Some good news comes

Welcome Baby Aneurin

At last, some good news is coming our way. Matthew and Rosie have had their baby boy, to be named Aneurin after Aneurin Bevan, founder of the NHS. It is a noble name, as well as that of a true socialist; we wish Baby Aneurin all success and power as he grows in Bevan's shadow. The baby was born late last night (Sunday) and is coming home tonight.

As a second bit of good news, Edwin and Andre have found a house to rent, larger than their Cambridge apartment, located on a quiet road in Bury-St-Edmunds. Curiosity drove us to see it today, and it looks to be a lovely old cottage in a little cul-de-sac, so we wish them all joy too with their house move and settling in their next historic town.  

Also tonight, Ben phoned to say he and Kaz are renting a cottage in Wales in February, and inviting us to stay for a couple of nights. We have been keen to get a break away after the lockdowns and the cancer treatments, so their offer has come as a ray of hope for a brighter year ahead. 

On Saturday, I had my second immunotherapy treatment. Apart from mild nausea and dizziness, I am thus far much more comfortable than after the first one, so hopefully the drug is doing its business and knocking out the nasty cells floating round my body, without knocking me out too. I had taken a bag with a book, drink and nibbles to help during the time I sit strapped by a drip to a chair, but like an idiot I forgot it and left it in the car. The boys came to the rescue, stopping via a garage to buy a drink, chocolate and a newspaper to read. Naturally, Edwin's recent conversion to the labour party led him to select the Guardian to balance my right-wing tendancies.

I always feel a bit groggy and sick afterwards, so I went round to meet Ann at the boys' apartment, where Edwin prepared my a traditional jam sandwich to settle my tum. As the picture shows, they are very good at cheering me up and making me feel better. 

Talking politics, I always thought the suggestion to sack tens of thousands of nurses, care workers and other health professionals at a time of huge need and staff shortage was. to put it politely, a little short-sighted. Our trip to London last weekend saw us caught up in a march by NHS staff protesting about compulsory vaccination, and we did sympathise with them, although they have a weak case as they already should be vaccinated against Influenza, Hepatitis B, TB,  Measles, Mumps, Rubella, Diphtheria, Tetanus and Pertussis. Nevertheless, it should never be compulsory, and on a practical level, the NHS needs them now more than ever. So when the government announced tonight they are dropping the requirement, I was not surprised at all. This government has made more U-turns than the Woolwich Ferry, and I am sure there will be many more down the line until they get rid of Boris, who is now the albatross round the Tory neck.

A Commissioned Portrait, anyone?

Border Collie watching the flock

Going forward, since my abrupt redundancy notice, I will have more time for artwork. To this end I am reshowing my winter scene, modified since first I posted it, by the addition of a little model border collie herding the flock. I attached a small wooden platform beneath his feet, painted to continue the snow effect out of the picture. 

I have also completed the portrait of our neighbour, David, a stroke victim who allowed me to photograph him last summer. This adds to my total number of pictures: some forty plus over the eighteen months since I took up the brush. Perhaps I can find a new income stream by offering portraits in oils. Unfortunately, any potential clientele would need to be half-blind, or else welcome a distorted view of their image. I wonder how much anyone is prepared to pay for a commissioned oil portrait these days? 

David - Living with Stroke

Ann had her follow-up visit to the eye clinic this morning, following her cataract surgery. The vision remains blurred, and she must continue with drops for another week at least, but some peripheral vision is returning thankfully. She still has a large hole in her central vision on that side due to the macular damage, but the consultant said it may be possible to offer some treatment to improve the central vision now. That is potentially wonderful news, especially if the good eye should fail, and a complete change from a few years ago when they said it was beyond help. I suspect medical advances must be progressing in all fields of medicine, and unless one is directly involved in that field (as specialist or patient), we rarely hear of them. Ann doesn't want anything more doing at present, but is certainly interested in the possibility. 

 

I join the scrapheap

Herd of Fallow Deer (Buck and six Doe)

It has been an interesting time for news (personal, not political - on that I will not comment). The consultant oncologist has checked me over following my blood tests. Although some of the blood parameters continue to decline, she pronounced me fit for another dose of immunotherapy, booked for Saturday, saying they will just continue to monitor the blood levels. 

To add to life's uncertainties, today I had a telecon with one of the powers at the company I work for, who told me bluntly they will not be renewing my contract. He said they were having "an internal reorganisation", and replacing all contract staff with permanent staff. I had half expected it, but having worked without a break since I left school at 18 (I count my student days as working!), it still comes as a shock to the system. If another job offer comes along, perhaps a couple of days a week, I may be tempted but, realistically, I guess it will be unlikely now and I must adjust to living on the scrapheap of life.

On a brighter note, driving back from Clare where I had walked the dogs, I came across a herd of Fallow Deer by the side of the road, six Does and a fully antlered Buck. They moved off of course as I stopped the car, and were already in the distance as I pulled out my camera, but they were an impressive sight. Usually we only see single little Muntjac deer so close to the road, and those more often in the headlights at night rather than bright daytime.

At the Clare Art Club

Halfway through...Finished

Isolated in art since I started to paint eighteen months ago in the midst of the first lockdown, I thought it time to meet some fellow artists. The nearest group appears to be the Clare Art Club, which meets once per month for a talk followed by tea and biscuits, and tonight, having paid my entrance fee at the door, I am welcomed in as a guest. Some members are fellow septuagenarians, although some are younger, but none is below the age of 50, and all seem keen watercolourists with an interest in pretty pictures, of which tonight's speaker is a keen advocate. He is clearly an accomplished professional artist, who proceeds to show us how it should be done. His blank sheet of paper is taped to a board before which he stands, his palette in hand, waving his magic brushes to conjure up an impeccable image of a Cambridge street scene. Halfway through, we pause for tea and a biscuit before he resumes his brushwork and with a final flourish the last cyclist is in place and the job is done. We have a perfect image to lighten a dark hallway or adorn a greetings card. 

I have been asked why I don't try to do landscapes or everyday scenes such as this. My answer is simple: I do not want to. I will never have the skill for such intricate architectural detail, or even the eye to cropping the photo to make a pleasing composition. The majority of my work has been portraits, mostly from pictures I have taken myself of family members or friends or neighbours with a face that interests me. I love the contours of the human face, the details the shadowing can enhance, and the wonderful sensation of seeing character emerge as I mix paints on the canvas, wet-on-wet. My technique may still have far to go and result in many failures on the way, but I value the challenge and the chance to portray some inner quality of the person I am painting. 

Fighting Still

I am so tired of this life fight.

If I were young,

ready for fresh eyed conflict,

it would be so much easier

than the battle of lines

and walking canes

but life,

is never done

until the final breath is sighed

and the breast is stilled

beneath the ice cold grave.

by Annie Elliott

Yesterday, I had another 'routine' blood test prior to my oncology assessment later today. Again I had to partially strip in the carpark before driving up to the tent and hang my arm from the window for the girl to do her stuff. But it was all very quick and efficient. The results were available online this morning, and continue to show a slow decline in many of the measures, especially haemoglobin (I am quite anaemic) and white cells (leukopenia for the technically minded). Indeed, my leukopenia is now low enough to be classified as a Grade 3 severity on the oncological scale of adverse events, and I have known clinical trials be stopped if any subject reached this threshold. I can only wait to see if they will stop my own treatment, or give it one more go. Hey-ho for the merry-go-round.

Freedom beckons

Dutch Boats about to collide

We finally could visit London, the first time we have stayed in the capitol for more than two years. Although Covid is still rife, we stayed clear of great crowds, and visitor attractions are still strict in limiting numbers. The National Gallery was surprisingly quiet, even round the more popular 19th Century painters such as Manet and Van Gough. Ann took plenty of photos of me staring at pictures, such as at this great Turner, where two little boats are struggling to avoid a collision in what appears to be a sudden, violent squall coming out of the clearer blue sky behind the black storm clouds.

We stayed in Hazlett's Hotel, in the midst of Soho. Over 300 years old, it is three converted private dwellings, with original rooms, windows and staircases, named after Hazlett who lived, worked and died in the house in 1830. After his death, his landlady, hoping to rent it as quickly as she could, hid the body under the bed while she showed the room to would-be tenants. There are still no elevators, and I was glad we were only on the 1st floor, unlike the boys who were located in the attic rooms. 

We dined well, and drank deep, glad to be alive and free again into relative normality after the dreadful confines of the past many months. Alas, I do not have my old stamina and could not walk too far, needing to rest regularly, but at least we did it. Soho is a pure delight, so full of youth and life. Every pub, restaurant and night club was bursting to the seams, with long queues outside each and every doorway guarded by bouncers, though we saw no whiff of trouble. People were happy, cheerful, celebrating their freedoms and glad to be about again. 

An ice cream in China Town

Ann and I were by far the oldest in the crowds, even Ann being a good 10-15 years older than anyone else we met. Naturally, this did not stop us enjoying some Chinese delicacies - in Ann's case, a rather special ice cream in China Town. Although some restaurants can be pricy, it is still possible to enjoy more modest living. On Sunday we had a late breakfast at the Weatherspoon's Pub near Holborn. Where else can you still get toast and marmalade, tea and coffee for two with unlimited refills for £3-80? We then enjoyed the park-like trees and shrubs of Lincoln's Inn Field gardens before meeting the boys to visit the Soane Museum, which has free entry as still do so many museums in London, including the major art galleries.

On our way to the National Gallery, we were caught up in yet another anti-vaccination protest march in Trafalgar Square. I could understand and sympathise with the pretext for this one: it was against compulsory vaccination. We have had too much control and restrictions in our lives to be comfortable with compulsion, although I agree it is a difficult debate where NHS and Care Unit staff are involved. I could even comprehend the group opposed to it on the grounds that they fear the potential side-effects of a new vaccine. I can't understand those who claim it is a world-wide secret organisation plot to inject everyone with some mind-controlling chip. But some of these people went even further, with banners proclaiming the whole thing a hoax; that the virus was imaginary; that there was no such thing as a virus infection. I won't even try to expand a defence for this, except to wonder what our schools are teaching people these days. It certainly isn't logic or rational thought or analysis.

Getting home, I found a letter had been delivered from Addenbrookes Hospital. More accurately, I only got half a letter; it had been ripped completely through and placed in a bag by the Post Office with an apology note for the delay and damage. I do not know what the delay was, as the date had been obliterated. I'm not sure what the contents were either; there wasn't much of the letter left. Perhaps someone else received the other half, and is sat wondering if they have a cancer they hadn't known about? 

Getting Half a Letter

Post-Covid rants

Walking with the dogs

Yesterday, being bright and dry, we went for a good walk with the dogs through Thetford Forest before returning for Sunday lunch at the Plough. We enjoyed their Nut Roast so much last week we repeated the experience - though following Lucy's generosity in remotely treating us, this time without telling people we were there.

I feel insulted by proxy. Nobody wants my old car. Even in a time of used-car shortage following big restrictions and delays in the new car market, my beautiful blue delight lies rusting in a used car lot at Stradishall.  As related in a former blog, we traded the Jaguar in for a Tiguan when I came out of hospital in November, over two months ago. I thought then the trade-in price was a fair offer, so leapt at it without quibbling, even though I could not drive the Tiguan at that time. It looks like I was right to do so. 

My old car lies languishing

Hitting the news this week is the exorbitant rise in energy prices. Our own electricity bill used to be charged quarterly at about £350 per quarter. Now they have revised it to a monthly bill, running at approximately £250 per month. The energy companies are treating us like vagrants huddled in doorways, suggesting ludicrous strategies such as buying extra jumpers, doing star jumps, or cuddling one's pets for warmth. This all comes down to a lack of strategy by our enfeebled government. Boris was so determined to come out of COP26 well he has sacrificed the basic requirement of any civilisation on the altar of green wokery. We do not huddle under animal skins in cave mouths; we do not collect wood from the forest to burn in our hearths; we are a supposedly advanced civilisation, in which food, shelter and warmth should be guaranteed for all. Yet the headlines are filled with stories of people shivering in order to feed themselves or care for their children. In the name of a green agenda, we are disadvantaging young families now so they will possibly avoid climate change in 50 years' time. It is madness. We should be working towards independence of energy, under a national energy program, concerned with present day necessity, not some theoretical doomsday in the indefinite future, with increasing use of nuclear, gas, oil and coal in a balanced and proportionate way. 

While in a ranting mood, I might add I do not blame Boris for attending an outdoor party with wine and nibbles. What I do blame him and the whole governmental machine for is introducing such vicious, anti-sensical rules in the first place. The far bigger error was to bar people from visiting their sick or dying relatives, or attending funerals, or closing schools. No evidence was ever produced to support the ludicrous claims for total isolation, and certainly none for not meeting outdoors or being allowed to go for country walks. For that, they should be punished and driven out of office. What a shame we can only attack them for having drinks together, rather than for the reason it was banned.

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".