Klara and the Sun

I have finished Klara and the Sun, by Ishiguro. Listed as "Dystopian Science Fiction", it is an amazing book, truly original in style and content where the protagonist is Klara, a robot of limited intelligence or ability. Children are brought up in semi-isolation, learning on their tablets, so robots like Klara are sold to be companions for them to prevent loneliness. The primitive Klara can read human emotions moderately well, and through her (it?) we learn of the other characters in the story, and find that many human jobs have been supplanted by robots with the accompanying problems of unemployment and restlessness and potential revolt, though nothing of this develops in the story. The main point of the story seems to be an analogy of how humans throughout history have developed a universal sense of theological worship, whether to objects like trees or animals; human role models like Christ or the Buddha, or abstractions of a spiritual god. For Klara, it becomes the sun she worships, through prayer and sacrifice. 

As a work of science fiction, there is much that is only implied or ill-defined and not worked through, but one anomaly stands out. It is fundamental to the story that the sun sets behind Mr. McBain's barn as Klara seeks it's resting place, but it never moves from that spot. In reality, the sun will move round the horizon by a full 45 degrees each half year, or two degrees per week. It is as though Ishiguro's  earth is standing still in heaven, neglecting its seasonal changes, to still the sun in its track as a fixed marker in the sand for the story. This trivial fact is representative of the whole: we get nothing but hints of science fiction, with nothing worked through; a sense of great political and cultural changes, but lacking any impression of to what it might lead. We are left, like Klara herself, floundering and neglected in the junk yard trying to get our impressions in order, but with no real sense of the outer world or what it means.

Today, Ann is suffering. Her eye is sore and weeping. She has to put several types of drops in each day. But worse, at the moment she has lost even the peripheral vision she had, and is completely blind in the eye. She used to see me scratching from the corner of her eye without turning her head, but now I scratch without comment. We are left waiting for improvement so she can once more keep me in check.

Edwin and Andre are house-hunting in Bury and Norwich. Their present appartment has grown too small, with both working from home and needing office space. They saw two houses today, then came on to us this evening. To save Ann from discomfort in going out or having to prepare a meal, they have kindly gone into Haverhill to get a take-away Chinese. They have taken my new car, to include the dogs, and will walk them down the High Street to sit in one of the pubs awaiting the meal to be ready. They are so thoughtful!

There have been so many jokes circulating about the hypocrites of Downing Street. A local pub has put a sign outside: "OK, we admit it. We did misjudge Boris Johnson. He can arrange a piss-up". 

Medical visits and Welsh whisky

At the drive-through blood test

It has been an unusual week. On Tuesday, I went for the pre-immunotherapy blood tests. These were taken in the park-and-ride carpark in Cambridge. They have erected a large marquee in one corner, where cars were queuing to enter, being directed to one of five lanes. There, I had to wind down the window and hang my arm out while the phlebotomist wheeled up a trolley with all her gear to do the necessary. It all seemed very odd, yet strangely efficient; they had all the paper work and sample bottles ready, the test was done quickly, and the result was available on the Addenbrookes website later that evening.

On Wednesday, I saw the oncologist who examined my rash and listened to my moans about how itchy it was. In fairness to myself, the pruritus had become almost unbearable, being constant and waking me several times at night, unless I dosed myself up with strong painkillers and antihistamines while smothering my whole body with various creams and lotions, including some with strong steroids and antibiotics in them. The urge to scratch is almost irresistible, despite Ann's constant warnings, but it is she who finds the blood in the bed each morning and has to change the sheets and pillowcases more often. The doctor looked me all over and agreed it was bad, so called in his consultant. She too made me strip down and looked all over. Her decision was to postpone the next immunotherapy for two weeks, as this was probably contributing to the rash, and commence an immediate dose of strong oral steroids. The way I explain immuno is simple: the immunotherapy triggers the immune system, firing it up like pouring petrol on a smouldering fire. The gush of flames in the form of active T-cells attack the cancer cells, trying to incinerate them like they should any foreign body (that's how they fight infections). The trouble comes when the fire is so intense it starts to burn other organs in the body. It is non-selective, so every organ is vulnerable: kidneys, liver, adrenal gland, thyroid gland, heart, pancreas - all my be attacked leading to their failure. That is why they do the blood tests every month, to check for liver function, renal function, diabetes etc. The skin in my case is a sensitive organ, and the T-cells are attacking it, making it flare up in an itchy rash. At least that means the immuno is doing its job and has fired up the T-cells. Now the steroids are the equivalent of a fireman coming along with a powerful hose to squirt and quell the flames again! But already the rash is fading and the itching is easing, so the firefighting is working too. But now everything is pushed back two weeks, and the whole rigmarole of Covid test, blood test, and consultation will have to be repeated. Hay ho.

Then last night, Ann had a phone call from WSH asking if she was free to come in for her cataract operation next day at 8a.m. She had been delaying it for some time because of needing to drive in case I fell ill suddenly, but they had had a cancellation, and as I no longer needed to isolate or be driven, she agreed to go ahead, so this morning I drove her to the hospital. Three hours later, I drove back to pick her up. She is very brave; she has had both eyes done now, but hopefully it will give some improvement to her vision, for though blind in her right eye she still has some peripheral vision in it, which hopefully will sharpen a bit now. The eye is sore now, and weeping, so I have dressed it with a sterile eye patch.

On a happier note, I suddenly received a bottle of Welsh whisky, Penderyn, this week. I have been adding a tumbler of whisky to my various hypnotic concoctions for sleep, so it was welcome, but it had no note explaining who was the donor. Ann put it on Facebook, and it turns out to have been Edwin as a little cheer-me-up. I am not familiar with Welsh whisky, but it seems that, historically, they have been using stills there since the 5th C. so there is a long history behind it. The Welsh-born prime minister, Lloyd George, introduced legislation in parliament specifically to support it becoming a high-quality legal product and move away from the poteen cottage industry. So thank you Eds, most generous, and I look forward to sampling it - though it may have to wait till I'm off my steroids.

Grayson Perry, The Pre-Therapy Years

Edwin views Grayson Perry's work

Grayson Perry is one of my heroes, so when Edwin invited Ann and me to visit a retrospective of his early work, I was thrilled. The exhibition, The Pre-Therapy Years, is at the Sainsbury gallery at UEA, Norwich. The first part of the exhibition contains modern and abstract work by a number of artists, but entering the Perry display was truly mind-blowing: unlike any of his modern work yet clearly foretelling the direction he was going. The vast majority is his trademark pottery, with which he combines pictorial art and poetry in arresting juxtaposition, using the clay forms as other artists might use a canvas or notebook. The works question any pre-existing mores of sexuality, emphasising so often his inner feminine being, Claire. Throughout the work, he seems to question not just who he is, but also who Clare is, as though searching for her character through a wealth of feminine role models. The whole exhibition is thrilling, yet faintly disturbing. These were the pre-therapy years, stretching back to a period of nearly forty years ago, when he was still freshly wounded from childhood traumas. It is interesting to compare the work with his recent post-therapy work; much calmer, less distressing, yet with an ever emerging technique in handling his chosen clay medium. 

Grayson Perry Plate

In the evening we dined at a wonderful vegan restaurant in Norwich - with some of the best food I have tasted, vegan or otherwise. The whole day out more than compensated for our poor start to the year.

But on Sunday, we had the biggest surprise of all. We had lunch at the Hundon Plough: a fine nut roast with all trimmings. We indulged ourselves with plenty of wine, desserts, and liqueur coffees afterwards. I went to the bar to pay, but the lady said, "There's nothing to pay. Lucy has paid it!" Lucy had phoned the restaurant and paid for our meal on the phone! Unbelievable and a wonderful surprise and treat. The lady added, "I wish I had a daughter like that." "We have," we said, "she's wonderful."

A rotten start to the year

Walking in the shadow of the docks

Sunday, 2nd January. The weather was bright and warm, tempting for a day by the sea, possibly with ice-cream and a meal for our first outing of the year. Felixstowe sounded promising, so off we set. Hitting the Orwell bridge, we were suddenly caught behind a massive traffic queue, with no exit route for several miles. Finally, crawling forward in little jerks, we reached the cause of our holdup: a broken down ancient horse box blocking the lane. 

After the long delay and with the dogs still in the car, we stopped first at Landguard Fort to walk them, ending up at the cafe under the shadow of the great container ships at Felixstowe Docks. We went to the cafe toilets, but decided to go into Felixstowe to walk on the beach before enjoying coffee and ice-cream. No such luck. We had not allowed for the Bank Holiday crowds and could not even park. 

Selfie at Landguard Point.

We decided to cut our losses and head for Aldeburgh, where we did manage to park. But that was all we did. The one pub was full, with people sitting outside with their drinks. The hotel was closed for refurbishing, the one restaurant open had stopped serving. The only available food was if we joined the long queues at the take-away fish and chip shops. We could not spot so much as a decent cafe for a coffee. It was getting late, so we set off for Bury to finally get something to eat. No way - the fates were against us this day. The sky grew dark as night, and it began to rain,  Not a shower of rain, but a total deluge was falling, the roads rapidly flooding, and vision severely limited, so we abandoned the day and finally reached home having had no drink all day, and not so much as a chocolate bar. Welcome to 2022.

Lone Christmas Tree at Aldeburgh

It did not help my mood when Edwin phoned. He and Andre had gone to Dover, which was quiet and where they had a lovely day, ending in Morelli's Italian ice-cream parlour, sending a photo of the two of them with a towering dish of icecream dripping with sauces and sprinkles. They had the sense to leave at 8:00 a.m. so they had a full day there in warm sunshine. I can make no comment.

 

New Year's Eve

Ann in the George and Dragon

Yesterday, we did some last-minute shopping in Waitrose. Or to be more accurate, Ann shopped for the extra bits of food she wanted, while I walked the dogs. We stopped for lunch in Long Melford, where I took this picture. Ann says I take bad photos of her, and refused to post it on her Facebook page, but I think she looks great, so I leave it here for the world to judge.

It is the end of a turbulent year, bringing many changes to our lives and futures other than the baleful cloud of Covid, that has hung above us all like a gloomy portend of humanities ultimate demise. We will let the year end slip quietly away, with little celebrate save getting through twelve months of hospital visits and fear of travel. We have lost two good holidays we had planned for abroad, and with the sword of cancer hanging over me and the commitment to a year of treatments, I do not see us getting far next year either. We shall have to enjoy the delights that Britain has to offer, and book times away as best we may.

In keeping with our quiet fade to 2021, we had a modest lunch at the Swan, then a visit to a garden centre to try and buy a bigger pot for one of Ann's plants. Ann seems to have green fingers when it comes to house plants; they all run wild, and need constant repotting or splitting. I cannot grow plants, as I forget to water them and they wither, but I grow cacti from the wild deserts, that thrive in arid soil. They do well enough, but even they have now grown and need repotting - a job I keep promising to do one day.

Winter sunset over Rodbridge

We stopped at Rodbridge park on the way back, to give the dogs a good run among their many friends - for the bright sun and unseasonable warmth had brought forth a whole platoon of dogs, chasing balls or each other but mostly running free, which suits our two country tykes well. Then to a quiet night, just two of us, and a few nibbles and some booze to while away the hours till midnight, and its promise of hopes to come. 

My new coat from Mike

Some time ago, I had admired Mike's new coat when he visited. His amazing generosity led him immediately to buy me one too, a thick quilted and lined affair, ready for the worst of winters. Thank you Mike.

Seasonal celebrations

Ann makes Christmas

Boxing Day at The Mill

MA brings in the first birthday cake

Christmas is a mixed time for families. We rarely have a large gathering: most of my side of the family are rooted across England, north and west, and Ann's through her sister's  also sit up north. But the local ones came: Edwin and Andre for Christmas dinner, MA and her family in the evening for games and the traditional lucky dip. This year, Edwin was tasked with setting the theme and getting the gifts. He chose "Epidemics through history", with each present wrapped in a tasteful Coronavirus paper, with imaginative gifts to represent such things as the Spanish Flu and HIV/AIDS.  

Ann always makes a superb Christmas dinner, vegetarian but with a prime nut roast, and a vegan joint to slice, with all the trimmings. Edwin brought in a heated frying pan of brandy to pour on the Christmas pudding, then set it alight. There was a great whoosh of flame that nearly set his beard afire, but we all admired the effect. 

Birthday evening

We see much of wild life living in Hundon. In the front garden, a squirrel hung by his tail from a branch, upside down, to rob the "squirrel-proof" birdseed box. At the back, a red kite settled on a branch of a neighbour's tree before circling round us, scaring off even the pigeons from feeding from the fallen seeds.

Boxing day saw us frantically phoning round to find a place that would serve a meal, to save Ann from further work. For all their moaning about losing income from all the restrictions, a surprising number of pubs and restaurants were closed completely, or only serving drinks today. We finally found The Mill at Sudbury that could accommodate four hungry souls at 3pm. Alas, they only had a fixed menu with one vegetarian option, a Thai curry. The waitress checked with the chef and reassured us that this was "very mild", but it turned out to be bursting with chilis, burning the mouth and tongue, and inedible for gentle palates. Later, we walked it off strolling through Sudbury as thick fog shrouded the flooded river and dripped from the bare trees. 

My birthday always follows hot on the heels of Christmas, making it doubly difficult for the present givers. I think Ann bought the only decorated cake left in the shops: it was from the theme of Frozen. She refused to cut through the beautiful pictures of Elsa and Anna, peeling them off to preserve them unwounded by any knife, so we each had a slice of cake iced with tiny border of blue ice. MA and family came over for afternoon tea, helping serve the cake. In the evening, Edwin and Andre had invited us for a meal and a second cake, so I may know I am well and truly one year older, although alas my creaking body leaves little doubt of that.

Celebrate the Winter Solstice, while awaiting the Omega Armageddon

Cheers to the Winter Solstice

Ann and I like to celebrate the Winter Solstice. I hate winter: it is cold, dark, miserable and damp. I sit under a blanket, shivering with extra jerseys, long socks, or even a coat. Outside, the bare trees are dripping incessantly as though weeping for their lost glory, and underfoot is a sea of mud, waiting to change into treacherous ice before the season is done. The days are short and gloomy, under a monotonous grey sky. But amidst this bleakness, one day stands firm - the turning of the year, when we know we can look forward to gradually lengthening days, brighter skies, and the return of warmth. Thus do we celebrate.

This year, our celebration took us to the Clare Swan. They have had a torrid year with all the restrictions, and even this night, in the midst of the week before Christmas when the place would normally be booked solid with works outings or family celebrations, we were the only souls in the place. Nick was on his own, gloomily serving two permanent bar props in the saloon, and us in the dining area. Following a previous example, we decided to eat out to help out, so went for the full three-course Monty, splitting a bottle of his finest Chablis between us. He had not lit the fire in the restaurant, expecting no guests, so we retired before a roaring fire in the saloon for after dinner drinks, joining the two bar-leaning regulars. They were joined by some woman who was sobbing as though with the intense grief of someone who'd just lost a son, though we never did learn the cause of her distress.
 

Getting home, I was so full and bloated I could not sleep and had to be propped on an extra pillar to lessen the regurgitation. Next day, we both missed breakfast and lunch, and ate only a few crackers and cheese for supper, with no wine.

The Covid waves are progressing well. We are now on Omicron, and for once the PM may have called it right - or at least, been guided forcibly by his cabinet and tory rebels to do the right thing. His decision to hold back from further lockdowns this side of Christmas may be proved correct, is Omicron is as mild as its early promise. Needless to say, he is taking much flack for this from his Welsh and Scottish counterparts, and even the WHO have singled him out for criticism - though since the debacle about their investigation into China's behaviour in all of this, I think they have rather weakened their moral authority. Even Witty has turned from hero to villain by starting to spout political advice rather than just presenting the raw data and leaving it for others to make the judgement. We await the next few weeks with interest, meanwhile being "sensible but cautious", without locking ourselves away or trembling behind the sofa. The time to worry is when the Omega strain hits the world. By then, Covid might evolve to be even more highly infectious, completely impervious to every attempt to vaccinate, and totally deadly - wiping out what is left of civilisation with one final hurrah - that surely will be Armageddon.