Quiz night

We held our weekly quiz last night, this time compèred by Matthew and Rosie. They gave a good assortment of questions, including some on Rosie's speciality of food (she was a professional chef), and Matthew's work on motorbikes and insurance! The number attending each week has slowly grown, with 11 groups logging in this time.

I have finished another picture of one of the grandchildren. I feel there is some improvement, but still considerable way to go before I establish smooth tonal blending, and better colouring. However, it remains a good relaxation, for when I have to concentrate on this, I cannot think of anything else. I imagine art must be a good distraction therapy for agitation or tension. Whether it helps people with depression though, I don't know. Judging by the agitation it induced when I painted my other grandson (see Painting problems),
I rather think it might make someone more depressed when it all goes wrong.   

On the political front, Dominic Cummings remains in his post despite a week of ridicule and degredation of the prime minister. When the story first broke, Ann as usual showed great insight; she predicted this saying he would not be going, whereas I was certain he would have to be dismissed. It seems that Boris cannot do without him, though the vitriol it has stirred will almost certainly come back to haunt him.

Meeting up again

We are all cheered by the news that lockdown is to be eased from Monday. We drove out to our old sailing haunts of Woolverstone and Shotley to enjoy a change of scene and the fresh sunny air, watching the newly awakened boating fraternity getting ready for a delayed season. I had prepared a picnic which we ate in the car, on obedience to the rules, but Shotley was already too busy to walk the dogs without closely meeting people.

In the evening, an arranged visit by one of our neighbours to share a beer and a whisky in the garden. To try and keep the Hundon men's group going, he had invited me and several others round for drinks in his garden, but not feeling ready to meet a large group I ducked that one. This was by way of compensation.

Busy bees

We continue to see large numbers of bees, generally busying themselves in the fruit trees. Today however a huge queen landed on our window, mounted by a drone busy in other ways. They remained occupied for about 15 minutes, before he finally fell off exhausted. She preened herself for a few moments then flew off through the trees, presumably to found another colony somewhere.

Things are moving foreward

We had visitors yesterday in the form of our friends Rae and Malcolm. We sat in the garden at the requisite distance, and gave them cold drinks in throwaway cups. I know only one visitor is supposed to come at a time, but we could hardly leave one of them sitting in the car or ask them to take it in turns. It was really good to see them and have a good catch-up. That particular rule is foolish anyway; if one visitor has CV, the chances are their partner has it too; and if one is clear, they should both be clear. Likewise us: we wouldn't accept anyone coming into the garden if we had symptoms of CV, but the pleasure in seeing new faces more than compensates for a mild flouting of the law. Beside, we can now use the example of Dominic Cummings and cite pressing mental needs and the requirement, nay the necessity, of company to alleviate the symptoms of boredomitis.

I've finally finished my portrait of my grandson. As reported earlier, I have worked and reworked the face to try and get the shading right, but have finally stopped. I have come to accept it for what it is, so you will have to also.

In my previous blog (Hundon-honey) I spoke of the anguish of the many people denied proper care under the NHS whilst this pandemic rages, or awaiting follow-up appointments to check for recurrence of cancers.   Well, I have finally received a follow up appointment I was due for the chest clinic. It is to be a telephone appointment by the consultant, so I presume he will ask me to place the phone on my chest and take some deep breaths so he can check my breathing. He might ask me to pull my shirt up and put my hands over my ribs to see if I can feel any rales. I'm not sure what he'll do about the follow-up chest X-ray though; perhaps he'll ask me to stand in front of a bright light.

We are listening to the SpaceX launch sequence as I write this blog. It is the first human US launch for some time, since the Shuttle programme shut down. At T-22, the team is uncertain if the weather will be favourable of if they will have to abort the flight. If it does take off, it is scheduled to pass over Cambridge at 21:45 so we may be able to see it pass, although it is still quite light at these high latitudes. [Hot news: lift-off cancelled because of poor weather outlook over launch site].

Hundon Honey and the wrong bees

This lockdown is causing a lot of difficulty for we who don't have CV but need some other service from the NHS.  Ben was told he needed a fasting blood test, but when he turned up at the surgery, starving and hungry, he had a slight sore throat, probably from hay fever, so they refused to admit him for the test. For my own part, I was due to go for a number of follow-up appointments and a body scan to check I have no recurrence of cancer, all now cancelled. When our neighbour had another mini-stroke recently, the doctors refused to come out, but just sent an ambulance round. It's as though GPs are getting paid full whack for doing virtually nothing.

Bees in the birdbox

Today started off busily with an early phone call to say the new vacuum cleaner would be delivered soon after eight. I went to unlock the back gate ready for the delivery and noticed a swarm of bees buzzing round the entrance to the bird nesting box Sam had made for us. I noticed them first last night when it was already dusk, but thought they were flies and there might be a dead bird on the box. But in the morning light, they were definitely bees, so we called Luke the bee man who lives in Hundon and has a notice pinned up asking for information about any swarms he could collect. He came within half-an-hour, a young man with a childish, innocent face, telling me he had taken up beekeeping as a way of giving something back to the environment. He already has a good number of hives in Hundon, and sells the honey locally, and hopes to do it professionally full-time eventually. He was dressed head to toe in a boiler suit of brilliant white, with a hood covering his face with netting. Unfortunately, he took one look at them and pronounced "Those are Bumble Bees, not Honey Bees!" However, he taped up the entrance hole to contain them, and took them away to allow them to resettle somewhere away from the housing.

Luke the Beeman tackling the swarm

I walked the dogs round the quiet fields at the back of the house. Ann advised against going to Clare for this, as it was reported to be packed with no room in the carpark and people unable to keep any distance apart, social or otherwise. Yet a letter in Hundon Facebook reported a couple playing music in their garden who were reported by neighbours, and four policemen in two squad cars turned up, which is a bit excessive by any measure. What happed to the solitary village policeman, putting in a quiet word of caution?

I have attempted to correct the face in my newest picture, but it is getting more difficult, and the layers of paint are becoming so thick it is more like a bas-relief than a painting. Nevertheless I am determined to try and get the colours and deep shadows better, and will not show a picture of it yet until it is done.

Yesterday, the boys came round bringing some welcome food and a picnic they had prepared, which we enjoyed in the warm sun. Tonight, we ate a delicious mushroom stroganoff they had prepared and left for us. We are being truely spoilt.

Frustrations with art and tech

It's interesting how we stick first-founder names to first inventions. We often call ball-point pens Biro's, or use Google as a verb to search for information. Yesterday was a day of trauma when our Hoover broke. The brush was still rotating like a crazy cyclone and the motor was making hefty noises, but the main point of its generic name was defunct, for it no longer had any suck. A vacuum cleaner it was not; a child with a straw could get better suction. In fact, newborn babes have reinforced cheeks, and their suction on the teat can generate a phenomenal negative pressure. But this cleaner sucked not.

Close examination, which in this case needed only a swift glance, showed a massive perforation in the main tube, with air entering the fistula rather than the business end. I was able to order a new hose on Amazon which I hoped might save the cost of a new cleaner. One dealer sold a hose for £9.36 including delivery, but it wouldn't come till Tuesday, so I paid an extra £5 for another supplier who promised delivery on Saturday. After I had placed the order, thinking it would be delivered today, Ann checked it, but I had totally miscalculated the date; it will not be delivered until next Saturday! So this morning, I wrestled the thing onto its back, undid numerous screws wherever I could see them, and started to dismantle it. I finally got down to the innards concealing the hose to pull it out from each end, repairing the gash with electrician's tape. As so often happens with these simple jobs, I finally reassembled it to find two screws on the bench staring defiantly at me, so had to start over. But eventually it worked again and will hopefully last the week out.

I spent the morning struggling with the picture I'm doing. I left the face till last, knowing it would be the most difficult, but perhaps I should have tried it first. Anyway, it is not very satisfactory, so I'm now thinking I might be best to paint it out completely in white and start over. I've now put it to one side before I do anything too rash.

Walking the dogs this afternoon, a lady suddenly popped out of one of the houses and called me back. "Hello," she said, "I'm Gill. I just happened to be looking through the window and thought I recognised you and the dogs from your blog." Byron usually barks at strangers, but I think he had met her from when Edwin lived at home and used to walk the dogs, for he was silent this time as though he knew her. She introduced herself as the correspondent who had helped me identify several plants recently (see Unexpected visitors), so I duly thanked her, then hurried home to prepare for tonight's quiz. We are presenting so I am a little nervous, hoping all goes smoothly. After all our trouble with House Party and Google Hangouts, tonight we're going to try Google Meet.

Reminiscing

Yesterday would have been my father's birthday. He died 24 years ago, but we were reminiscing about him while sat in the warm sun when brother Richard rang to say he also had been thinking of him. I was reminded of him by my palette knife, an antique piece that had been given to dad when he was a lad by a professional artist, so it may now be more than 100 years old.

We have had a full week preparing questions for the Saturday quiz, when it will be our turn to present. It is surprisingly difficult. Ann prepared rounds on Literature, History and General Knowledge and I've done the Science and Picture Quiz and put them into PowerPoint. MA's girls helped by creating a Young People's round. I couldn't answer Ann's questions, so we showed them to MA, but they were generally too difficult for her too so we've toned them down a bit. I sometimes think Ann doesn't realise just how much she knows, and assumes others know as much as she. We don't, Ann.

We have continued to watch more episodes of Bob Ross (Bob Ross sets a rare pace). I enjoy his relaxed style, and clever combinations of colour, but I do feel he is becoming quite repetitive. None of his pictures contain figures or personality; they are all models of "his world" as some rural idyll. We can almost predict where he will place a happy tree or plop a cloud in, and his many rustic barns look identical to his rustic houses. We feel it may be time to move on to some new art teacher; happily there are many on-line instruction videos on YouTube; but the problem there is that they are so contradictory. Basically, each artist has their own way of creating a painting, and the only general rule seems to be "in art, anything goes". But one thing I have learnt from Ross is, there are no such things as mistakes: only "happy accidents".

Bob Ross sets a rare pace

It is another hot day, so I walked the dogs early to avoid the coming heat. Now free to go out, I drove to Clare for a change in scenery hoping it would be quiet, but there were more people at 8:30 in the morning than I ever used to see on a week-day, all with similar thoughts to myself. There were many dog walkers, but also as many runners as I usually only see on an organised run. Even at that time, they seemed to be running in a lackadasical way as though they didn't really mean it, not being in a monitored race. Perhaps they felt out of training, following all these weeks of lockdown. One older woman, dressed the part in tight, black lycra shorts and with a pace tracker strapped to her arm, seemed to be attempting a record at the fastest hobble rather than the slowest run. Unhealthy though I am, I could have walked faster.

Knowing so little about painting, or its myriad kindred techniques, we have started to watch The Joy of Painting by Bob Ross. He was born the same year as me, but died 25 years ago, yet is attracting a new audience attracted by his laid-back style and quirky comments as much as by his instructional videos. Bob presented many series on painting from 1983 to 1994, and is being reshown now on BBC. Each programme follows the same format: thirty minutes in which he starts from a blank canvas and produces a brilliant landscape, painting wet on wet (I'm showing off here, using a technical term I've just learnt). The only problem is, he makes it look so easy it is deceptive. He is backed by years of experience, so when he quickly mixes several paints to produce a joyful, glowing, vibrant colour that shouts from the canvas, he knows exactly how much of each tint he can casually throw together, adding to his white base. I can do the white base, which is a start. But when I add colours, it more often ends up a muddy mess. When he dabs paint on in rapid jabs, you feel you can see each individual leaf and every dappled shade; all I seem to end up with is a smeared uniform mess. Taking up painting late in life, although I too may have a lifetime to perfect my technique, in my case a lifetime may not be quite long enough.

However, there are positives to this painting business. It's great to be learning something new; hopefully it will keep this old brain active. So far, my portraits have lacked any background to keep them simple. But painting's a great way to take the mind off any other troubles: when I am in our new studio, carefully preparing a new drawing and trying to get a background that looks half decent, I become so engrossed I seem to forget anything else. It's worth the humiliation of watching Bob Ross perform. Like the old jogger, I have have the right equipment but I'm hobbling slowly behind him.