As Plato put it: Music is a moral law. It gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness, and life to everything. It is the essence of order, and leads to all that is good, just and beautiful, of which it is the invisible, but nevertheless dazzling, passionate, and eternal form.
Whatever the outcome of today’s general election, the lyrics of this fugue will still be true. Unfortunately.
Well, never say we don’t know how to have a good time here in sunny south London. Not just one, but two consecutive days with visits to A&E at King’s, an accident and emergency department that has achieved national, maybe even international fame due to the series 24 Hours in A&E. Not that there were any tv cameras while we were there, though quite a few notices telling us staff wear body cams.
I didn’t do the whole shifts, just joined in for a while with Octavia as she sat in the waiting area feeling sick and poorly bad. She spent a greater deal longer there than I did. She developed a bad pain under her ribs yesterday morning. It travelled round to her back and left her feeling extremely unwell. She called 111 when it didn’t get better and the next thing she was off to Kings in an ambulance. Tests, scans, samples ensued but no definitive diagnosis. I received a text from her and joined her mid evening.
The waiting room was full. Staff came in and went out, calling names. We waited. Octavia’s pain grew worse. I went through the double doors to request pain relief and to ask how long she might need to wait before being seen again. Standing at the desk I watched as the staff continued working, calmly but ceaselessly. They were like bees, in constant motion. Computer screens were studied, colleagues consulted. Every now and then there was an urgent call for someone to go to resuss.
I know I’ve said it before, so honestly you’d think I’d learn, but the longer the time between posts the more you have to write and the harder it becomes, because, I really don’t want to sit down thinking I am going to be typing for hours, and also I have forgotten half of what has happened anyway, or it’s now irrelevant.
So I’ll start with this morning’s drama and see where it goes, though I am popping round to Helena’s shortly then cooking, and it’s The Dog House tonight, so there may be quite a long hiatus or a very short post. I was working this afternoon so this morning was crossing out things on my To Do List. I failed on the pomegranates, there were none for sale on the stall I patronise though I did get some very nice leeks. I love leeks and they are currently plentiful. I understand there’s an onion shortage in the Philippines so I expect that’s the next thing we’ll be looking at and saying How much? in aghast tones. Dijon mustard ( a. must in this flat) has doubled in price. If only I’d known I’ve had bought in bulk. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I got leafy greens and bleach in Morrison’s. Both have regularly been out of stock over the last few months so I was rather pleased.
I really I would know someone who makes sock puppets. I have quite a few pairs of socks. Some are in better repair than others. I am trying to wear the ones which are either older or which I like less rather than shove them to the back of the drawer and wear the ones I prefer. Chief among my targeted socks are some black ones, five pairs actually, all bought together. I like black socks, and these are cotton, and initially very comfortable. However these are socks which are fine in some shoes, but in others, and always in slippers, slide down to bunch around my toes. When I was little we used to say this was our socks going to sleep. I don’t know if anyone understands that phrase today. These socks don’t just go to sleep, they hibernate. I was looking at one pair I had worn and washed to see if there was any sign of them wearing out. Maybe. But it was another sock, one from one of my newer pairs, and indeed a favourite pair, that has developed a hole. I was shocked. Darning socks is a skill I never learned. I mend them badly. I have some socks which are literally years old, undarned and still going strong. The socks I buy now seem to have a very short life, unless I actually want them to wear out.
Yesterday evening we had a neighbourly game of Cluedo. Just four of us. Andrew, Marcelo (who hardly swore at all), Celia and me. The Lovely Lola was also present but didn’t play, though Marcelo drew her chair up to the table. We ate lots of nibbles, Marcelo had mulled some wine and then we shred a bottle of red. It was fun. I have had a very restful, quiet weekend. Just what I needed. On Friday evening I met Cynthia, and that is when my alcohol abstinence ended. We were in a pub near Brough which was comfortably populated but not heaving. At first conversation was easy, but the pub filled up a bit, some of our fellow customers were evidently more serious drinkers than we were and the volume grew. So not a late night, a good one.
Unplanned, I seem to have started January dry. Octavia does Dry January which is not quite the same thing. The Nozeco opened on Christmas Day morning is still in the fridge. Yes, there’s very little alcohol in Nozeco, very little in Becks Blue, and I have several bottles of that, I just don’t fancy anything alcoholic or even approaching the idea of alcoholic. Benilyn continues to be my tipple of choice, which is odd because it tastes disgusting. I couldn’t get Benilyn original, so have Benilyn Non-Drowsy after the pharmacist assured me it didn’t contain any ingredients which would keep me awake. It’s also red, but a brighter red than Original. Just as unpalatable though.
Still my cough has definitely lessened. It’s not yet gone, but it’s in departure. hanging around the duty free section perhaps, or in the bookshop, flicking through books it has no intention of buying. I hope its flight is called soon. I feel as though I have been coughing for ever. Work continued all last week and then into the weekend. I was up in the morning, out and about, doing my stuff, home and eating good healthy food washed down by water, and then to bed with a Lemsip around half past eight.
I’ve not worked today, and the diary is gloriously empty until next week. That’s how I feel now, but by Saturday I shall probably be fretting and worrying about my income. Well, being freelance and self employed was my choice. It can be precarious, but I don’t have many extravagances, so I get through. Also January and February are always quiet and a chance to recharge batteries, and as I didn’t do a jigsaw over Christmas this may be my chance.
When I went to buy cough medicine, something I haven’t bought for years, I couldn’t find the Benylin Original I have had before. I asked the pharmacist if he had any, and he explained that the current demand for cough medicine far outstrips the supply. After two years of keeping our distance, the trains and buses are now packed. People ignore the notices asking us to keep the windows open, and as a result cold viruses are having a field day. It seems our, or at least my, immunity has weakened too, because although the cold may only last a few days, the after effects go on and on.
I feel as though someone I don’t like, and didn’t invite, turned up for Christmas, muscled his way in, took up residence and is now settling in for New Year. An unwelcome but constant companion. Only when I am asleep am I free of this companion. I have a chesty cough and runny nose. I sound at times like someone who smokes twenty cigarettes a day. My paper handkerchief consumption is outrageous, an entire box most days. I am drinking lots of water laced with lemon juice and ginger cordial, hot pear juice (recommended by the acupuncturist) avoiding alcohol, eating mounds of fruit and vegetables, having hot steamy baths and going to bed early. Rock and Roll.
There are good and bad things about staying at the same address for a long time. One of the good things is that friends with whom you have lost touch for one reason or another can, should they wish, still find you.
Several years ago my friend Sue who had disappeared from my life sent me a long letter explaining the ups and downs she had gone through, and hoping I was still where she could reach me. We have been in touch ever since. Yesterday evening the ‘phone rang and a voice announced itself as Sophie, daughter of Krystyna and Lutz. I was/am an honorary aunt to Sophie and her younger sister Nadine. When both Krystyna’s parents died and the girls had grown up, Lutz and Krystyna left London and moved to Poland which Krystyna’s parents had left in the Second World War, one as a refugee, the other as a member of the Polish Air Force. I received cards from them saying they would love to hear from me. The problem was they didn’t give their address and I didn’t have either Sophie or Nadine’s contact details. So the years passed, and I always thought they must have felt I had abandoned them. I did not know they had returned to the UK at the start of the pandemic.
Then the ‘phone call. I’d love to say it was a happy reunion, but Sophie, presumably trawling through old address books, had found my number and called to say Lutz died last week. It was sudden after an illness which had caused him a lot of pain. He had been hospitalised, survived, against the odds, an operation, and was to be discharged from hospital. He was looking forward to Christmas. His first free from pain for several years. So on the morning of his discharge, he was in good spirits and cleaning his teeth when he collapsed. He did not get home.
I stumbled upon a delightful film on Film4 this evening. Finding Your Feet. I missed the first fifteen minutes or so, but the story was fairly undemanding and I think I filled in all the gaps. It’s an unassuming film, probably low budget, featuring places I recognise close to where I live, and with a gentle talented cast including Tim Spall, Celia Imrie, the late John Sessions in a minor part, and Imelda Staunton. I loved it. It was kind. Just what I needed. No car chases, no hugely dramatic showdowns, high body count or spilled blood, and somehow all the more precious and life enhancing for that. Tim Spall at the helm of a narrowboat which I know he has done many many times in his own life, particularly after his recovery from cancer.
I am finding life in this country hard. We seem to have turned into a horrible parody of ourselves; a divided divisive society, people on the edge of destitution because those elected to govern simply don’t seem to count swathes of the population as important. Horrible hateful comments about Harry and Meghan, even from people I usually respect. Maybe it was always like this. That there was a civilised veneer which was ripped away by Brexit to reveal the hideous truth beneath.
I am lucky. I have good friends who are enormously important to me. I have a beautiful, gentle cat who I love and who I dare to say loves me. Though he may love biscuits more. These are the things which make life good.
It’s suddenly Christmas. December has a habit of arriving calmly and then rushing into a mad frenzy. There are increasing numbers of people – men mostly – walking or riding bicycles dressed in Father Christmas hats or even the whole outfit -in central London. Christmas trees have been appearing for several weeks, though bizarrely not in Westminster Abbey, while in St Paul’s both Samuel Johnson and John Howard have had their statues hidden by Sandringham’s best.
I had a cold last week. Nothing spectacular. I had a blocked nose on Wednesday evening, but it wasn’t immediately apparent why. In fact I was puzzled. Usually when I get a blocked nose and no other symptoms it’s because I have eaten or drunk something my body doesn’t like. It’s one of the great things about converting to veganism that I no longer spend hours breaking through. my mouth because I’ve eaten cheese. By Thursday morning my nose was running. I did a lateral flow test in case. Negative. However since then I have been blowing my nose almost constantly. The cold itself seems to have passed, but I can’t go anywhere without a large number of hankies. It’s rather tiresome.
So I think tonight I shall post pictures from the Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Rooms at Tate Modern. No hankies, I’ll spare you that, then I shall head for bed with my book.
But I don’t think I can bear to do any politics, it’s too darned depressing.
Today Celia and I returned to Pipoca for lunch, the menu calls what we ate brunch, but we’d both had breakfast. I opted for the Mexican Brunch, apparently their best seller, Celia went for the Brixton Brunch. Next time I’ll follow her example unless I have the spinach and mushroom galette again. The Mexican Brunch was fine, but the Brixton one looked better: more greens, black beans rather than red kidney ones, mushrooms. Mine included tofu scramble which I often make at home. My tofu scramble is better.
We were both quite full by the time we left, so a wander about the back streets between the Brixton and Clapham Roads helped our digestion. From the Brixton Road you can see a park, and a church spire framed by trees. We started with the park. More street art. Or should that be park art?
There were people playing football, a young dog racing around the dog exercise area with a toy in its mouth while another dog sat sedately watching it. There were lovely trees, a children’s play area with an attractive train, an adventure playground, and sunshine.
Across the road the exit stood the church. A service was going on onside. The congregation was sparse. A small group of people engaged in a private ritual which meant something to them. We walked quietly away. Opposite the church there was an amazing house. It made us look at the other houses, some divided into flats, some still apparently single family dwellings. They were evidently built for the well to do. Tradespeople rather than gentry. The rising middle classes of the nineteenth century. Servants must have lived in.
We turned onto Stockwell Park Road. A blue plaque. Lilian Baylis! if you live in south London and love theatre Baylis, manager of the Old Vic and Sadlers Wells. is a legend. She was also a character. There are lots of stories about her. One of the best known is when staff asked for a pay rise they were told that Baylis would have to ask God. God’s response was always the same: ‘Sorry, dear, God says No.’ And her favourite prayer was said to be ‘Dear God, send me good actors but send them cheap.’
I’ve just deleted fifty-four spam messages. Fifty-four! That’s what happens when you don’t post for a while. So what’s my excuse? Nothing special, just the usual, busy with this and that, cat wrangling and I have started reading Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace. I’m not sure where I picked up this copy. I had a vague idea I had read it, but a few pages in and I realised I hadn’t. It’s over 500 pages long, and it says something about how much I’m enjoying it, that I have taken it on the bus and carried it around while I’ve been working on at least two days. I seem to have a lt of reading material all of a sudden. I mean extra to the ear present pile of books by my bed. Charlie has passed me copies of the Economist, J gave me an article about Noel Fitzpatrick to read, the Guardian online is my first thing in the morning go to while I have breakfast. I’m listening to Vesper Flights by Helen McDonald which is superb. It makes me dust much more thoroughly when I have something so absorbing and enlightening to listen to.
Tonight it’s raining. Again. Where is all this water coming from? I know people think it rains all the time in England, but our rain is usually of the drizzly half hearted sort. This rain seems to have been working out in the gym. I’m working outside tomorrow, and more rain is forecast. Which is not to say it has rained all day. It was raining when I woke up, and while I had breakfast. Then the skies cleared and I went out to the City to do one or two things. At the bus stop I had to shield my eyes against the bright sunshine. When I got home there were domestic chores to tackle and lunch to make. So Vesper Flights took my mind off the mundane. I put the washing out on the line. Most of it was dry when the skies darkened again and I prudently decided to bring it indoors. I managed a good hour of Alias Grace with MasterB curled up beside me before he stirred and asked for his dinner. I started to prep my supper. It felt like the right sort of night for a curry.