking we children in tow. The house was in an old cotton weaver's row of back-to-back terraces, what they call "two up and two down". The parlour was for Sunday use, with an old wind-up 78 rmp gramophone, but they moved a single bed there for grandad so he could be downstairs. The one toilet was a brick shed at the end of the yard. It opened as a straight drop onto the sewer below; it looked about ten feet down, and we were always worried we might fall in. To flush it we had to go back to the kitchen and empty a bowl of water down the sink. I remember doing so, and racing back to watch the water swirl away far below.

Bath night was a tin bath brought in from the yard and placed before the fire on the hearth, then filled with kettles of hot water. We boys took turns getting in, and jumping out quickly, embarrassed until mum wrapped the towel round us. In bed, we were warmed by an old stone water bottle which was far too hot, but suddenly very cold, and against which we stubbed our toes if we forgot it was there. I would lie awake far into the night, listening to strange sounds in the deep silence, and hear a church clock chime the hours.

An old "aunt" came for tea one day, and we had boiled eggs. She was disgusted that my mother gave us an egg each. "In my day, children were only given the top of the egg," she complained.

We went to a local school for a term. Even in the 1950's it seemed old-fashioned, almost 19th Century. Boys and girls had separate entrances, and the playground had a high wire fence running down the middle to segragate us. We had morning assembly each day in a large school hall. One morning, a very small girl, barely 6 yearls old, was late, so was summoned by the head to the stage at the far end of the hall. I still remember the deep sadness with which she walked down the aisle. There on the stage, in front of the whole school, her misdemeanour was read out, she was reprimanded, then caned by the headmaster. Now, such punishment seems barbaric, but then it was taken as normal. 

An eventful time in lockdown

Much has happened in the interval since my last post, and I must make amends by relating some of the new events in our lives. 

On Monday, I had a private follow up appointment with the dermatologist, a smart, young, dark haired, Russian emigree called Dr Alexandroff, who trained in Moscow, speaks with a low rumbling accent, and now has a Harley Street practice. Though normally spurning private medicine in support of our NHS, I must admit their management and treatment regimes since the Covid restrictions have been extremely non-existant. I haven't seen the dermatologist, the oncologist, or the renal surgeon for well over a year; instead, they arrange telephone appointments and basically just ask, "how are you?" 

Because my rash is so wide spread and the itching so horrific, I grew tired of the NHS guy giving vague telephone advice without looking at the rash. It was reaching the point where I woke several times each night, scratching and bleeding in my sleep, and lying restless trying not to scratch each time I woke. So Ann in desparation phoned Dr Alexandroff and got a new appointment within the week. He no longer sees patients at Newmarket or the Nuffield Hospital in Cambridge due to Covid restrictions, but was able to see me at a Herbal Medicine centre where he can take rooms. He prescribed a new and stronger spray, and it does seem to be having some effect.

Ann has had gradual worsening of vision since her cataract operation. The optician diagnosed a thin film forming, which can sometimes occur following surgery, and refered her for urgent treatment, as she can only see through one eye and will be blind if it goes completely. On Wednesday, we therefore went to an eye clinic in Ipswich. It too was a private clinic, but they are undertaking NHS work under contract. It was all very efficient, and they used laser beams to punch holes in the film and allow her to regain some sight. We now wait for it to settle and hopefully restore some good vision.

Then on Friday, I had to go to the dentist for an extraction. This is a sorry story, and mostly my own fault. Six months ago at a checkup, I was declared healthy, dental-wise at least. But this time, Mr Singh discovered a large cavity in a lower molar that had developed just in that time. It tracked below the gum line, and he decided the tooth was beyond saving. I had been prescribed a new steroid inhaler six months ago, and was supposed to use a spacer and rinse my mouth after each use, but I didn't! Now I read that steroid inhalers are responsible for dental caries and loss of dentition when sprayed directly in the mouth! I hadn't even had tooth ache, but I paid for my stupidity with a painful and very expensive extraction that needed a specialist to get the bits of root out, and the gum is still very painful, like a retrospective toothache. Because Ann cannot drive with her poor eye sight, Edwin kindly volunteered to take me over.

Yesterday, Edwin phoned to say he'd just had the police knocking on his door. He lives on the second floor of a block of flats in Cambrdige, and the police had a report that the woman on the landing opposite their flat hadn't been seen for a while. Edwin and Andre hadn't seen her either, so the police proceded to break the door down and force an entry. She was an elderly lady who had been receiving radiotherapy at Addenbrooks for some form of cancer. She had no one to ferry her, so used to take a taxi for her treatments. Unfortunately, the police found her dead, so there was a big commotion on the landing as the doctor and ambulance were called. There is no lift to the flats, so the ambulance men couldn't get their trolley there and she had to be carried down. The boys were very upset by it, not having realised how very ill she was.

The Pigeon Trader

The distractions of the week have not stopped my painting; it is still hugely enjoyable, and I find when I'm sploshing paint freely on canvas I forget everything else, even the toothache. It is very therapeutic, and I can't recommend it enough. My latest picture  was inspired by a report of the racing pigeon trade in China, where it is a popular pastime and top birds change hands for large fees. The trader looked so coarse with has fat hands, broken teeth and dangling cigarette, compared to the serene beauty of the prize pigeon I had to set it down on canvas. 

A cold start to the day

We woke to a cold house yesterday, and horrible noises from the boiler, an acrid smell of diesel fumes, and a glowing red light as it finally switched itself off. Luckily our boiler man (who lives in Hundon) called round promptly this morning and sorted it all out, to the tune of a new oil pump and new bearings for the fan, which had certainly been very noisy recently. Eventually all was working, the boiler is silent again, and we have radiators and hot water once more.

Work is very busy now as we prepare to start a new drug trial. Because of Covid, it will be split across two centres (UK and Germany) to maximise the rate of recruitment, but it makes for considerably more work. We have finally chosen the groups that will run the trial for us; now we have to prepare the paperwork and apply formally to the two regulators for a licence to run the study. This is one complication of Brexit; there used to be just one European regulator based in London, but post-Brexit the European centre moved to Amsterdam, and the London centre is only responsible for the UK. Nothing gets easier, just more work for everyone and a lot more expense for the drug companies.

Strata 1 Dales Gorge

I am continuing to paint, following a theme inspired by my love of geology. Many rock formations show beautiful patterns with many coloured bands in the sedimentary formations where they were laid down many millions of years ago. They are fun to paint, and I may try one or two more in the weeks ahead. At least my studio has independent heating, as long as the electricity doesn't go off.

I went for my dental checkup this afternoon. I didn't expect much to be wrong, but an X-ray showed a massive cavity below an old filling. Mr Singh said the tooth was beyond repair, and would need extraction, but because of my cancer history he thought it should be done by a specialist oncology dental surgeon called Mr Patel, so he has made me an appointment for 3 week's time. If anyone wants to be wealthy in life, I can certainly recommend becoming a dentist. They seem to have carte blanche to write their own cheques - we just have to honour them. It's a far cry from the dentist I saw in London who had a large notice in his window: "Teeth pulled while you wait". 

Unfortunately, when we got back from the dentists in Hadleigh, the boiler cutout light had come on again and the house was freezing. Fortunately, our local plumber, Alen, could be round in ten minutes. He stripped it out again and found dirt in the pipework that had blocked one of the tiny valves. He is coming back in the morning to replace the valve, but in the meantime he was able to patch it up to get some warmth back, and Ann could have her bath.

The First Day of Spring

 

Tomorrow is the first day of spring, and already the skies are blue, the sun warm, and wild flowers in the local copse are greeting the world, eager to escape their winter imprisonment. In the garden, crocuses are well out and the tulips are bursting through winter's old crust. With lockdown's end in sight,  the countdown has begun.

Suddenly Boris is in everyone's good books, just because he will allow us to give our children a hug and see our grandchildren once more. I will actually be allowed to sit on a park bench without prosecution, should I tire on my short walks with the dogs. It is hard to believe how quickly and for how long these basic human rights were removed, rendering the whole country under virtual house arrest. How easily is freedom stripped away. How powerful are the police now, with drones and CCTV to monitor the whole population. The gestapo would have had a field day with such technology, and any underground resistance would have been snipped off at the bud. Saving the torture, one feels that living under a dictatorship could not be much harsher than the last year has been. Yet even a dictatorship would probably have provoked more rebellion and protest marches than our enfeebled state has mustered; it has been  incredible and frightening how quickly compliant the whole nation has been to arbitrary government diktat. 

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. Edwin and Andre called by (suitably distanced) to bring a card and gift - a n Apple Mini iPod. It came smartly wrapped in a cubic box, which I held carefully to open, gently and slowly sliding the lid upward till it came clear of the box underneath. Unfortunately, the box beneath was very shallow, and the iPod was a perfect sphere balanced carefully on a plinth to show it to good effect. Inevitably, the sphere rolled off its plinth, bounced along the tiled floor, and rolled under the table, leaving me holding a shallow box, the lid, and a deep red face. I said, "we'll have to say it didn't work when we opened it," but the boys said, "the guarantee doesn't include bouncing it on the floor!" However they must build them very strong, for happily nothing rattled inside and it still worked. Unlike my pride, it wasn't even dented.

Covid-19 News

 
The onslaught of Covid disease at last seems to be waning. Cases and death rates are slowly falling, and the vaccination program is racing ahead, adding to the celebration of Brexit successes. I had my vaccination a few weeks ago, with no ill effects - not even a sore arm or red spot. Ann has her jab booked for Saturday, and is looking forward to picking up the threads of normal existence; she has already booked appointments with the glaucoma clinic and for an eye test now we have a date for safely walking the streets again, and she may be able to revisit the shops for the first time in months. Even more important, when will the pubs and restaurants reopen? Meanwhile, I continue painting. Ann bought me a parcel of black canvases to use, and I have now done a number of more modern pictures. The Thinker is an attempt at an expressionistic style.

The Thinker

On our telecon meeting this morning, they announced that there will be a big internal meeting in March, with some of our Japanese colleagues expected to attend. As many as can are being urged to make the journey to attend in person at the Holborn office in London. Despite the jab, I'm not sure if I can risk a visit to London yet, but things are certainly beginning to open up again, bring hope for brighter times ahead. I have continued to paint a little, though interrupted by work, which has been intense recently as we move towards starting a new drug trial. Aso, as part of the research effort on Covid-19, I am getting a number of safety reports to analyse from an inoculation study run by Oxford and Manchester universities for the ONS (Office of National Statistics). These are follow-up reports for the routine jabs, but it is interesting that I am now being involved, even if remotely.

Less good news has come from Ben and Kaz. Ben has largely been able to work from home, but Kaz works with vulnerable young people and therefore has to meet them face-to-face on a daily basis. Those she works with have no concept of social distancing, and will not wear face masks, so her risk has always been high. Now she too has developed Covid, before being offered protection, and passed it on to Ben. They are fortunately recovering now, but have had to isolate for the required period.

Ann's sister, Jane, also was due to get the jab but has also developed symptoms of Covid, so is unable even to go for her daily walk and has had to postpone her vaccination. Her son John works as a delivery driver, so was always at risk of exposure from the many people he meets each day, though it is uncertain if he showed symptoms or not.

A lockdown walk in the snow

 

Dog walking in the snow

We continue with patience through lockdown number 3, unable to see anyone from another household, unable to travel further than the village, and avoided in the street even by other dog walkers who take pains to walk on the other side of the road. I am supposed to be on a priority list for deliveries, but we have yet to find a slot with Sainsbury or Tesco. We rely on Ocado deliveries which Ann has managed to book each week. 

We do occasionally travel further afield though. We head ostensibly towards Waitrose in Sudbury waving a carrier bag with the purpose of essential shopping, then stop at Rodbridge park on the way for a good stretch and to let the dogs run free. Byron has become increasingly reluctant to travel in the car and has taken to hiding in a corner when I take them out. Today he wouldn't even come to Ann's call, so he ended up alone at home as we drove out into the blizzard with Bronte.

Today we were hit by the new blizzard from the east; there was a thin sprinkling of snow, but we left in a quiet gap. However it came on again as I walked forcing us to return home and abandon even the pretence of Waitrose. It is heavy now and quite thick outside. 

Unable to go to the theatre or cinema or even a pub for a drink, we were in search of something new to watch when I read a recommendation for a BBC series, Industry. The premise is a group of young graduates competing for a position with a prestigious Investment bank. They are each interesting characters, and the story promised to be an insightful view of a world we never see, yet so often read about. In the event, it is practically unwatchable.  It turned into a prime porno series before we ever found out about the characters or learnt about the inner workings of the city. Many years ago, in the days of video rentals, Ann and I got a copy of a film called Tie Me Up Tie Me Down. The was rated as an X porno film, but was like a tame walk in the park compared to Industry. I have never seen so much naked flesh since I worked on the gynae ward. It added nothing to any of the characters, and served to hold up rather than develop whatever story lurked beneath the lurid surface. This seems to be the way modern TV is moving. Even Jeremy Clarkson in his column in the Sunday Times berated the extreme content of so much contemporary television. It is small wonder that 750,000 older people are refusing to pay the BBC Television licence fee. They are desperately chasing the younger viewers and making themselves irrelevant to the rest of their audience.

The Absinthe Drinker, after Picasso

I continue with painting, now trying new approaches. To encourage my art, Ann treated me to a set of black canvases and my most recent work is a version of Picasso's The Absinthe Drinker. I will not comment on its quality, but it is a pointer of the new directions that open if one is willing to try something new.