Our walk today took us to the Covid Memorial Wall started by bereaved family and friends of Covid-19 victims and featuring 150,000 hand-painted red hearts – roughly one for everyone in Britain who has died so far. The wall is the work of the Bereaved Families for Justice who are calling for a statutory enquiry into the government’s handling of the pandemic and who have chosen this spot because it faces the Houses of Parliament and can be seen by any politician glancing out of the window in the hope of spotting impending signs of Spring . As such, the wall is, of course, a political statement. But when you see the bereaved crouching on the ground or standing on tip-toe on trestles, deep in concentration as they fill in the names of their lost loved ones, you realise this statement has taken on a role far more important than that.
People have come from all over the country to London, defying travel restrictions and carrying with them their flowers, hopes and memories. They gather at the wall, talk to one another, read the messages left by others and take comfort in their united grief.
Yes, there should be an enquiry but, more importantly, the wall should be preserved as a lasting memorial. The government has talked of monuments and statues but they already have something better than anything decided by oommittee or won in competition- a simple, spontaneous manifestation of the country’s anguish.
Vaccine wars are under way, with the EU threatening to withhold the Pfizer Vaccine manufactured in Belgium, unless we give them some of the Atrazenica product, made here in the UK. In each new Press Conference, our government quotes the magnificent number of people vaccinated (and it is magnificent) and publishes the planned time-scale for vaccinating the next cohorts, beginning in late February or early March.
They seem to have forgotten completely to factor into their timetable the millions of second doses required by the elderly and vulnerable, which would delay the remaining cohorts by over a month.
I think that, after boasting about its success, the government can’t bear the thought of admitting to the world the reduction in numbers second doses would entail, and it is my suspicion – and fear – that the second doses may never be given. Or, that at twelve weeks , the current time-scale, there may be a shortage of Pfizer Vaccine in this country – one of the concerns raised by the British Medical Association in their recent letter to Matt Hancock.
As far as I can discover, Quebec seems to be the only place to have altered the Pfizer regime in the way we have. I do acknowledge the need to vaccinate as many people as possible as quickly as possible but, unused to and desperately anxious about the lack of control over what is done to my body, I have been looking to see whether other people are as concerned and are protesting in any way that might persuade the government to take notice.
I have already mentioned the campaign by Labour Peer, Joan Bakewell and I have now discovered another, instigated by Dr. Michael Markiewicz, a leading consultant Paediatrician, who is also trying to crowdfund a crack legal team on a Just Giving page.
One cheering thing about having been vaccinated, (Do, PLEASE ,send me your list of “reasons to be cheerful”), is that I’m assuming the redoubtable Dr. Fauci’s insistence that “double masking” is now required against the new Covid strains won’t be necessary post- vaccination, even if one’s second mask does have a fetching penguin colony on it. I have also stopped disinfecting the post (“The Writer” is not happy about that ) and am even wondering whether to stop sanitising incoming shopping (Will be pondering that one for a while).
Having to skirt round yet another anti-lockdown protest during our most recent walk, and waking to the news that one in thirty Londoners has the virus and London NHS hospitals are two weeks from being overwhelmed, we have decided to keep off the streets until we are vaccinated. That means retreating to our terrace for exercise as we did in March last year.
I must admit, the prospect filled me with dread – not being able to stretch one’s legs properly and having no wildlife to enjoy – that is until I looked at our lemon tree for the first time since the Summer.
“The writer” is more cheerful pounding up and down our small, empty space than he has been lately walking gingerly in the park and so much of our time at the moment is spent glued to CNN and the goings on in the U.S., exercise anywhere is the last thing on our minds, as we sit, aghast, in front of the TV.
All I need now is a recipe for what to do with unripe lemons, as there are masses on the tree that I assume won’t get enough light to ripen. If anyone has a (polite) suggestion, please add it to the comment box.
These probably don’t look like instruments of torture to you but, as I begin the year with a mangled hand, I can assure you they are capable of inflicting hideous pain.
Wanting to make something festive-looking for New Year, I decided on a strawberry pavlova – a dessert that I feel is great cookery value, in that it is easy to make but looks dramatic and tastes divine. Beginning with the meringue base, I had got to the point where the egg-whites were at that translucent stage, before even starting to become white and creamy, when I dropped my small hand mixer on the counter. The obvious next step would have been to turn off the plug at the wall but, for some unaccountable reason, I decided I had to turn off the actual machine. I lunged at it as, still spinning, it travelled along the counter like a demented two-legged octopus. And that’s where I made my mistake: I tried to pick it up, still spinning, whereupon the beaters tangled themselves into my fingers. As I screamed, my hand was dragged around the worktop by the maniacal beaters before I could pull the plug out. After sitting down with first water, then brandy and my hand wrapped in frozen peas, I managed to finish making the meringue, which, to my slight disappointment, was not swirled with red from my bloody wound. It did, however, when cooked, feature multiple cracks and those sugary outcrops which occur when the sugar is not sufficiently beaten into the mixture. Not my finest oevre.
The second implement attacked on the following day. One of the features of having all food delivered is that I place the order so far in advance, I can’t remember what’s in it, am too lazy to check and end up with multiples of things going bad in the fridge. This time, it was apples – What can you do with six, huge, Bramley apples? Well, I’m sure the cooks among you will have a hundred intricate and delicious ideas but for a definite non-cook, stewed apple with sultanas sprinkled here and there seemed the obvious answer, as a healthy breakfast addition to “The Writer’s current granola obsession.
And, while peeling the apples, that’s when I managed to peel the skin off the parts of my hand that were not already a bloody pulp from the mixer.
And so, I go bravely into Lockdown 3 with five plasters on my left hand and an even greater aversion to kitchen implements and their uses than I already had.
Spotted in Regent’s Park. Best-ever attempt at having a coffee while social distancing from the crowds out dog-walking, child -walking and self-walking?
The only things thriving in Tier 4 Soho are art and doughnuts.
Down the road from our apartment is a gallery featuring cherubs of varying degrees of obstreperousness:
by designer Jimmie Martin
And in the parallel street, a rather more benign display beckons the very few passers -by.
Doughnut Time, Wardour St.
Actually, I’m not sure which is the more tempting – or the least.
If you don’t fancy either of these displays, what about this unique abstract, created only last night by “The Writer” as he tripped up the stairs carrying a glass of red wine!
It’s been hard to write for a while, mainly because things are changing so quickly . Going into Tier 4 affects “The Writer” and me hardly at all. We were having Christmas lunch on our own and will still do so – the only thing making any difference to the meal being the queues outside supermarkets and the hope that one of our kind neighbours will brave the crowds to buy us a chicken. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ll be happy with a Christmas lunch of Rogan Josh, Murgh Masala, Korma and Jalfrezi – all of which we have in the freezer.
I am back to getting up in the middle of the night to chase delivery slots as I was in the first Lockdown and, in between refreshing the “Book Delivery “page , wondering what the implications are of the accelerated spread of the new strain of this virus. For example, does it mean we should keep even further away from people than before? Or does it mean it permeates masks more easily and, most importantly of all, is the vaccine still efficient at tackling it? We listen to and watch the news constantly but I still can’t find out the answers to these questions. We are told the vaccine will still work but surely no-one be certain yet? And, if that is the case, why will it work, given that the ‘flu vaccine has to be changed every year to accommodate mutations?
Our lives seem to be standing still. All the news comes in from elsewhere: Our friends, Peter and Amy, have had their first dose of vaccine and we are envious. Not since I was six and three-quarters have I wished to be older than I am. And, in philosophical mood after a hospital visit to have more stents slid into his arteries, Tod sends this report headed “The Sadness of Covid”
Overheard at The Royal Brompton Hospital today:
“I’ve come to meet a friend’s wife. He is in the High Dependency Unit here. Can I wait for his wife here in reception. She should be here soon. She is coming to be here whenthey switch off her husbands life support. I have come to be here to help her … it’s going to be tough for her…”
I also learned from the Thai nurse dealing with me today that she was recently baptised and is cooking a turkey crown for Christmas.?
Life is an unending stream of such juxtapositions…
Meanwhile, helicopters buzz outside, presiding over each new wave of anti – lockdown marchers, the streets of London are emptied of life, apart from jolly knots of construction workers doffing their hard hats and taking their breaks sitting on the pavement in chatty, densely-packed groups. And I am behind 6,029,525 people on the vaccine calculator, meaning I’ll get my dose sometime in the next millennium. I don’t know whether to be elated or depressed – or just regard the calculator as the nonsense parlour game it surely is.
Why is it that every man I have ever known removes his sweater by the following method?
1. lift both arms over the head, then bending at the elbow, reach down behind the back (how far down is a matter of age and fitness) and grab a handful of sweater . (Fig. 1)
2. Drag the handful of wool (or whatever) over the top of the head, employing both hands in order to force its progress (Fig.2)
3. Continue dragging (increasing the degree of force as required) until the sweater is free of the head.
4. Exit the sleeves in a flurry.
Where as every woman I know removes a jumper so:
1.Cross arms in front and, with arms still crossed, place each hand just below the middle of the sweater and gently take hold of a handful of fabric on each side.
(Fig.1)
2. Pull the sweater upwards, uncrossing thearmsas you go while keeping the hands in position.
(Fig.2)
3. Just before the sweater reaches the head, exit the sleeves, one at a time, to make head-clearance smoother.
Why this difference?
Is it because women spend more money on clothes and so take care of them better?
Is it that Mummies don’t bother to teach boys how to remove a sweater without damaging it?
Or is it just that I have encountered peculiar men?
Walking down Hernrietta Place off Regent St. this morning, “The Writer” and I were surprised to see a tree advancing towards us on the pavement After we had made and laughed at our own jokes about seeing that Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane, and having ascertained that it was actually being transported by a digger, we rounded the corner into Regent St. thinking no more about it.
It was then we noticed more trees being carried by diggers and inserted into large oddly-shaped planters.
Being incurably nosy, and spotting that the man on the right of this picture, aside from trying to eat a sandwich, was also giving instructions, I crossed the road to find out what was happening.
He told me that trees are being planted the length of Regent St. by The Crown Estate “as a response to Covid -19” They are an 18-month experiment in helping to improve air quality and boost biodiversity. Each planter will be filled with flowers, seating will be built in and, eventually, there will be artwork on the pavement around each tree.
The man with the sandwich turned out to be Chris Stanton, designer of the whole project.
He told me he was having the most exciting day, seeing the trees planted and his project come to fruition.
“There will be different kinds of trees and at the end of the experiment, Londoners will be asked what they think about the scheme, which trees they prefer and so on”.
This is how it will look when it’s finished.
The pavements have already been widened so there is only one lane in each direction. Not sure how drivers are coping with this. It’s eight months since “The Writer” and I have been in any form of transport so I haven’t had the chance to hear bus passengers or taxi drivers complaining and there’s hardly any traffic at the moment so it would be hard to tell the effect..
Anyway, I think the scheme looks extremely attractive and welcome it. I can’t help thinking, though, about the response to Rory Stewart, when he suggested exactly this when he was standing as Mayor of London in January.
“Rory Stewart prompts backlash after suggesting Regent Street should be lined with trees to tackle climate change” bellowed The Evening Standard
“Backlash” was over-egging it a bit as it seems to have been a Twitter storm (Actually, not even a storm, more of a shower) mainly from people complaining that “trees would spoil the sweeping view that Nash had designed” and that the street is “an elegant and uplifting architectural achievement just as it is”.
Let’s see if they change their minds.
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It has turned out to be a day of trees. On arriving home, “The Writer”, having “appeared” by Zoom at the recent Mumbai Literature Festival, received an emailed certificate announcing that each writer who contributed to the festival has had a tree planted in his or her name and that, as one of them, he had been “honoured with. bountiful tree”.
Locked down in London 