Tag: COVID-19

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.

June 15

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Hard to decide whether our first purchase in the real world, last night, was a comedy or a tragedy.

Having recce’d the day before, we ordered fish and chips on line from our nearest and most savoury-looking chippie on the grounds that it would be quicker and therefore hotter, by the time we ate it, than the same meal brought by Deliveroo.

We discovered from the news that, despite a 5pm curfew, the streets were still awash with protesters claiming to be guarding Churchill’s statue and the Cenotaph, both of which were guarded already by having been comprehensively boarded up.

Fearful the protesters might have headed our way, we geared ourselves up in masks and gloves and ventured into the street.

We discover that Poppies, our local chippie, has a system whereby you pay for your meal in one part of what was the restaurant and collect it from another. There is a queue outside and several young men waiting for food inside, who don’t even think of moving to put a bit of space between us.

We decide to wait for our meal, freshly prepared in the fryers, out in the street.

And that’s when the rain starts – not gentle Summer rain but a tropical downpour that leaves us dripping before the manager even manages to roll out the blinds.

Our massive Haddock arrives with an equally massive portion of chips , two cartons of mushy peas and a gherkin and we set out for home, not quite running but definitely keeping up a good pace while the carrier bag holding our food gets more sodden by the minute.

“The writer” is carrying the bag, heavy with its huge cargo, when it succumbs to the rain and the sodden bottom falls out, scattering cardboard cartons of fish and chips in the road. We gather it frantically together, run home, wahs our hands, throw off our wet clothes, towel ourselves dry, sanitise the cardboard boxes , wash our hands again and put the food on plates.

It is delicious- and, miraculously, still hot!! So ends our first purchase in person since March 12th.

June 5

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This, sadly, is the latest picture of our bird feeder, reposing in the rubbish on top of a mass of plastic fruit containers. Ironic that we were all just getting used to the idea of avoiding plastic at all costs and now, in the face of Covid, such ecological niceties have been completely disregarded.

These are the bags in which our big Waitrose order was delivered on Monday. In case you’re wondering why they are still sitting in a heap on the floor, they’re waiting for the 24-hour/48-hour/9-day period ( Take your pick of all the available estimates) that it will take for them to be Covid -free and safe to put away.

I had just got used to the Greenfinches flitting round our terrace and was wondering how long it would be before I could tame them to take seed from my hand – when I saw it.

I wasn’t sure I had seen it at first. Maybe it was a floater in my eye or a blackbird heading for the feeder. But then I saw another – or the same one again – scurrying back the other way . A small black mouse – definitely not a rat – that shot across the terrace and vanished into our thicket of plants.

It’s always fascinating to wonder why we have the fears we do. Unless we can ascribe a fear to a particular incident – a dog bite or a wasp sting – the things in the natural world that disturb us seem so random. For example, I think mice are sweet, cuddly creatures but “The Writer” can’t bear them anywhere in his vicinity. I’m terrified of spiders and will stand trembling outside the room in which one has taken up residence, whereas he sweeps in, bristling with machismo, and disposes of it. (I don’t care to ask how). I’m not especially frightened of snakes and was happy to tramp through the Australian desert or bush banging the ground with a stick in front of me or singing at the top of my voice. (I found the latter an excellent deterrent). We were told by rangers that the best way to deal with a poisonous snake indoors is to throw a towel over it and call the appropriate authority to dispose of it humanely. I do admit to being relieved at never having had to test that advice.

In Italy some years ago, Trisha, having been dozing barefoot under a tree, slipped her foot back inside her shoe, only to be bitten by what was later identified as a viper which ,we were told, live in trees and obviously drop down occasionally into available footwear. What followed was like a bad farce except to Trish, whose foot was blackening by the minute. All of us being of an age to have read Swallows and Amazons, Robinson Crusoe and Swiss Family Robinson, we decided a tourniquet was vital and lashed it round Trish’s knee as tightly as we could manage. Tod bashed the snake to death and remembered you were supposed to take it with you to the hospital. Someone else found a bottle of snake venom antidote buried on a shelf in the house, which, luckily, we didn’t use ,as we discovered later it was for horses and would probably have done a lot more harm than good. There followed a dash to Pronto Socorso at the tiny local hospital where the patients had to bring their own soap and lavatory paper. They dealt with it efficiently, warning us that tourniquets were so last decade and should never be considered and Trish – mysteriously- that she must never again eat water melon.

(As I said, this was many years ago and checking now, I can find no evidence for Italian vipers living or giving birth in trees and I may have got all sorts of other details wrong. If you read this, Trish and Tod, do let me know how you remember it).

Anyway, back to the bird feeder in the dustbin. Having seen the mouse and talked to our efficient House Manager, we were warned that bird-seed is definitely an inducement to mice and offered the choice of mouse traps or a sinister black box euphemistically called a “Mouse Bait Station” to help get rid of them. (In an apartment block it’s considered unneighbourly to let them just roam about).The idea of the bait station is that the mouse pops into the hole in the box, attracted by the smell of its favourite food, infused into a block of poison. The box has to be opened with a key so it’s safe from children and other animals.

I must say the idea of either device is upsetting. At present, I favour the crossed fingers solution, hoping that perhaps they’ll just go away now there is no bird feeder to attract them. But if “The Writer” sees the mouse again, I’m afraid it’s black box time.

May 31

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For the first time since this whole appalling Covid saga kicked off, I’m worried. I mean the kind of worry that buzzes constantly in the head like background music behind the ordinary tasks of the day. New loosening of Lockdown is being announced every day and I realise ,with a shock, that I’m finding the prospect of Unlockdown more difficult to handle than its opposite.

Firstly, because I have enjoyed – am enjoying – Lockdown . We are comfortable. We have access to fresh air, we have plenty to do, plenty to eat, enough to live on and no children to home school. I am well aware it’s a far cry from this for many people who are suffering badly, desperate to resume earning and cooped up in unbearable conditions , sometimes with a partner of whom they are terrified.

Unlike “The writer, I’m not a party animal. I understood what parties were for when I was single – they were for becoming not single. But, nowadays, the prospect of standing uncomfortably sipping warm white wine and having every conversation curtailed by “circulating” just when it’s getting interesting, isn’t my idea of fun. I miss dinner, breakfast or tea at a round table, with friends, laughing and arguing and bitching about or admiring others in a restaurant. But I find, reprehensibly, I’m not missing theatre, opera or galleries – just substituting with far too much TV.

Yesterday, I knew where I was. Stay in, except if I fancied a walk, sanitise every piece of cardboard or plastic, bag a food delivery slot, discuss the day’s meals, take some exercise, listen for hours to news about Dominic Cummings, shout at the TV about Dominic Cummings, and look forward to our weekly meeting with friends on Zoom. I didn’t worry, just got on with tasks.

Today, the world has suddenly become a more equivocal place. Are we morally obliged to start shopping for ourselves again? Will we be expected to invite friends round soon? How many friends? Which friends? Suppose the friends we do want to see don’t choose us as their preferred group? Will there be a spike? Will we ever board a ‘plane again? When will we feel confident enough to get on a bus or take a taxi?

A plethora of new rules was gleefully announced on Friday:

Groups of six may meet but not hug or hold babies.

Up to 6 people from 6 different households can meet in gardens and private outdoor spaces. You can see 5 people from another household on one day and 5 on another but not 3 groups of 5 friends at different times on the same day.

Food and drink can be served but not handed round.

If you use the lavatory in the house, the door should be opened and closed with a paper towel and everything should be “wiped down”.

Four-ball golf matches and tennis doubles can now be played as long as your doubles partner lives with you.

If it rains, you should stay out in the garden, use an umbrella or go home.

Try sloganising that lot Dominic Cummings! Hard to fit it on the front of the lectern, too. And try remembering it the rest of us.

To my surprise, I discover I have enjoyed living life on solid ground with fewer choices. Is this what having a religion feels like – clear rules and rituals, a comforting framework? What in the therapy business they call containment – literal containment in this case, as we are locked away indoors. Or have I just become institutionalised?

Like some of the scientists who spoke out yesterday, I feel we are being encouraged out of Lockdown too fast. Life suddenly feels more precarious.But when would be the right time?

“The writer” and I have made up our minds what we’re going to do – stay put, change nothing, wait to see if there is a spike in the next two or three weeks and, if not, think again.

May 7

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I forgot to mention that many years ago, during another mouse outbreak (Mousebreak?) we in the block voted that the most natural way ton deal with it would be to buy a house cat. A rescue cat was duly chosen and took up residence. The idea was that he would live in the common parts – the stairwell, to be exact – and that he would begin his new life as a rodent operative.

For some reason that now escapes me, someone named him Cashew and his new quarters were equipped for comfort and hygiene. We all enjoyed bumping into Cashew on his and our travels round the building and we all took him into our apartments from time to time so he could leave his scent behind to deter other visitors.

We grew to love our resident. His quarters on the third floor were extended downstairs to include a playground. His feeding rota grew ever more complex and we became mystified by the number of times he would be missing during the day when the appointed feeder turned up.

The mystery remained unsolved until the manager of a nearby hotel phoned to say that a black and white cat seemed to have discovered that their honeymoon suite was not always occupied and was to be found most afternoons curled up on the velvet counterpane of the super-King size bed.

It turned out that Cashew, having been invited into one of the apartments closest to the hotel, would climb out of their window, make his way into the hotel and scout around for the most comfortable accommodation, returning home for dinner or when he felt like a change of scene.

Cashew lived happily like this with all of us for several years – until one of our residents fell in love – with Cashew.

The cat’s disappearances grew longer and longer. Now he would be away for the whole weekend, then for a week at a time, then for a month. No, the hotel manager said, he wasn’t honeymooning this time, hadn’t been for ages.

Cashew had been catnapped by the handsomest man in the block, taken to live in his glitteringly white, minimalist apartment and fed on the tastiest of morsels.

None of us said anything as he retired from work and lay around admiring his paws. How could we insist he went back to the stairwell?

Remembering that Cashew had originally moved in to mouse-hunt, I texted his “owner” this week and asked if he could please walk Cashew around the building for a while to see whether he would spot any mice. “Oh no, sorry”, came the reply, “People would pet him and he might be a vector for the virus.” And, besides, I think he’s a bit past it now. He’s become very lazy”.

Instead of the cat, he sent me a ‘photo. I see what he means. Does this look like a hunter to you?

May 21

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Who could have guessed that my newly- discovered interest in wildlife would turn violent?

Inspired by tales of Amy and Peter’s blackbird who visits for mealworms and the sight of the two tiny green birds (greenfinches?) who chase each other around the skies above our terrace, I decided to send for a bird feeder and some feed. The feeder arrived and was duly sanitised, as was the bag of feed, a combination of seeds and nuts cutely called “peckish”. It had looked quite small in the picture but turned out to be about the size of a pillow and heavy as concrete.

My first dilemma was where to hang the feeder. I’m growing gooseberries and tomatoes on the terrace and we lost the tomatoes last year to blight. I don’t fancy losing them this year to a different predator. The feeder had to be distant from both, yet near enough for us to spot any visitors to it from our kitchen table.

I filled it, hung it and caused much amusement when the greenfinches arrived for the first time in the middle of a Zoom call with friends, who watched me become hysterical with delight. I’ve cracked it, I thought. All I have to do now is sit and wait for delightful and rare birds to turn up from all over the world.

(I had to pretend I didn’t have in mind my Australian friend’s visitors to his breakfast table last week.)

I HADN”T TAKEN PIGEONS INTO ACCOUNT!!!!!!!

They arrived in droves, shouldering the finches out of the way as they scavenged for seed the little birds had dropped from the feeder. I was reminded of what Trafalgar Square used to be like – hundreds of tourists delightedly buying bags of seed and stuffing it into scrofulous pigeons perched on their outstretched hands, shoulders and heads. Funny, we hardly noticed them go when the hawk patrol got rid of them once and for all – the pigeons, that is, not the tourists – though, of course, there’s no sign of those either, these days. But importing a hawk to our terrace wasn’t an option. We had to find another way.

It was ” the writer” who came up with the solution – water pistols.

Of course, we could have fun, get rid of the pigeons harmlessly and enjoy our greenfinches. Brilliant!

On line, searching for the perfect water pistol, I found myself in a parallel universe. with its own hyper-macho language:

“Stormblaster”, “Soakzooka”, “Floodtastic” “Hydrostorm big shot soaker”, “Barracuda”

I discovered that adults – male adults, mostly- actually buy water pistols – sorry, water guns – for themselves! I even read an article headed “Watery Warrier. Best guns for grown men”

In case you’re planning to join them- the favourite seems to be “The Mayhem” (See below.) Compensation or what!

The James Purdey or Holland and Holland of water guns appears to be a company called “Nerf” which, as yet, doesn’t seem to have progressed to the bespoke gun – making offered by the best English gunmakers. Perhaps Water Warriors aren’t prepared to wait the two years it can take to craft the perfect weapon for its owner. Nerf don’t even offer to alter their ready-made guns to fit the user like the real gunmakers do – a gap in the market perhaps?

Anyway, our “Stealth Soakers” arrived promptly.

We breakfast on the terrace, guns at the ready. Lunch is eaten inside, weapons placed casually on the sideboard near the open kitchen door. Supper is a nightmare of false sightings, each of us leaping up at different times to take aim. The only thing we succeed in hitting is our digestive systems, which, by the day’s end are shot to pieces. The pigeons which normally sit jeering at us from the railings or have to hoist their overfed bodies onto the back of the terrace chairs as a staging post en route to the railings, have vanished.

Could the noise from the re-started building work have driven them away? Could they have sensed our malign intent? Might they return on Sunday when it’s quiet?

Watch this space…………..

May 20

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The 17 cranes we see from our terrace have been still for seven weeks.

This week, they have begun to dip and swing once again.

Part mechanism, part animal, sometimes bending as though to drink from a pond, sometimes craning(!) as if to pick a leaf from a high branch, sometimes turning their backs in a huff, sometimes leaning into one another, as though deep in conversation and today, ignoring any any attempt at social distancing, kissing perhaps?

It has only occurred to me while writing this post that one of the reasons I have always been fascinated by cranes and have photographed them quite obsessively over the years, is that, as a child, my favourite toy was a yellow crane, which, somewhat oddly, I even took to bed with me. Having looked it up in a fit of nostalgia, I now present it to you:

Wish I’d kept it. But everyone says that about their Dinky toys.

I realise this all sounds rather romantic but Oh, the hideous noise that accompanies the building work. I didn’t realise the extent to which we’ve become used to quiet during lockdown and, though my husband, uncharacteristically, urges me to see the start up of building work as a vote for the future, to me it just heralds jangled nerves and a longing for Sundays.