Tag: lockdown

June 3

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Yesterday morning I received news that brought a definite sense of Soho waking up.

A proposal headed “Save Soho” aims to designate July, August and September a “festival”, close all the streets around us and pedestrianise them so revellers can eat, drink and make merry in celebration of the restaurants re-opening.

It sounds like a great idea: Since Soho is mainly filled with restaurants nowadays – food having apparently taken over from sex – and many kinds of workplaces whose staff can work from home, it has become a complete ghost town during the pandemic. Friends in Fulham and Hampstead are beginning to meet in local cafes, to sip coffee at a safe distance from one another but there is still nothing open round here except liquor shops and The Bagel Bakery.

I start out as an enthusiast for the plan then “the writer”mentions that, if there is a spike and we remain locked down, there will be no food deliveries because of the road closures and we’ll starve. This is not a good start. Then we remember the time when Old Compton St. was pedestrianised and became an open air pub, with drunks lurching round the streets throwing up and no-one to call “Time”. And then we realise that without road access, we won’t be able to get to our garage.

Please let us try to avoid being the old, grumpy Scrooges who naysay everything. The local restaurants are where we have our best times and we do want them to thrive. There will be a compromise.

Thinking about the proposal, I suddenly want to see for myself what is going on in the streets around us.

As I walk down an empty Carnaby St. into an even emptier Regent St. the answer is -very little.

Peering through windows, I see staff in a few shops heaving boxes of stock about, readying themselves for possible opening on June 15. Otherwise, I encounter only a few aimless window-shoppers and little else. I must say, though, it is a relief to be away from the park joggers. No-one runs up and breathes in my face here.

I hadn’t realised it would be so odd to be walking in the city without being able to stop for a coffee and maybe even a pastry and I wonder why at least the prospect of doing so is important to both of us. Partly, it’s an opportunity for the impromptu. “Let’s just stop here”. So much has to be booked way ahead in London, it’s a relief to just “drop in”. It’s also the best way to enjoy the cabaret of passers-by in comfort – and of course there is the coffee – and the cake and the fact that the coffee bar was once the expression of Soho bohemianism. In the 60s, when I lived far away in North London, the 2i’s coffee bar at 59, Old Compton St. was one of my favourite Soho haunts. Skiffle was the music of choice on the tiny stage in its equally tiny basement until Tommy Steele and Cliff Richard sang there and the music scene changed.

The only thing I can’t remember about the place is what the coffee was like, mainly because I don’t like coffee and in those days it wasn’t cool to drink tea so I was the uncool kid who had to carry a teabag around to restaurants and persuade sniffy waiters to dump it in a cup, there being no pot on the premises – at least not the tea -brewing kind.

When we came to live in Soho, Bar Italia at 22 Frith St, where John Logie Baird first demonstrated how we could all become couch potatoes, was still, and remains, the area’s iconic coffee bar. It’s been there since 1949 and is still a family business

Sadly, such coffee bars – in fact most coffee bars- disappeared decades ago, only to return sanitised, respectablised, sleeked and indistinguishable in the form of Starbucks, Costa Coffee and the rest. I guess double expressos or cappuccinos didn’t cover rising rents whereas a venti salted caramel mocha frappuccino with 5 pumps of frappuccino roast, four pumps of caramel sauce, four pumps of caramel syrup with double blended extra whipped cream sounds a lot more likely to cope with those business rates.

In fact Starbucks in Carnaby St.was the only other place open on my walk, serving takeaway coffees largely drunk on the steps of The London Palladium nearby. And this, below, was the only other, sad remnant of the vibrant, buzzy social life we love so much. Good for them for keeping going.

Perhaps we shouldn’t worry about starving and rejoice in the prospect of the re-awakening of Soho.

May 31

~ coronet22 ~ 1 Comment

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 25

~ coronet22 ~ 1 Comment

I have news :

My husband has formed a deep relationship.

Those of you who read my previous post about our decision to attack the marauding pigeons on our terrace with water pistols, may remember that we hadn’t actually scored one hit, despite lying murderously in wait for hours, mainly because the pigeons were, suddenly, nowhere to be seen. We decided they’d been put off by he noise of the re-started building work so this weekend, a bank holiday, seemed the ideal time to show them who’s boss.

Having now spent several days watching them, we discover there are three birds who regularly spend most of their time sitting on the roof several metres from ours. At intervals throughout the day, two of them journey to our terrace and sit below the feeder waiting for seed to drop from the beaks of the finches. The third remains on the roof opposite, looking on.

Writers being given to such fancies, my husband names the couple Leslie and Laura, decides they have been in love for many years, Leslie having stolen Laura from Lionel, her first love, who remains on the roof pining from afar, wracked with the pain of knowing she can never be his.

Leslie and Laura

Lionel

Despite having wound them them in this intricate narrative, “The Writer” is still determined to prevent the birds from visiting and continues to keep watch. Friday, gives way to Saturday and the pigeons become more adventurous as the builders’ din dies down. On Sunday, we watch their lumbering take-off as they obviously feel the time has come for them to leave their roof and venture further afield.

Leslie and Laura seem oblivious to the fact that they are living on borrowed time as they touch down on the terrace and he takes aim with the Super Soaker………

…….and misses.

…….and misses

……and misses again

Leslie and Laura evade shooting

Some time later, Lionel descends from his perch, presumably having decided that Leslie and Laura have gone for a jaunt – A nostalgic trip to Trafalgar Square, perhaps? Cooing about how crowded it used to be in the days of their courtship?.

Reckoning it’s safe for him to drop in to our place for a meal without enduring the agony of encountering the lovers, he descends onto our terrace.

There he sits, in full view, totally focussed on cleaning up the dropped seed. It’s clear he wouldn’t notice an army approaching. “Quick, quick”, I shout to “The Writer”, “There’s one here you can get”. He hurtles down the stairs from his study, grabs the loaded pistol and takes aim….. His arm stiffens in mid air, no stream of water issues from his gun and I watch his eyes mist over as he slowly and carefully lays it down on the table.

“What’s up?”, I ask

“That’s Lionel”, he says, shaking his head disconsolately. “I can’t shoot him. He’s too sad.”

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

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.

May 18

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Yesterday, when “The writer” remarked how extraordinary it is that he hasn’t opened his wardrobe for seven weeks, I realised I haven’t either.

I LOVE clothes. In fact, I love fashion. Not in the academic since of wanting to know what political or historical event caused hemlines to go up or down or why skirts grew too wide to go through doors – more as art and psychology – the line, the way the fabric falls, how a colour or a style can affect the wearer’s mood.

When it comes to my own clothes, they are my greatest extravagance. I own a ball gown, which I will never wear because I’ve never been and am unlikely ever to go – to a ball. Parties, yes, but a ball??? But I bought it, knowing that. It was just so exquisite.

When I was at university, I spent half of a year’s grant on a jacket and in the 60s, when Carnaby Street was London’s swinging centre, I would save up to have my trousers made there by John Stephen, the famous men’s tailor of the time and “The King of Carnaby Street”. I love to wear severe men’s tailoring more than anything and when my Mother discovered my penchant for buying men’s trousers, she became worried enough to she broach the subject of my possible lesbianism.

John Stephen with one of his Rolls Royce collection

Later, Biba became my garden of delights, scented and penumbral, filled withwaving palms, gently wafting feathers in vases and purple dresses on high mahogany coat stands. It smelled deep and pungent and so did the clothes for months afterwards, scenting my wardrobe with sandalwood. And they were cut as no garment I have owned before or since. If only I’d kept them.

So, given all this, how come I’m SO enjoying NOT wearing clothes? Of course, I’m wearing clothes but I’m not thinking about wearing clothes. Neither I nor my husband has ironed anything for the duration of Lockdown. Our sheets are as unrumpled as pulling them hard between us after washing can achieve and, as for the rest, we have been wearing track suits, yoga pants, T-shirts, and rugby shirts – all of which come out of the washing machine, are hung up to dry, then worn again.

It was quite a while into Lockdown before I realised how much of my life I have spent planning what I will wear to go out. Trousers or a dress? Pretty or cool? Sexy or comfortable? (No, I’ve never possessed a garment that was both). Would I be over- dressed, under dressed? Do I care? (No).Why can I no longer stand in high heels? Do I care? (Yes). Does my stomach stick out in this? Do I look like mutton dressed as lamb in that? To bright? Too dark? Too short? Too long?

For weeks I haven’t had pains in my ears from my earrings, I haven’t had pains in my feet from my shoes, I haven’t felt constricted by my waistband after eating, I haven’t felt a weight round my neck from whichever trinket I’m wearing round my neck, I haven’t had to plan exactly when to wash my hair so it will be at its best for a particular event, I haven’t been able to hide the grey in it, I haven’t carried a handbag or a document case or a shopping bag – and I feel LIBERATED!!!!

How are you doing?

MARCH 20

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This morning “The writer” wakes certain that we shouldn’t, mustn’t, venture outside the door any more. He has dreamed about marauding gangs in the parks and since there are already reports of thefts of food and refrigerators, it appears not unlikely – though what they’d be after in the parks, I’m not sure. I’m committed to agreeing so I don’t try to dissuade him and, instead, work out how not to lose what remaining muscle I have without daily walks. Our “trainer”, whom “The Writer” more accurately dubs our “stretcher”, comes – came- twice a week to inflict mild torture and teach us T’ai Chi routines, one of which that involves opening and closing a fan while twirling and stamping and which “The Writer ” refuses to do on the grounds that it makes him feel silly. I feel sillier, having been trying and failing to learn a simple sequence of steps for over a year. I decide to do my 10,000 steps walking up and down the sitting room. This involves pulling back the heavy rug, moving the television and trying to avoid creaking floorboards as “The Writer” is working like a maniac. I realise, half- way through the second lap, that I won’t be able to keep this up for a week- let alone a year. I decide to do my 10,000 steps walking up and down the sitting room. This involves pulling back the heavy rug, moving the television and trying to avoid creaking floorboards as “The Writer” is working like a maniac. I realise, half- way through the second lap, that I won’t be able to keep this up for a week- let alone a year.

(The T’ai Chi fan is the large, red paper one at the back, the white feathery one was my Grandmother’s and the black and white lace one was bought for me by “The Writer” to waft about at a Royal Garden Party. Unfortunately, the day of the garden party was one of the wettest July days on record, during which, The Queen made the unprecedented kindly gesture of inviting some of the dripping, bedraggled guests into her private retiring room. We heard afterwards that all the cups and saucers bearing the Royal Crest were stolen by souvenir hunters and I still wake in the night wondering how I can reassure Her Majesty that it wasn’t us.)

March 13

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“The Writer”, wakes up dizzy and with a sore throat. The trouble with people with vivid imaginations is that they tend to imagine whatever’s uppermost in their mind at the time. Friends who have been staying at their son’s new house in Scotland to help with house painting, are trying to decide whether to stay up there or come home to London . The house is in the middle of nowhere so they’d be mad to come home, though I’ll ‘miss’ them, illogical when I won’t be able to see them either way. We’re still walking daily in the park, feeling every time we close the front door behind us that going out is a transgressive and, therefore, thrilling act. Today, the Pelicans who live on a tiny island in the middle of the lake, have put on a show for the tourists, who seem to be reluctant to return to wherever they came from. The huge, lumbering birds land on one of the park benches, chosen for its position facing the sun, and look benignly at the tourists still gathering in large tight-knit groups, ooh-ing and ah-ing and taking selfies with the uncomplaining creatures.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is img_8719.jpg

MARCH 12

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I saw this lock, below, attached to a tree in St. James’s Park, near Buckingham Palace. I don’t know who put it there-or why- but it was the last thing I saw in the open air before self-isolating in our apartment.

That was on March 23 but I’m going to go back a bit further than that before bringing you up to date.

Both of us are frightened to death by Prime ‘Minister, Boris Johnson’s speech at his briefing today predicting that “More people will lose loved ones before their time”. We are those loved ones – or at least, we’re the aged he’s talking about. My husband, “The Writer” and I have the same conversation we’ve been having since all this began. Me : ” The only way to be 100% certain we don’t get it, is not to leave the house until there is a vaccine in 18months time.” ‘The Writer’: Well then, that’s what we should do”. Me: But I don’t think I could stand not walking in the open air for so long” Him: Well, then, let’s keep going as we are” Me: “Oh God” “

I’ve noticed that God, in whom I definitely didn’t believe last month, seems to have crept into my thoughts quite a bit lately. I remember a school hym “God is working his purpose out as year succeeds to year”. Surely this is God working his purpose out? We have plundered the planet so now we can’t fly or cruise or litter the beaches with plastic. He allocated us three-score years and ten and we got cocky, lifting weights and jogging and bo-toxing and living to 80/90/100 so, now He’s targeted the elderly with his hideous virus and is clearing us out of the way. When I’m feeling more my normal self, I tend to the theory that it’s a Global conspiracy of Governments to rid themselves of the costly elderly, not have to pay out fortunes for Social Care and start over with a young, vigorous (and much less high-maintenance) population.