Tag: London

April 15

~ coronet22 ~ 2 Comments

The line, the line!!

From my position watering the pots outside on the terrace, yesterday, I looked through the glass door into the kitchen to see “The Writer”, in his slippers, doing what appeared to be an energetic and complicated dance routine. From behind, I could see him swing his right arm, as though playing a forehand tennis stroke, while his left arm remained rigid, held up in the air and grasping what looked like a stick used in Morris Dancing. His head was bent floorwards, and, as I watched, he performed what I took to be a reverse Fleckeryll, after which, with dainty, cat-like steps, he glided sideways and began the sequence again, moving swiftly round the kitchen with each new flurry of steps. Though I strained my ears, I could hear no music but I could hear him repeating what I thought were the words,”Damn Line. Damn Line”.

Now, my husband would be the first to admit that he’s not a natural dancer. I love to dance but, after many years of marriage, I have grasped that conditions have to be exactly right before I can inveigle him onto the floor. He has to be drunk, there have to be at least thirty other people on the floor, preferably also drunk, the music has to be recognisable, i.e from the 60s, plus he has to be just sober enough to reminisce about “smooching” with girlfriends rendered willing partners by a glass of Babycham.

But here he was, dancing, alone, and, I assumed, sober, since it was 8:30 in the morning. Puzzled by this personality change, but loath to disturb it, I stepped into the kitchen and heard again the refrain, “Damn Line”, this time followed by a violent bout of swearing.

“What’s wrong?”, I asked.

“It’s this damn line, I can’t get rid of it”.

At this point, I realised that what his upright hand was holding, was not a Morris stick, but our long-handled dustpan and the wide forehand movements had been his sweeping of the brush towards the pan. However, nothing accounted fo the neat Scottish Dance steps.

His explanation was accompanied by more swearing and a demonstration of the fact that, however carefully he swept the floor, there remained, after he had swept the debris into the pan, a stubborn grey line of dirt he then had to chase across the kitchen, hoping that, by sneaking quickly up on it, as though on a fly he was going to bash with a newspaper, he would fool it, this time, into entering the pan, leaving not a trace behind.

I watched for a while, wondering whether there was any way I could harness this new enthusiasm in the service of our getting to dance more frequently.

Then I just got bored and hoovered up The Line.

I could swear he was disappointed.

April 13

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Several years ago I attended a six- week course on Mindfulness. I was a bad student, wanting ‘results’ and wanting them fast, there-bye negating the whole process. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping for and, at the end of the sessions, I gave up and, beyond occasionally reminding “The Writer”and myself to slow down and notice what we’re eating, never thought about it again. But I am thinking about it in Lockdown. Two of the exercises in particular stay in my mind. The first was learning to clean one’s teeth mindfully: watching the toothpaste snake onto the brush, tasting it on the softness of one’s tongue, feeling the bristles of the brush on the gums, noticing the rhythms of brushing. (The point is not to think about other things as you mindlessly carry out a a dull and regular task but to stay in the moment, experiencing fully what is happening NOW, rather than thinking about what was or what is to come). The other most vivid exercise was to take a raisin, look at it carefully, turning it in your fingers, noticing its varying shades of brown, its wrinkles, its uneven shape and texture, then, having taken the time to appreciate every detail of its appearance, to put it in one’s mouth, roll it around the tongue, feel its declivities, notice its resistance when squeezed. Next, to chew it, savouring its sticky juice then, finally, swallow, concentrating as it leaves the mouth and relishing the sweetness left behind.

Now, in Lockdown, when the frantic hurry in which we city dwellers live has been rendered pointless in an instant, I feel myself growing more mindful of many things, especially the natural world, of which we can see only the plants that grow on our terrace and a few trees on neighbouring rooftops. Suddenly, I’m beginning no longer just to look at flowers, for example, but to see them. And the process is different. (I once volunteered to take LSD for an experiment carried out by the Psychology Department at my university, and there are similarities.). Maybe, it’s to do with not only seeing the whole but spending long enough in the moment to appreciate the parts that go to make up that whole. Below is a pictorial attempt at explaining how it feels to me.

Unmindful

Mindful

And here’s a stone on the terrace I have walked past, heedlessly, countless times but now, as I take the time to look at it, it’s extraordinary striations seem brilliant and arresting.

Even last night’s meal, the look of which I would not normally have paid any further attention to after arranging it on the plate, so busy was I rushing on to the next task, struck me as a thing of beauty, worth appreciating for longer.

If all this sounds narcissistic and fanciful, forgive me but I’m writing about it wondering whether it’s happening because one’s sensory input is much reduced at the moment or because the time available in which to speculate and observe is more plentiful. Is it happening to other people locked down indoors in cities? Those isolating in the countryside have a broader landscape to view and are not so constrained to look at the same few things over and over. Of course, a visual artist would probably have experienced all this as a matter of course but I am not an artist. I am word – and task- orientated and, as it turns out, grateful for this hiatus in which the tasks are fewer and less urgent and there is time to spare. I’d like to think that, when this is all over and the available sensory experiences are once more multiplied a thousandfold, it might be possible not to return to hurtling though life thoughtlessly but to stay more mindful more often. Perhaps even do part two of the course.

April 12

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The conversation goes something like this:

Us: “Hello”

Them: “Hello”

Us: “Hello”

Them: “Hello”

Us: “Hello”

(Blank Screen and silence.)

Them: “Oh, now we can see you!”

Us: “Well, we can’t see you”.

Them: “Why not?”

Us: “No idea”.

(Blank screen and silence)

Them: “It’s OK we can see you now”.

Us: “Good”.

Them: “Switch your mic on. We can’t hear you”.

Us: ” It is on.Why can’t you hear us?”

Them: “No idea. Try switching it off then on again”.

Both: “It’s OK now!!!”

Us: “Can you tilt your screen down a bit, we can only see the top of your head”.

Them: “That better?”

Us: “A bit”.

Us: “How come you’re in Brooklyn?”

Them: We’re not, it’s San Francisco”.

Us: “How do you do that?”

Them: “You just choose a background photo from the library or you can make your own”.

(Long silence)

Them: “You’ve done it! Nice Palm trees. How is it on that beach?”

Us: “Lovely, no lock down”.

Them: “Sorry, can’t hear you. Sound’s gone again”.

Us: “Sorry ,can’t hear you. Sound’s gone again”.

Them: “It’s OK now”.

Us: “Good.”.

Them: “How are you getting on in London?”

Us: “Your picture’s frozen now and there’s no sound. Can you say that again?”

Them: “How are you doing?”

Us: “OK.” “Your screen’s fallen forward”.

Them: “What?”

Us: “Your screen’s fallen forward”.

Them: “We were wondering how you’re getting on”

Us: “OK ,considering”

Them: “You can’t answer while we’re still speaking. Can you answer again now”

Us: “OK, considering. But we can’t see you now.”

Them: “That’s because you can only see the person who’s talking”

Us: “Are you sure”

Them: “Pretty sure”

(A notice appears on screen)

‘Your meeting is over‘

Us: “Bye. Great to chat. Let’s do it again next week”.

Them: “What?’

APRIL 11

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Have you noticed how many moons we have lately? We used to have just the Old Moon and the New Moon, and that was it. This year alone, we’ve had a Wolf Moon in January, a Snow Moon in February and a Worm Moon in March. Latest, was the Pink Moon, last week, whose dramatic appearance was billed well in advance: Not only was it was it to be a Pink Moon, we were reminded, it was also a Super Moon. Both at once – Wow! We get our thrills where we can during Lockdown.

After some fraught minutes, we agree it doesn’t really look very pink to either of us and I take a ‘photo on my ‘phone in order that we can examine its colour more closely.

“Best viewed around 10:35pm”,the newspapers promised. At 10:30 “The Writer” and I are poised. We emerge, excitedly, onto our terrace and gaze at the sky. Sure enough, there it is, a huge, brilliant moon illuminating the air – conditioning units, chimneys and ghastly red, green and orange Google headquarters, not far in the distance. First thing I experience on seeing it is a twinge of disappointment at the fact that it doesn’t look particularly pink. I keep this to myself, not wanting to spoil my husband’s pleasure. Obviously, he can see the pinkness, as he drinks in the sight, apparently enraptured. Time passes. After some while, tentatively, he, too, admits to some misgivings about its colour. We discuss it. Is it pink? Really pink? How Pink? I take a photo on my ‘phone in order that we can examine its colour more closely.

The ‘photo confirms its lack of pinkness.

We concentrate harder.

After about 15 minutes and the onset of neck pain, “The Writer” tells me he can definitely see a pink glow around its edges, a sort of pink aureole. I can’t see the glow but can see a definite blush on the cheeks of The Man In the Moon. Yes, it’s pink. The moon’s pink. We agree ,it’s pink. Amazing – a Pink Moon and a Super Moon at that. How lucky we are to have seen such a rarity.

We return indoors, satisfied, and celebrate, not with an appropriate glass of rose wine but with red, the nearest we have.

Not until yesterday, alerted by a knowledgeable friend to whom we were boasting about having seen the pinkest of Pink Moons, did we discover that the Pink Moon is named by Native Americans after a pink wildflower that blooms in April. Alternative names for it are: “The Sprouting Grass Moon”, “The Egg moon” and “The Fish Moon” and – you’ve guessed it – it’s not pink at all ……..

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My Mother, who died last September, aged 106, was obsessive about New Moons. You mustn’t see one through glass – that was unlucky – and when you went outside to avoid whatever curse was in store if you stayed inside, you had to turn your money over in the palm of your hand. I remember the scurry in the house to open the front door without seeing the moon through the window. (We must already have at least glimpsed it, otherwise how would we have known it was there?). When you were safely on the pavement, came the discovery that you had no money in your pocket, followed by a rush back inside with averted eyes, the whole saga ending as you stood, feeling foolish, turning over the odd coins from the kitchen table in sight of astonished neighbours wondering if , perhaps, we’d joined a cult. It always seemed to me that the turning should be accompanied by some kind of incantation or spell. As dramatic rituals go, it was somehow unsatisfactory.

Now that’s what you call a moon. Pic sent yesterday by, Warwick, my old friend in Australia

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Anita, a primary school teacher friend, once gave me the only way I have of knowing whether what I’m looking at is the crescent of a new moon or the tail of an old one. “Comma, coming” is her way of helping the children in her class (and me) to remember it’s the New Moon that looks like punctuation in the sky.

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Moons to come are:

Flower Moon in May

Strawberry Moon in June

Buck Moon in July

Sturgeon Moon in August

Full Corn Moon in September

Beaver Moon in November

Cold Moon in December

And, in case you’re wondering, a “Blue Moon” apparently occurs only once every two and a half years. Hence the phrase.

April 9

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” Now, Dinah,tell me the truth. Did you ever eat a bat?”

Down the Rabbit Hole from ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ by Lewis Carroll

Like Alice on her journey down the rabbit hole, my own sense of unreality intensifies at unexpected moments. These moments often occur as we listen to each day’s mounting death-toll – 201 a day in London at the moment – I suddenly feel a disconnect from the deaths and the disease. Here we are, shut away, comfortably carrying on not that differently from before and outside our walls there is a seething Hell. What are we doing shut away? What are we waiting for? When this lockdown ends, we still won’t be able to go out safely. Not until there’s a vaccine and its discovery is far from certain. Will we be here until there is one? Will we be here for the rest of our lives? We are already old – though we didn’t feel it until this disease picked us out for slaughter – and these next years may be the last in which we are active, can travel, move without pain, function normally and think straight. Are these precious years being stolen from us in the name of keeping us safe?

In an effort at reassurance, “The Writer” reminds me that these are the precious years. They haven’t been stolen. We are living them. We are together, in our middle-class eerie, happy in each other’s company, though constantly aware of how terrifying it is for those in the thick of it. We may see the world change for the better, we may see unimaginable poverty or a global economic recovery, Who knows? But, however it turns out, we have never witnessed and will never witness such extreme change. And we should relish this time, though filled with fear, as a vivid part of our lives, not merely an empty interlude.

I know he’s right, but as the death- toll mounts and when we read the forecast that we may soon become the worst-hit country in Europe, it’s pretty hard to dredge up much optimism.

It may be that our friends living in the countryside are able to take some comfort in nature that’s unavailable to us city- dwellers. The pictures they send of their remote walks and wide landscapes are consoling. Meanwhile, we find the natural world where we can: plants on the terrace, birdsong that we can now hear clearly, bees from our neighbour’s hives busy in the flowers……..

………..A couple of days ago, I heard an interview with a nurseryman. His plants are dying, garden centres are closed and he is about to go bankrupt as his busiest time of the year passes without sales. Feeling guilty for such indulgence, I ordered a bunch of flowers and sent them – to myself. I know it won’t help him or the hundreds of other desperate seed- merchants and growers but they have brought a breath of Spring into the house and, for that, I’m grateful.

April 7

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HOW DO YOU MAKE GOD LAUGH?

TELL HIM YOUR PLANS

Just by the London Eye, seen here from our apartment window, stands St. Thomas’s, one of the city’s best- known teaching hospitals, whose specialists are at the forefront of fighting this hideous disease. In its revered Intensive Care Unit, our ebullient, dishevelled Prime Minister, known, like Adele or Madonna, Sting or Bono, simply by his first name, ‘Boris’, lies, for the moment, felled.

Boris is “a character” and the British love “A character”. As Mayor of London, he introduced cheap, plentiful bikes for hire and filled the streets with their docking stations. No matter that the scheme was funded by Santander Bank, “Boris Bikes” they became and “Boris Bikes” they stayed. After Boris hung ridiculously suspended from a zip -wire during an Olympic event, he laughed and the crowd laughed with him. Unlike President Trump, whose every instinct is to build a wall, Boris would rather build a bridge. He has been called, brilliant, lazy, unprepared, and uninterested in detail. He has been called far worse by those who wanted to remain in the EU. He has been spotted backstage, mussing up his straw hair before rushing onto podiums as though out of breath and startled to have arrived at all. And he has been called ‘nonchalant’ for not getting to grips with COVID – 19 soon enough.

But two nights ago, just after the Queen had made only the fifth major speech of her reign, telling the Nation not to worry and assuring us all,”We will meet again”, came the news that our Prime Minister had been taken to hospital as his symptoms from a bout of COVID-19 had failed to improve. (We all knew he wasn’t getting better as we looked at his pasty, swollen face shining with feverish sweat as he stood on his doorstep valiantly applauding the NHS staff last Thursday). Today, having ‘deteriorated’, he is in Intensive Care, not, we are assured, on a respirator but, nevertheless, being given oxygen.

Of course, Londoners, as everyone else in the country and abroad, will have their own attitudes to this news. I can only say that, for my part, I found it surprisingly shocking. Nothing to do with political affiliation – or with politics at all – just to do with the fact that the man who, as a child boasted of his ambition to be “World King”, having finally got as close to that position as is possible, has had it swept away so soon – albeit temporarily. It’s as though the Gods are admonishing him, reminding him who is really in charge. And the unstable world in which we are already living, has become less stable still.

APRIL 5

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These two deliveries arrived on the same day. The wine turned up anonymously and the weights were brought by David Jarvis, our super-patient trainer, borrowed from his gym for us to use until it re-opens. Is this picture trying to tell us something? Captions, please!

We’ve never used weights but have a stringy, super-fit friend of over 80 who boasts about his capacity to lift unimaginable loads. Not only that, but the lucky bugger has now come safely though Covid-19 without even having to go to hospital. I find myself irrationally envious of friends who have had it mildly and are now free to lead a normal life – not that there is much of a normal life out there to lead. Irrational because, if that’s what I really want, why have I locked myself away up here, sanitising every carrot and leaving delivery boxes outside for days until they’re bug-free?

Our first Face -Time fitness session using the weights is nerve-wracking, me worrying about my dodgy back and “The Writer” making nervous jokes about how, as a boy, he and his friends had all bought Charles Atlas chest expanders in order to turn themselves from 7-stone weaklings into men who would not tolerate having sand kicked in their faces . And, just think, I hadn’t even realised sand had been a major problem in the land-locked city of his youth.

I had imagined ourselves, dressed fetchingly in animal skins, grunting and staggering as we flourished massive barbells over our heads, aided only by the support offered by our tightly-fastened gym belts.

The reality turned out to be somewhat different. No animal was even approached, let alone harmed, in preparation for the session and there was not a grunt or a stagger in any direction during it. As instructed by the lovely David, we sat, gingerly, on our dining- room chairs holding the lightest of the weights in our hands and curling them ever so gently upwards, as far as our shoulders. A few repeats – and that was it!

Fine by us. And , amazingly, the exercises seem to have built up enough strength for us to open the wine.

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Much consternation in London about the closing of some parks and the policing of others. Apparently, too many people are ignoring the social-distancing rules and the Secretary of State for Health and Social care has threatened complete closure of all parks if we don’t behave. What a disaster that would be for so many Londoners marooned in high-rise blocks with children. The parks are a precious resource to so many city dwellers at all times. We so hope it doesn’t happen.

April 4

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Today we’re celebrating the birthday of one of our closest friends – let’s call him Tod. Tod and Trisha, his wife, Londoners their whole lives, will enjoy his big day isolated in the Highlands of Scotland, completely by accident. Having gone up there several weeks ago to stay in their daughter and son-in-law’s house for a weekend break, they were on the point of returning to London when Lockdown began and their son-in-law went down with Covid-19. How crazy it seemed for them to come home to crowded, dangerous, dying London. Rather stay in the glorious Scottish countryside and hike through the bracken with no chance of bumping into packs of heavy-breathing joggers or gangs of cyclists who refuse to keep their distance.

So they stayed.

And three weeks later, they are still there – with enough clothes for a weekend.

And I am envious.

They bombard us with pictures of the scenery outside their window, each landscape more achingly beautiful than the one before.They brag about the one-person queue outside the supermarket, 3 miles away down a bumpy track and of the bakery where they shop for Butteries. Tod is an early riser and photographs of deer crossing the river in this bucolic paradise drop into my inbox before I’m awake. It’s as though they are taunting us. Why are we here, doing our 10,000 steps up and down our terrace while they are free to roam where they like with no need even to think about social distancing, as there is no-one for miles from whom to distance themselves?

And yet, and yet – am I really envious? Here we are in our own home with our own history around us. There are photographs of our wedding, treasured books, drawers reproaching me for still not clearing them out, the mess in my study in which I claim to be able to find any document. This is where we belong and I fancy I can feel the buzz of the city around me, the city about which we’re still learning, even though we are so confined. Yesterday, for instance, as we walked on our terrace, we heard the loud, aggressive sound of seagulls shrieking and wheeling in a clear sky at the other end of it. As we rushed to look over the railing, my husband shouted that he could see a man on the roof of the apartment block across the road carrying a hawk. Could this be? Is he hallucinating? He’s already dreaming about viruses seeping under the doors.But it was real – a man extending his arm on which sat a huge bird craning its snaking neck to the sky. The screeching seagulls looked down, then faded quietly from the vicinity. Who knew that companies like Rentokil (Other Pest Control services are available!) send out hawks accompanied by men in high-vis jackets to scare seagulls from apartment blocks all over the city?

London is our home and I’m (sentimentally?) pleased to be part of it while it’s suffering. I wonder what Prince Harry is feeling, far away from the city he grew up in, as his grandmother takes the rare decision to speak about the gravity of this crisis. Does he wish he were here?. Does he feel like a deserter? Does he miss the beauty of the city?

April 2

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Now I realise this may not look much to you but, to me and other locked down Londoners, this is like coming upon the first snowdrops of Spring. Lavatory paper has been absent from the shops and on-line grocery sites since the frantic panic -buying that preceded this lockdown. Our attempts at using less have not fared well and we didn’t stock up, so I confess to having been worried when my on- line searches yielded only “Parchment Baking Paper”, for which I don’t have much call. I did get as far as wondering what using that might be like and remembered the horrible, shiny stuff we had to use in the 50s because there was no other – Was it called Izal? It came in flat packets dispensing minute squares, looked and felt like greaseproof and was the butt of jokes about children tracing through it and using it to play comb and paper. I remember it felt unkind and slippery and didn’t do the job. As absorption was out of the question, all it did was spread matter about. Anyway,” A Big Welcome Back” ,as they say, to “Luxury Soft’, though I think I could do without the coconut oil.

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I’m astonished at how this lockdown is teaching me things about my husband I didn’t know, after so many years of marriage. Today I came upon him peering into his sock drawer (See below) holding a pair of socks in each hand, and apparently frozen in helpless indecision.

Me: What’s the matter?”

Him: ” I don’t know which socks to put on”

Me: “Does it matter?”

Him: “Of course”

Me: “Why?”

Him: “Because I have ‘writing’ socks and ‘non-writing’ socks”

Me: “Good Heavens! So what’s the problem, you’re going to be writing today aren’t you?”

Him: “Yes, but the writing socks aren’t as nice as the non-writing socks. I save the non-writing ones for going out in and, since we’re not likely to be going out any time soon, I’m wondering whether to stop saving the nice ones and wear them to write in.”

At this point, I decide I’m incapable of making any useful contribution to the conversation and leave him to it.

I notice later he’s wearing socks that say “Tuesday” on them but, since today’s Thursday, I have no idea what message he might be trying to convey about his day’s activities. I also have to admit I can’t distinguish whether these are the going out socks or the staying in ones but I do notice he’s writing – so I draw my own conclusions.

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A Propôs ‘Lockdown Chic’. I receive an email this morning telling me I definitely need “a capsule wardrobe, at this difficult time”. I refrain from writing back to reassure them I already have a capsule wardrobe – two rather worn track suits, washed on alternate days and disinfected around the zips. Apparently zips harbour viruses….

April 1

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It’s two weeks, yesterday, since we were in the same space as another person. A jolly dinner party at which there was much embarassment about not shaking hands or hugging. Everyone stood around flapping their wrists and feeling they had to explain themselves. “Well, I favour the Namaste praying movement”, “I think I’ll adopt the”one- hand- on- heart- accompanied-by-a-bow”, ” I think I’m just going to wave”. How long ago that seems and how quickly are new norms established. Already, when I see on TV two strangers meet in the street and peck each other on the cheek, I feel like shouting “Noooo. Step back. Are you mad?”

We are SO lucky. Here we are in clean, comfortable surroundings, with outside space to sit or walk in. We can afford what we need and are enjoying this time together without pressure. Day after day we hear on the radio heartbreaking stories of fear of eviction, lack of work and, therefore, of income, men and women worrying day and night about how to cope until the government pay packages kick in, if they kick in, lack of tests, lack of ventilators, masks, gowns, children needing to be entertained, children needing to be schooled, children needing to be fed. For so many, the virus is only the tragic beginning.

The one thing that make me feel as though I have any control over our own easy circumstances is planning: planning how to get food, planning when to eat it, planning what kind of exercise to do, planning which cupboards to clear out and, today, planning our deaths. That might be just a tad melodramatic but, however Pollyanna’ish one tries to be, there is a chance of dying. We decide to add the codicils to our Wills we discussed some time ago but, as is often the way of these things, never got round to writing.

Our lawyer is working from home. He sends the paperwork. It arrives quickly – and immediately we hit Snag -19, (Think Catch 22, only in this case, there are any number of catches). This particular Snag -19 is the fact that the codicils have to be signed by us, then by two witnesses to our signatures – so far, so possible – BUT – and here’s the catch – we’ve all got to be in the same place at the same time when this occurs. Working out how to achieve it is not unlike that old conundrum about getting a goat, a cabbage and a fox across a river without any of them being eaten.

First, we email two likely neighbours in our block. One has had Covid-19 badly but, of course, can’t prove it because of lack of tests. The other hasn’t but is young and still shopping in the local supermarkets so they are a bit wary of each other. However, they agree to sign and the curtain rises on the following pantomime : We stand in our sitting room, behind the glass door of our terrace, paperwork in hand. One witness comes onto our terrace, followed, at a safe distance, by the other. A clumsy dance ensues as each adjusts his position in order to be able to see us sign, at the same time keeping the prescribed distance from his fellow signatory.

When they are in position, they give the thumbs up and “The writer” and I each sign in turn, holding the paper uncomfortably in mid-air so they can see it.

Ridiculous, yes, but we feel better when we’ve done it. And, no, this isn’t an April fool.

We shall celebrate having completed the task with soup. Pea and mint this time. Never have I made so much soup in the attempt to maintain our vegetable intake. Unfortunately, we are so pleased with ourselves for eating the mass of vegetables, we tend to reward ourselves with chocolate. A friend emailed today saying she anticipates a baby boom and an obesity crisis when this is over. The former we don’t need to worry about, the latter, we most most certainly do…………..maybe tomorrow.