Tag: COVID-19

November 13

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When I was young, along with many other North London children, I used to look forward ,excitedly, to the conkers ripening on one particular Horse Chestnut tree in Regent’s Park. I was taken there by my Mother most days and kept close watch so I could be first to pounce as they fell. Windy days were best and the thrill of seeing the prickly green casing fall to the ground and opening it to find the chestnut glowing inside, like a jewel in a jewel box, is still with me over 60 years later.

Baking them in the oven, threading the string, marinading them in vinegar and actually fighting with them came an unsatisfactory second to the joy of discovery and ownership.

I visited that same tree in that same park a few days ago and there, to my surprise, long after the appointed time for them to have fallen and been gathered, was a trove of conkers scattered, neglected and mouldering, in the grass.

Where were the children fighting over the best and the biggest and the ones with a flat edge that would make stringing so much easier? Where were the mothers cautioning their younger siblings “Don’t you dare put that in your mouth!”

I knew there had been much fuss in the recent past over the safety of conker fights but had assumed the newspaper stories merely myths. But they were myths with power – to such an extent that, when the story took hold in the early 2000s that conker fights had been officially banned unless goggles were worn, the Health and Safety Executive felt called upon to issue an official denial.

Some schools did insist on goggles, then, but, according to a teacher from one of those same schools years later, it appears that neither warnings nor safety gear are required as children have simply lost interest in games that aren’t either organised or on the computer.

Some people have revived and organised conker fighting, even to the extent of Northampton running a World Championships, raising large amounts for charity. Inevitably it has had to be called off this year.

I guess scenes like this will never be repeated (Maybe if they were, some girls would be allowed in!).

As we leave the park, I can’t help collecting some of the unwanted conkers. They are by now hard and wrinkled. These burnished seeds that were once so prized are shrunken and dry.

As they sit on my desk in front of me, I feel sorry for them and try hard not to draw depressing human parallels.

Nov 7th

~ coronet22 ~ 4 Comments

A reader of this blog asked me yesterday whether it was going to be photographs only during this Lockdown. It isn’t, I promise, but I have to share these from our apartment terrace of yesterday’s dawn. “The writer”,who was making our early-morning tea at the time, called me in to look and I wonder if this is the new dawn we’ve been waiting for since the U.S elections?

September 20th

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Sad, sad. Our period of near-ish normality is over. Covid infections in Central London are rising rapidly and I suspect we’ll be in full Lockdown again before long.

Despite the new rules about mask-wearing, those serving in shops and restaurants round here, if they weren’t wearing masks before, are still not, risking the £200 fine. The NHS Covid app. downloaded yesterday, tells me we are at “Medium” risk level in Soho and pulses away, assuring me it is “active and scanning”. So far, it seems to have encountered nothing untoward.

On our walk to St. Jame’s park, we become aware of massed police vans, full and obviously waiting for something to happen.

On our way back, a rally is coalescing in Trafalgar Square.

Although it’s billed as Anti-Lockdown, it’s a rag-bag of protestors, some of whom will surely be surprised to find themselves hugger-mugger with those whose views are anathema to them. What does the advocate of Bitcoin share with the man telling us Jesus will save us, for example? Calls for the jailing of Bill Gates and Matt Hancock intermingle with ernest, muttered conversation about world conspiracy . The police, most of whom have not been wearing masks over the past weeks as they patrol the Soho streets are now wearing them as a badge of affiliation with the law and, as they banter good-naturedly with protestors, they are seemingly unfazed by those nearby carrying banners protesting against “Gestapo Policing.”

False statistics -and no doubt some real ones- vie with crazy predictions. It’s a Covid carnival, ignorance is King and nuance is the first casualty.

Resting against the wall before entering the fray, one woman carries her clear and uncompromising message on a banner obviously too heavy to carry for long. Not for her sophisticated slogans. or the subtleties of statistics………

So far, the crowd is small and calm. We will have to wait to watch tonight’s news to discover whether it stays that way.

As we leave the square, I glance at my NHS Covid app, expecting it to be bleeping ( or whatever it does) to tell me I have been close to any number of infected people – but it is still quietly pulsing its pastoral shade of green – and then I remember, none of these protesters will have succumbed to the tyranny of downloading it.

September 11

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So shocking to walk round the centre of London right now. Everywhere Sale Boards are going up and shops are closing down. We walked down New Bond St. yesterday and found one of London’s most luxurious and fashionable shopping Streets unfashionably dotted with vacant premises.

There is really no comment to make except, possibly, to add that the chalk board outside Scribbler in Wardour St. says it all:

I leave you with one bright note:

The Rolling Stones shop has just opened at number 9 Carnaby St. – a defiant vote for life after Covid.

August 18

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I am completely fascinated by the difference in risk-assessment conclusions reached by different groups of people.

Forget the Government guidelines (Most people have anyway – not one customer wearing a mask in Pret- A – Manger today and barely a foot between Soho’s outside restaurant tables, let alone 1.5 metres. Restaurants where the staff are masked are like hen’s teeth and joggers in the park are still pounding up and breathing moistly into one’s face.) By and large, the young are behaving as though there is no virus but for we who still consider there is danger to be avoided, the difference in the level and type of risk we are prepared to take is not only marked but completely illogical.

For example:

I’ve judged it too risky to go for my eye test or to the dentist, though”The Writer” and I have each been to a GP and a specialist. The GP is unmasked and ungloved, the specialist wears a valved mask, gloves and an apron, takes temperatures at the door of his consulting room and asks his patients also to wear a mask and gloves. We have eaten in a few restaurants but won’t go to one where the staff are not masked. We won’t eat indoors (except once when it rained mid-meal) and we shop for odd items while all major shopping is still delivered and sanitised by us before being allowed through the front door. We would not board a ‘plane and have, so far, avoided taxis, buses and trains.

One couple of friends, horrified at our temerity at eating out and doing the odd bit of shopping , cheerfully boarded a ‘plane to Greece this week, as did another who is diabetic.

One friend has shopped throughout and went by Uber to friends for a birthday lunch at the height of the infection. (The friends had had it but as far as was known, the driver hadn’t).

One friend who had been locked down even more severely than us is now shopping and his wife ,who has not been out since March, recently took the bus and had her hair done, which we have resolutely held out against – to the point where “the writer’s” hair would look quite fetching in a ponytail.

We are still sanitising letters and leaving the cardboard from parcels outside the front door ,while other friends open mail without fear as soon as it drops through the letterbox.

One friend wrote to me scathingly about people who don’t open their front door to greet hardworking delivery people. I had to admit to being one of them, except in the case of Waitrose who demand to see my face in order to gauge whether I am under age for wine deliveries.

We have risked only socially -distanced pic-nics in the park while other friends have had guests for dinner indoors, at either end of the dining room table.

We haven’t attended a single cultural event or cinema, whereas others are enthusiastically visiting art galleries and museums weekly, revelling in their relative emptiness.

We have had pizzas delivered and eaten them out of the unsanitised cardboard boxes at the same time as carefully disinfecting all fruit before it goes into the fridge.

When I began this blog, I compared us all to Alice falling down the rabbit hole – and life does seem to become more illogical every day. The myriad small decisions to be made are exhausting and far more stressful than being locked down. It’s also a battle to hold onto one’s sanity when all around are people in whom we have reposed our trust, making and re-making and un-making insane decisions

It seems to me that we are all developing complex systems by which to live, unique to each individual or household, which combine a modicum of scientific information with a hefty dose of magical thinking. And maybe we are all doomed hold our own particular rituals sacred until there is a good treatment or a vaccine. Or maybe we’ll get bored and, like the young, stop bothering, though that seems unlikely.

All I can say with absolute certainty is that none of us has so far travelled, or has plans to travel, anywhere by car in order to test our eyesight.

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 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.