Author: coronet22

July 21

~ coronet22 ~ 1 Comment

We are going out much more these days but I have to say that any sense of freedom is more than a little compromised.

The “going out” routine is as follows:

  1. Find some clothes that still fit after the weight gain of the past four months.
  2. Gather together a selection of sanitising wipes.
  3. Delve into the box on my desk, known as “The Clinic” and extract two face- masks – one disposable, one washable.
  4. Hang round my neck special American mask holder and attach non-disposable mask.
  5. Locate in “Clinic” two pairs of disposable gloves.
  6. Find belt bag so as not to contaminate handle of any bag carried.
  7. Stuff belt bag with both pairs of gloves and all wipes.

“The writer”, meanwhile, fills all his pockets with wipes and gloves.

And we are OFF!!

1.”The writer” dons a glove on his right hand and opens the apartment front door.

2. We both put on disposable masks for the journey down in the lift in case

a) There remains inside it a cloud of virus emitted by the previous passenger.

b) Someone gets into the lift with us and we are forced to breathe in their noxious droplets in the tiny space.

“The writer” presses both the call button for the lift and the floor button inside with the gloved hand.

3. Having so far encountered no dangers, we make our way to the front door of the building, which “The writer” opens with his gloved hand and holds open so I ,who have so far touched nothing, can slide through.

4. We make our way to the nearest street waste bin. I carefully remove and throw away my disposable mask. The writer throws away his glove then sanitises both hands as he has forgotten to take off the glove without touching the outside of it. He then lowers his mask to his chin, thereby covering his face with any virus that might have lurked in the lift. I shout at him.

So engrossed are we in the routine, we barely notice that we are now what is called OUT.

Of the Covid going out routine, there remains only the wearing of the non-disposable mask for me if I were to enter a shop and the moving up and down of “The Writer’s” mask every time he sees some threatened danger. i.e every two or three minutes., thereby successfully distributing the virus into every orifice on his face.

Eventually, too exhausted from the preparations to walk far, we return home where I open doors and press lift buttons without gloves as I will wash as soon as we get inside. The writer”, meanwhile, kicks open any door we pass through as he now can’t remember what about his person is sanitised and what is not.

Inside, more dilemmas await: do we take off our – possibly envirused- shoes before hand washing or after? Should we take off all our clothes and leave them outside? Do I need to sanitise my belt bag and mask holder?

For three months, “The writer” happily walked nowhere other than up and down our terrace and, as I look at him wearily murmuring “Happy Birthday” as he stands at the sink, I wonder when, if ever, we will summon the strength to leave the house again.

July 18

~ coronet22 ~ 3 Comments

Well, I suspected I wouldn’t be able to resist posting again.

Firstly, I wanted to share this picture. It seems to me suitably apocalyptic for the times – the fountain in Trafalgar Square awash with blood:

But, no. It was actually red dye dropped into the fountains by Animal Rebellion last week as a protest against animal farming.

And, .secondly, this pic. I’ve banged on in this Blog about my love for cranes (not the avian kind) and ,today, at lunch, “The Writer”, spotted this little gathering not far from our roof:

Extraordinarily, they even seem to be Social Distancing.

My main reason for writing ,though , is that tonight, we had our first meal out since we looked down on March 12th. And what a major event it was after four months eating in our own apartment. First, I had to locate the cardboard box which holds my make -up.

I have had no adornment near my face for four months. Then I had to remember how to put on the various concoctions, wondering throughout why we spend so long applying unnecessary gunk to ourselves. I didn’t notice my husband changing the colour of his eye-lids, lips or facial skin before going out. It didn’t look much different when I’d finished either. Next came the hunt for shoes. Last time I wore anything but trainers, it was boots, four months late, sandals seemed more appropriate. A dress was easier – in the wardrobe with all the other Summer gear I haven’t worn, my Lockdown wardrobe having consisted entirely of yoga pants, T -shirts and shorts. How long since I had to carry a handbag? Mind you, by the time it was filled with antiseptic wipes of varying sizes, a bottle of hand sanitiser in case the wipes went missing, a mask in case -in case of what, I’m not sure, since we ere eating outside – and my phone, it was as packed and inelegantly bulging as always.

I notice how celebrities’ handbags always look perfectly in shape – obviously some assistant carries the stuff they actually need. Same when they get off a ‘plane, never bent over like me, struggling with the armfuls of junk necessary for travel: IPad, headphones, spare jumper in case it’s cold on board, book I’ve been intending to finish for months, pen for the sudoko I do instead of reading the book and so on. No, they step out of the door with just the aforementioned perfectly in shape handbag.

Walking to the restaurant, 45 Jermyn St. at the side of Fortnum and Mason, was as thrilling as the anticipation of a first date. And, in the quiet street, there it was – our oasis in the desert that is Covid – crisp white tablecloths, silver cutlery gleaming in the early evening sun and masked waiters studiously pouring glowing wines into sparkling glasses. Oh how we’ve missed eating out. Our pre-Lockdown life was punctuated by lunches, dinners and even breakfast alone or with friends in the myriad restaurants that surround us in Soho, sadly now falling victim to the Pandemic by the day. It doesn’t have to be anywhere grand – a pizza chain is fine and we will always mourn the loss of Patisserie Valerie, our favourite place to idle away an hour. Just seeing London passing by is what we want and if the food is good, so much the better.

The Maitre D’ at 45 dealt quickly and unobtrusively with our concerns about sufficient distancing from Tod and Trish, moving tables around with the minimum of fuss and, happily seated, in the excitement of the event, we totally forgot our vow to sanitise all implements and glasses before eating.

Happy beyond measure, we laughed, told bad jokes, complained about the behaviour of our so-called leaders and behaved like gauche tourists, forsaking what we fondly believe to be our cool London sophistication even to the extent of rushing inside to watch the masterly flambéing of our lobster spaghetti.

We had the most perfect evening and for the first time in a long while, forgot to worry about the horrors that have been or may be still to come.

As we walk back home through the Soho streets, thronging with life and young people locked together in groups, heedless of danger, we realise that there is yet more bliss in store :

WE DON’T HAVE TO CLEAR UP THE KITCHEN OR EVEN LOAD THE DISHWASHER!!

JULY 5 Goodbye (for now)

~ coronet22 ~ 1 Comment

Yesterday, Lockdown in London was, to all intents and purposes, over. Not for “ the writer” and me, because we will continue to wait cautiously for advances in treatment or a vaccine, so it will be a while before we are prepared to give up social distancing or eat indoors in a crowded restaurant. Our hair will remain long and unruly ‘til we can no longer stand it and we won’t be going to the cinema, boarding a ‘plane or getting drunk in the street any time soon.

Looking at the pictures of people in Soho Last night, it’s hard to imagine there won’t be a spike and we’ll all be back indoors. But perhaps there won’t, as most of the transgressors are young. Of course they think they are immortal – didn’t we all at their age? And, in this instance, the virus itself appears to endorse their world view.

Sadly, I wonder if now is the time when young and old will split apart. In the restaurants and play-spaces of Soho, my husband and I have always been able to feel we are still part of the buzz, despite being the oldest people in almost every venue we visit. We have occupied one layer of a multi- generational community and loved it. But it feels as though we may be about to be left behind. I see few people of my own age on the Soho streets at the moment. Protecting the vulnerable was an admirable aim but there was no exit strategy. Perhaps there will never be one, as the vaccine that would provide it is “by no means certain”, we are told and, not only that, but even if the most likely one on trial does succeed, it “might not work on the elderly”.

If “the writer” and I have to stay in partial lockdown for the foreseeable future, it will be do-able. We have managed since I began this Blog on March 12th. Not just “managed” but had a blissful time. (I’m well aware how vulgar and unfeeling that sounds towards the many, many people who now deal with terrible financial burdens or have had to endure miserable living conditions – and I have re-iterated how lucky we are throughout this period.) But I can’t deny we have thrived on the simplicity of Lockdown life. Normal London life is hectic and the withdrawal of everything that made it so has been a joy. “The writer” has written, I have started work again. We have over-drunk and over-eaten. Why not have cream with the strawberries, we deserve it because there’s a deadly virus out there?

Even if this isn’t the absolute end of Lockdown, it certainly feels like a tipping point.

Tod and Trisha are back from the windswept Highlands, aghast at the noise and dirt and smell of the city. We met in St. James’s Park to drink warm wine on a hot day before fleeing from the rain to shelter under the trees. And we have chatted to Amy and Peter through their cautiously opened front door.

Writing this blog has been the greatest fun. I hope you’ve had even a quarter of the pleasure reading it as I have writing it. If we are back in Lockdown or anything interesting and Covid-related happens (Or if I just can’t bear not doing this any more), I will start writing again so, if you subscribe, you will get an email whenever I post.

Until then, from https://lockeddowninlondon.com

Goodbye (for now)

July 3

~ coronet22 ~ 2 Comments

The countdown to tomorrow’s Great Unlock is under way. Soho’s roads are cleared for tables and chairs, paintwork is spruced and on every corner, restaurant staff, excited to see one another again, are being briefed and handed PPE.

We look forward to the re-opening with hope and trepidation. Hope that the restaurants in which we have enjoyed such good times will thrive once more and trepidation that drunkenness and lack of toilet facilities will drive desperate punters to urinate – and worse – in the quiet street onto which our front door opens.

For the moment, it feels as though Soho is holding its breath.

July 1

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As we near July 4th – the day of The Great Unlocking – there are sprouting on walls and any other available vertical surface in Soho, homilies? exhortations? aphorisms? I’m not sure what to call them. It seems that locked down people have an urge to give public advice – mostly fridge- magnet mawkish, occasionally witty and, sometimes intriguing. It’s surprising, given the ubiquity of social media, that this sort of thing isn’t taking place exclusively on line but maybe there’s something about the ghost – town atmosphere of boarded up restaurants and featureless streets where once was so much energy, that suggests such decoration is not vandalism but improvement. Perhaps it’s one way of re-introducing just a little life and conversation while we’re waiting for the real thing to return.

June 25

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Well, I promised no more pigeons but I have learned from a certain government we all know, that promises are made to be broken. So, I am going to introduce you to Harriet the Hawk.

I have on our terrace three, thriving, gooseberry bushes, bearing hundreds of berries ripening nicely. Imagine my surprise (as they say) when I opened the blinds a few mornings ago, glanced out at the glorious sunshine we have now come to expect – and stood rooted to the spot. Until that moment, I had thought that “eyes widening” was an uninformative literary cliche , that was until I actually felt my eyelids touch my eyebrows.

I had gone to bed safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t long before I could make my signature gooseberry fool. (I think the idea of “signature”carries the assumption that, although it is the speciality of one expert, other people might be clamouring to eat it. However, in the case of gooseberry fool, I don’t care. I’m happy to eat the lot)

Anyway, beyond the open blinds, this is what greeted me:

Looks OK, you might think. Perfectly healthy. But what you can’t see is that IT WAS THE ONLY ONE LEFT!!!!! The pigeons had plundered them all in the night.

I phone the trusty Mark,our gardener, worried about losing the tomatoes next. He suggests a bird scarer – simple, to rig up, he says, and very effective. How I managed to stop myself wondering aloud why, then, he hadn’t suggested it before the pigeons ate the gooseberries, I don’t know.

Harriet arrived yesterday- two grotty pieces of plastic that wouldn’t fool a pet budgerigar, let alone a feral pigeon, we thought. “The writer” jammed the wings onto the body , then removed them and jammed them on the right way round with the crudely painted feathers on the top. We were then presented with the dilemma of where and how to hang it. It has to move, apparently, as a plastic hawk, stationary over a load of tomato plants for six months seemingly fools no-one.

A mechanism for attaching it was the first problem. I have a belief that the wire coat hanger is the greatest aid to man and woman ever invented. I have them all over the house stretched out into long implements with the hook on the end for fishing out things kicked under the bed and dropped behind cupboards, for lowering the blinds whose cord I can’t reach, and pulling jars towards me from the back of too- high shelves. Sure enough, “the writer” had only to exert massive force to twist one into a serviceable hook.

and now, the time had come to launch Harriet:

Safely ensconced on her hook, swinging languidly in the faint breeze she refused to look anywhere other than at us instead of fixing the pigeons on the roof behind her with her plastic glare. So unconvinced was “the writer” that Harriet would fool anything, he suggested it would be just as effective to prop up a copy of Helen Macdonald’s beautiful book, H is for Hawk, on the table in front of the tomatoes, the jacket illustration knocking Harriet into a cocked hat for fearsomeness.

Anyway, we agreed to give Harriet a go, mainly on account of our reluctance to untwist the coat hanger.

And I have amazing news to report. NOT ONE PIGEON has been within at least 100 metres of our terrace. So unless they are all socially distancing to excess, Harriet is doing the job!

******************************************

As though to mock us, on our early morning walk this morning, we again encounter the Hawk Patrol, ridding Trafalgar Square of pigeons.

Eat your heart out Harriet!

June 22

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Anyone fancy a growler?

Creativity of all kinds is flourishing amid what’s left of Lockdown in London.

On our walk today we were surprised to come across groups of people outside a nearby pub, swigging what appeared to be beer from plastic milk containers.

On investigation, I discovered this was not the isolated incident I had taken it to be but an actual movement, aimed at enabling fans of craft beers, only available on draft, to drink them at home. The containers – sometimes they can be collectors’ items in earthenware or pewter – are called “growlers” because the nineteenth – century punter would carry his or her beer home from the local pub in a small, galvanised bucket and the sound of gas escaping from the lid was said to sound like a growl. Apparently, there are quite a few London pubs where you can take your growler to be refilled and The States boasts actual filling stations in some grocery stores.

This normally rather gloomily dark restaurant on Dean St.It looks inviting and cheerful in its new incarnation and is at least managing to do some takeaway business and there was evidence of creativity at an open air birthday party yesterday afternoon in the park. This party was as festive as any with guests socially distanced on a rug with cake and candles, flowers in the trees and balloons on their Boris bikes.

Soho is awash with creative ways of getting custom back into the area . It’s going to be Hell for residents for at least three months if restaurateurs succeed in getting the area pedestrianised and licensed to serve food in the street. But we have to just grin and bear it. We live here because we love Soho’s vibrancy and buzz. No matter that the Bohemianism which drew us here has now mostly transmuted into bourgeoise comfort. It’s partly our fault so I reckon we have a responsibility to resuscitate what’s left.

Let’s just pray they provide enough lavatories!

June 15 Midday

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I thought we had stopped doing what we were told by the government. It looks as though I was wrong. Today, we were told to shop, the shops threw open their doors and, lo – we shopped!

The empty streets are once again, crowded. The roads we crossed last week without

glancing left or right are once again jammed, the air is once again foul.

Of everything I saw, the strangest was the queue outside JD Sports stretching down Oxford Street. Has everyone worn out their trainers during their hour’s daily exercise?

Hamley’s
Apple Store

I wasn’t out to shop. I was out to report back to you, fellow Lockdowners, and what I have to report is that people are out buying, not in vast numbers, rarely in masks, hardly social distancing – except in shops that are carefully monitoring their entrances-and the streets don’t look that different, despite the three-month hiatus.

The only physical sign of Covid-19 were the hand sanitising – points along the pavement and the occasional sign emphasising the need for 2-metre social distancing.

But then today is only the first day of the rest of our lives.

Oxford St.