“The writer “is transformed!!
GOING………………….
GOING……….
GONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
March 16
Tag: covid
February 5
Our walks in St. James’s Park are regularly punctuated by stops to admire the six pelicans who usually spend their time on the paths where walkers gasp to see the bird with the second-largest wing span in the world strolling companionably beside them. Sometimes, for a change, one of them will Clamber up onto a bench to sit nonchalantly next to a nervous admirer. And on days when they are not feeling gregarious, they may all make do with sunning themselves on their rock in the middle of the lake.
During our past few walks we have seen only one of them – is it Isla, Tiffany, Gargi – or one of the recent additions – Sun, Moon or Star ? We have no idea. But we do know we’re seeing the same one each time – the pinkest one- and we are truly anxious as to what has happened to the others.
We make up tragic stories:
All the others have migrated to the warmth and this one is left alone and pining.
The others have had some devastating accident and this one will have to build a life for itself without its family.
This one has been ostracised by the others – too pink, perhaps – while they make a new home for themselves down the road in the lush gardens of Buckingham Palace.
Generations of pelicans have lived in the park since the Russian Ambassador presented the first birds in 1664 and the idea of their no longer being around is truly upsetting.
Eventually, I can stand the speculation no longer (I have talked in this blog before about the difference between “The Writer”, who would rather have a good story, and me, who would rather know the truth. Fiction versus documentary.)
I ask one of the army of gardeners preparing the park for Spring. (Planting and burgeoning is going on all around us, flower beds being laid out, trees sprouting their first shoots of green and snowdrops dotting the ground.
The true story, of course, turns out to be more prosaic than any of our attempts at High Tragedy: There is a pandemic of Avian ‘flu raging, so the birds have been Locked down in order to avoid infection. They are isolating in a small house on an island in the lake and taking their daily exercise swimming in its small private pool.
So why is this one bird left at the mercy of the virus ?
It turns out our renegade peli. has evaded all attempts at catching him and quarantining him with the other because he, alone of the gang, is able to fly far and fast enough to outwit his keepers. Far from being unhappy and alone as the hero or of our fantasies, he is free to roam the park while the other five are confined to barracks for the foreseeable future, no more to relish the click of camera shutters or preen themselves to star in a thousand selfies.
“The Writer” is right, of course, the stories were better.
But when we discover that the birds turn pink in Spring when they’re ready to mate – and look at the blushing bird remaining at liberty, there is scope for a whole new series of tragedies about the sad pelican who is ready for love but will never, never find it because of lockdown.
January 26
It has been upsetting to watch the news agenda change and our second dose anxieties first of all slip down it and then out altogether, despite the fact that the British Medical Association’s letter calling for the delay of the second dose to be reduced from the proposed 12 weeks to six was headline news only a few days ago. Anxieties about new variants of the virus, quarantining of those coming into the country, the need for schools to go back and possible shortages of the Pfizer Vaccine altogether, have taken over all media.
In this morning’s interviews with Nadine Zahavi, on BBC Radio Four’s “Today” Programme and LBC’s “Nick Ferrari at Breakfast”, the implications of delay were not even raised.
On Sunday, Speaking on BBC One’s ‘ The Andrew Marr show”, Israel’s health minister, Yuli Edelstein, said there had been debates within his ministry about delaying the second dose. “I’ll be very honest, we had debates about it in the ministry. And we decided to follow the instructions given by Pfizer. There were different opinions on that in Israel too. But as we have very little information at that stage … So we decided to stick to the instructions we get from Pfizer’.
It was a pity that the show’s production team decided to transmit the Israeli health minister’s interview after the one with Matt Hancock , so being unable to raise the second dose delay with the Health Secretary even if they had been willing to do so.
I think the concerns of those who have had the first dose and are anxious about the delay to the second are regarded as selfish, given that there are so many other major difficulties to be overcome . However, if the eminent scientists who believe that the Pfizer Vaccine may have lost its efficacy at 12 weeks are right, the vulnerable will be still more vulnerable, believing they are protected when they’re not and the vaccination of front line workers, police and shop workers, teachers and the younger members of society may be delayed as the process of protecting the elderly has to begin all over again.
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I thought High Vis jackets had proliferated as much as was possible but I’d never seen these wearers before.
January 14 VACCINATION DAY!!!!!!
This afternoon we went to Lord’s Cricket Ground, not to see a match but to be vaccinated against Covid-19. A phone call from our GP surgery yesterday evening at 5pm allocated us appointments at 2:35pm and 2:40 pm today. After a small celebration dance around the kitchen together, the first thing “The Writer” did was to consult the weather forecast. It predicted heavy rain all day and ,as usual, he trawled through every App on every device ,hoping for one that might suggest, if not sunshine, at least dryness. But it was not to be. Rain all day. There followed an agonised discussion as to whether we could face walking the two and a half miles each way to Lord’s in the rain or should we take our biggest risk since March and go by taxi. We debate this all evening and most of this morning, in the end agreeing to walk to Marylebone High St. – about half way – and see how wet it is. In the event, it’s not too bad and we make it on foot to St. John’s Wood, home to Lord’s, in good time. Since we have appointments, we assume that we will saunter into the building and get jabbed straight away.
The first thing alerting us that this might not be the case, is a cluster of umbrellas in the distance.
As we draw nearer, we see the queue snaking round the building with no end in sight. We tell one of the stewards we have an appointment. He apologises with charm and tells us to join the queue.
We take up our positions, watching the very elderly being helped on their sticks to The terrace of The Lord’s Tavern, where there are some seats for those who can barely stand. The stewards are polite and helpful and it’s sad to hear one young woman complain to her friend “Can you believe it, I’ve just been abused!”
After about 20 minutes, we are ushered up the steps into The Thomas Lord Suite which advertises itself as “The ideal venue for weddings, Barmitzvah’s, Christmas parties, cabaret and dinner dances”.
Judging from the way we all look as we trudge up the steps, the dress code on the invitation for this event must have been ‘Vaccine Grunge’
Inside the crowded room- the closest we have been to any other human being since March –“The Writer” muses in on the likelihood of our catching the virus in the vaccination queue- an irony he would appreciate in fiction but which we agree we could do without in fact. We are asked to sanitise our hands then give our names to staff at a long table, who find it hard to hear either of us, as we are wearing face masks and visors, the visors misted with condensation from the rain and the masks sodden. Our names are written on a slip of paper. which we take with us as we join a line of five chairs to see the doctor. When I get to the front, Dr.Abt. asks three questions: (There may have been a couple more that I was too excited to remember)
Do you have any illness at present?
Have you had a vaccine in the past seven days?
Are you on blood thinners?
I tell him about my severe allergy to oysters, which he ignores as soon as he has ascertained I haven’t been prescribed an epipen.
And then it’s done! I am the proud possessor of a muscle full of Pfizer Biontech and a card telling me the batch number and the date on which I had it. The section for the date of the second dose is blank.
“The Writer” is next in the queue and we then sit for a while to make sure we have no allergic reaction.
Outside in the drizzle, we do a little dance of glee, indulge in a brief hug and then, to fortify ourselves for the walk back, sit on the window sill of The Danubius Hotel and drink tea from the thermos I have carried in the rucksack on my back .
The walk home is wet and windy but we are euphoric. Three more weeks of hiding from the world till the vaccine takes effect then we are free – To do what, I’m not sure, since the world will still be locked down, but we are too thrilled to care.
January 13
Today, we re-entered the 1950’s and I discovered skills I never knew “The Writer” had.
Yesterday, while we are drinking our morning cups of tea in bed, I hear an ominous, rhythmic, bleeping sound coming from the kitchen. On investigation, I discover that it is being emitted by the dishwasher, running so cups and saucers would be ready for breakfast. When I open the door of the machine,I am greeted by a light display worthy of Blackpool illuminations. Every single light is on and the display panel of the machine looks like an aircraft cockpit. We have had problems with this machine before during lockdown and have felt proud of ourselves for repairing the inlet drain and cleaning the impeller, courtesy of YouTube tutorials. (Notice the casual use of technical terms here). I rush to the computer to find a solution to this breakdown, only to discover that “all dishwasher programme lights on” ” appears to be a fault never suffered by any other machine at any time and Google is silent on the subject.
I phone the manufacturer, where a young girl, obviously working from home, sips her tea while riffling through pages of the service manual – the same one I have been combing for the past hour- and finally suggests turning it off and then on again, a piece of advice reiterated weekly as a joke in “The IT Crowd”, a sitcom of recent years and a suggestion I have always found invaluable . Unfortunately, this time it doesn’t yield and we are left having to drain all the water out of the machine for the fourth or fifth time with a basting syringe. (I always knew it would come in handy for something).
I spend the afternoon on the Amazon website …….Yes, yes, of course I should have shopped at John Lewis, which is struggling and threatening to close down half its Oxford St. Shop, something that would greatly impoverish our life…….But I want it straight away to avoid scratch marks on the sink so I give in and fill Jeff Beszos’s coffers even fuller.
This morning, I unwrap an black washing up bowl and a black dish drainer, the smartest I could find to ornament our newish kitchen, and, after breakfast, I am astounded when “The Writer” leaps to the sink, flourishing a tea towel and commanding, “Leave it to me”!
I put up the least resistance to his suggestion you can imagine and watch while he polishes off a load of washing – up in seconds, folds the tea towel, upends the bowl to drain and sits down. Then I remember that in a previous life he was part-owner of a restaurant and, though he was meant to be front of house, he was more often than not relegated to the role of pot -washer, having drunk the house wine, misbehaved and whispered inappropriate suggestions in the ears of customers. (That’s how he tells it, anyway.)
Whatever the truth of this, he is obviously a willing, practiced and even enthusiastic washer-up, I’m delighted with this hitherto undiscovered talent and will be exploiting it to the full until we are prepared to risk a service engineer visit.
This is a first-world saga, I know, but there are some luxuries we come to take for granted.
December 6
In my post of June 11th, when London was like a ghost town under complete Lockdown, I featured the dramatic and perceptive portraits of Soho residents and workers by photographer, Richard Piercy, in his Someone oF Soho Exhibition, shown on the sadly boarded up- restaurants of Soho.
Today, walking down Oxford St., I was confronted, once again, by his portrayals of our neighbours and friends on the video wall of the clothing store Flannels, at number 161-167 Oxford St..
I’ve always felt that the brilliant and expensive technology of this huge video wall has never quite found anything as exciting as itself to display. The medium has always eclipsed the message. But now, on a dark and rainy December day, it has finally come into its own.
We Soho-ites spend a great deal of time complaining that the heart is being torn from our distinctive corner of London – by Crossrail, Covid and expensive developments that drive out the creative industries, music venues, fabric shops and brothels for which Soho was famous – so it’s heartwarming to see that, in these portraits, Richard Piercy has captured what looks like a bunch of interesting, distinctive people whose individuality appears, for now, to have survived the attempted homogenisation of Soho.
As Piercy says, ” A neighbourhood’s landscape may change but it’s the people who define its character.”
Given that the landscapes of our High Streets are already undergoing great change, Piercy’s work carries an optimistic message.
The exhibition is on 24 hours a day up to and including December 13th.
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A quick catch – up to my post of November 29th about trees being planted along London’s Regent Street. Most of the planters are already filled and by Christmas the tress have reached the full length of the street.
Shame there won’t be a job for this jaunty scarecrow we spotted almost at the entrance to Queen Mary’s Rose Garden in Regents’ Park.
November 25
So exciting is our life during Lockdown that one of the highlights of yesterday was my husband shouting to me to come into the kitchen to see that, having left his glasses on the worktop next to the apple corer, he’d accidentally made Groucho Marks!
Regular readers of this blog may remember
that on November 13th I wrote about the
fun of playing conkers in my youth,
having first baked them in the oven to harden them.
My reminiscences provoked this outrage from Warwick Charlesworth
in Australia.
"It is not often that I am driven to rage
by anything you have written in your blogs
but I felt that you had gone way beyond
decency in your latest conker effort.
It was with horror that I discovered
you were an oven roaster.
That was sooooo cheating
I cannot believe you did such a thing.
The windowsill was allowed,
but ovens were for those who had to win at
all costs which I would never have thought
you would be.
It was always obvious at school
when someone had done the dirty
and artificially hardened their nut.
Of course it was always denied
but you don't get to be a "sixer"
without some sort of intervention.
I think my knuckles still have the scars
from others who couldn't get their aim right.
What a wonderful memory to revive though.
I had completely forgotten the humble conker
as it's not something you see here very much.
Just up the road from our house in Southend,
there was an old hospital, on the corner of Chalkwell avenue,
and it had the most magnificent tree
which always produced a wonderful crop
of those golden brown wonders.
To walk home from the bus stop
and find one always made a bad day so much better.
To then polish them until they glowed
was a boyhood delight, such simple pleasures
in such a less complicated time.
I shall give thought to forgiving you
I just hope all you opponents have".
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A great example of inventiveness during lockdown was this makeshift gym I noticed on the Duke of York steps leading down from Carlton House Terrace to The Mall.
November 22
I’ve often said that, for me, serendipity is one of the most important things Lockdown has stolen. Outings (when they are allowed at all) have to be planned according to the weather as we won’t go indoors, restaurants have to be recce’d to make sure outside tables are the right distance apart, meals have to be scheduled so that deliveries produce the necessary ingredients and not unusable substitutions. Friends can’t turn up unexpectedly and drop in for a cup of tea.
This morning turned out to be a thrilling exception. We decided we’d walk in Marylenone for a change, neither of us being in the mood to commune with nature in a park. We left a dismal, deserted Soho and, behold, as we approached Marylebone High St. ,we were transported to a different world. People scurried along the streets, Crowds queued outside Waitrose – apparently open long before Sunday’s legal 12pm. More crowds queued outside the Ginger Pig butcher, whose huge sausage rolls my husband has been known to buy when supposedly out shopping for groceries, and sit munching in the nearby little park, pubs were open, serving beer to drink on the pavement.We gazed around us as though woken from a dream It was then we came upon the largest queue of all. It snaked round the block and down the road and ended in a Farmer’s Market that used to take place every Sunday in a large car park now too valuable for cars or markets and currently the foundation for a vast block of luxury flats.
But the market had refused to be beaten and had stubbornly migrated into the surrounding area. Stalls thronged side streets, barriers had been erected, marshalls controlled the crowds , letting in only safe numbers for social distancing and families were actually enjoying a day out.
After a brief altercation – or should I say discussion? – “The Writer” gives in to my curiosity and agrees to join the queue. (Normally, he would forgo that which he wants most in the world if the penalty for obtaining it is even five minutes spent queueing. Today, though, even he is forced to admit there is nothing urgent on which he needs to spend his time). And so we join the queue, not sure where it’s heading or how long it will take to get there, not really wanting to shop but wanting to be part of it all, part of the fun. And this once-ordinary, everyday experience has become, because of its scarcity in Lockdown, just that – fun.
We stroll among the stalls, buy some Bramley apples to satisfy our current baked apple craze, gaze at honey-coloured croissants, olive-studded loaves and palely -glimmering cheeses. Despite only recently having finished breakfast, we know we were not going to resist an unexpected food treat. I station myself at a stall laden with slices of cold pizza. Surely this would be perfect?.
“The Writer” joins me but at once his customary market caution kicks in, born of many disappointments, over many years, in markets up and down the Kingdom. Never buy something at the first stall, is his Mantra. You will rue it before you reach the last, as something better will always turn up and you’ll be too full to enjoy it.
And so, we peer into every stall, inching our way down the street, like detectives seeking a fugitive – until we reach the last one where all his prognostications are justified. We smell it before we see it, The Parson’s Nose, serving fragrant sausages, succulent hamburgers and glistening fried onions, all nestled in soft, white, pillowy rolls. We eat them leaning on some scaffolding with a pile of cladding for a table.
Replete, or should I say stuffed , we head home but only yards from the market, are hit by the thirst that only hot dogs and hamburgers can engender. We pause at the 20-50 coffee shop in Marylebone Lane, buy coffees and sit on a convenient bench nearby, to drink them.
We have walked down this lane a hundred times, sat through evenings and lunches in several of the restaurants that line its streets but as my husband looks down, he spots an extraordinary piece of history that we had managed never to notice, being always intent on the destination and ignoring the journey.
I knew of Tyburn only as London’s grim place of execution, established when Henry V111 was on the throne, to which convicts were brought on carts down what is now Oxford st. through crowds of jeering onlookers who would eagerly follow the cart to Tyburn and stay on to party while enjoying the execution.
Back home and back at my computer, John Roger’s website “Walking London’s Lost Rivers” reveals to me that, to my great surprise, the execution site was named after the Tyburn river, which flowed through the parts of London I love most and in which I have lived for most of my life, completely ignorant of its course.
“The name (of the execution site) is derived from a brook called Tyburn, which flowed down from Hampstead into the Thames, supplying in its way a large pond in the Green Park, and also the celebrated Rosamond’s Pond in St James’s Park. Oxford Street was, at an earlier period, known as Tyburn Road, and the now aristocratic locality of Park Lane, bore formerly the name of Tyburn Lane, whilst an iron tablet attached to the railings of Hyde Park,opposite the entrance of the Edgeware Road, informs the passer-by that here stood Tyburn turnpike-gate, so well known in old times as a landmark by travellers to and from London.”
– The Book of Days Edited by R. Chambers pub. 1888
And there is an unexpected bonus of Lockdown – time “to stand and stare” and explore things we have previously rushed past, busy cramming still more into our already too- crammed lives.
November 11
And so it has finally happened – We have a vaccine. And, unless the government changes its mind, my husband and I will be high up in the third tranche of people eligible for it.
The news I had been waiting for for so long hit me oddly when it came on Monday 9th. My first response was elation, then came a flood of anxieties in its wake:
Has it been sufficiently tested?
Would the Astrozenica one be better?
Is 90% efficacy enough?
Will I not feel safe until everyone has had it?
Will the Anti-Vaxxers ruin things for the rest of us?
After the anxieties came a slight pang of what I can only call sorrow. We have enjoyed our Lockdown. As I’ve reiterated so many times in this blog, we are constantly aware that we are the lucky ones. We have enough living space – both inside and out, a comfortable lifestyle, few job/money worries and no children to be anxious about or grandchildren near enough to hug. Above all, we have enjoyed each other’s company. We have both been able to continue working without inconvenience, I have loved slopping about in tracksuit bottoms without make up, not worrying about whether my stomach will stick out in what I’ve chosen to wear for the social events we used to attend at least twice – and sometimes up to four times – a week. (Nigella Lawson has been reported as saying she will be going on the 5:2 diet after Covid – not a food diet but a socialising one – 5 days alone and only 2 in company. I don’t for a moment suppose she meant it but I find it a most attractive idea – except that maybe 2 is too many.)
We have been pretty severe in our Lockdown. For two months, the only exercise we took was walking up and down our terrace or the hallway of our apartment. Shopping was entirely on line, apart from a kind neighbour who’d help out in an emergency. and the wonderful manager of our block. For months we saw no friends and still have only done so at a rigid social distance, and only two people have been in the apartment since March. Neither of us has had a haircut, been in a vehicle or travelled anywhere for eight months. The parks have been a Godsend. We love them and inhabit them almost daily. . We have watched far too much TV and read far too few books but have enjoyed even that. We have exercised to a reasonable extent and even cooked together on occasion.
How will re-entry be? What am I looking forward to? Foremost is laughing and arguing with friends in the flesh, rather than in their Zoom cages, eating out with them in rowdy groups in restaurants all over London.
Then there’s travelling. Pre-covid, I had convinced myself I’d had enough of travelling. Security measures had made the airports too uncomfortable to bother negotiating., I insisted. (Mind you, we did make 11 foreign trips last year.) Weirdly, however, the first fantasy to enter my head when our impending freedom was announced, was of eating bacon rolls in Heathrow Airport at breakfast time, waiting to board a ‘plane. Any ‘plane to anywhere. The second was of a week in a luxurious hotel, not having to make a bed, cook, clean or bag an Ocado delivery. The rest is only friends, friends, friends.
Now we have to bide our time, patiently stick to the rules of masking, hand-washing and social distancing we have so painstakingly learned, remember what life was like before and decide which parts of it we want back and which to discard. It could be the chance to press a re-set button for those of us fortunate enough not to have lost our jobs, or a loved one, or seen our businesses go bust.
For myself, I think it will be quite a time before I feel confident enough to ditch the masks, or embrace a distant acquaintance. And it will be even longer before I will be prepared to wear a non-elasticated waistband.
Our Soho surroundings are already altered. Everywhere, communal workspaces have sprung up. They look inviting and efficiently equipped but will they become instantly redundant if everyone continues to work from home? Restaurants, cafes and shops we used to frequent have gone, construction work has continued unhindered and the landscape boasts vast new buildings filling what were empty spaces pre-Covid.
The vaccine and possible end to the dangers of Covid is a subject which will occupy all our thoughts over the coming months, I imagine, and to which I will return in this blog. In the meantime, I’d love to know how other people felt when the news was announced. Do tell me .
Nov 5th
There’s nothing much to add to these pictures really. We chose to live in the centre of the city but not in the kind of maelstrom that swirled around us last night. Van loads of police cluttered the streets, helicopters dinned overhead and The Million Mask march kicked off the first day of Lockdown, protesting against it until the early hours.
Locked down in London 