The Coronavirus Diaries, 1st May 2023, Bridlington, Blooms and Another Birthday

The forecast was not promising, but the sun is out and it’s going to be a lovely evening. Carol’s lilac is blooming, the lilies of the valley Celia gave me several years ago have multiplied and the flowers are appearing, the May flowers look like a bridal gown.

I have spent the day with MasterB. He’s having his dinner now, having already enjoyed an aperitif of biscuits. I am trying to encourage him to use his grooming arch. It’s probably the least successful thing I have ever bought him. He sniffs it, but does not behave like the cat in the adverts. As the weather is warming up he is shedding his coat for lighter late spring wear. Using the arch would relieve me of some grooming duties.

I still have some Bridlington photos to share, but I need to be quick. Celia is coming round, and then we are due at Michele’s at seven. She has kindly offered to host snacks and drinks for my birthday and May Day at her flat.

First some more dogs. I met Jesse and Valzar on my walk yesterday morning. Jesse shot by me like a bullet in pursuit of a ball thrown by her owner. A collie she is full of zip and energy. Relucanttly she sat still for a photo. Valzar is a rescue from Italy, mistreated, beaten and locked in a shed, he is still nervous and constantly checking with his new people for reassurance. They have had him thirty days. The first three he refused to leave the house. Then they managed to get him down to the beach and saw a different dog, a dog who raced around, who went in and out of the water, who looked alive, alert, happy. He accepted a treat from me, touched noses with a friendly Labrador but was happiest sitting between his owners. I’d love to see him in a year’s time.

And actually I realise now I am out of time or I shall be late to my own party. Add your prayers to mine for a happy, confident Valzar, a dog who deserves so much more than his earlier life has given him.

Happy May Day!

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The Coronavirus Diaries, 25th April 2023, Going Places

I’m a bit of a home body. Celia is always whisking off to stay with children and grandchildren, meeting up with her brother for a holiday; Octavia goes backwards and forwards to Yorkshire to stay with her mum, nips to Menton for weekends, has regular holidays in Croatia, the US and I imagine will any day soon be off to Australia again. The last time I left the UK was before the start of the pandemic. I was supposed to be going to Marseille in April 2020, but of course that didn’t happen. I rebooked flights a couple of times and then got a refund. Since then all my trips have been in the UK.

This weekend I am going to Yorkshire for Octavia’s mother’s 100th birthday bash. She actually turned 100 a month ago, but this weekend end has been fixed for the gathering. I’ll only be away a couple of nights, but it’ll be good to be out of London in the spring. In June I am going to visit my friend Patou in Brittany whose husband suddenly a few weeks ago. The flights are booked, I hope I have cat cover for the incomparable MasterB. This is going to be my first use of two passports on one trip. I understand I use the UK one leaving and arriving in London, my Irish one arriving and leaving Rennes. I have a qualm though. I had to register my passport in the advanced passenger information section for my booking. I could only register one. I’m hoping, if I show the other, alarms are not going to ring, uniformed officers descend and drag me off somewhere intimidating for questioning. I tried Easyjet’s customer service number hoping for clarification, enlightenment even. No joy. It has a limited menu and that menu does not include anything relating to my question in options one, two to three. There was no option four for other as I had hoped. Any insight one or more of you can offer gratefully received.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 19th April 2023, Anniversaries

Twelve years is quite a time. I was thinking of when I was twelve years old, one year into secondary school, six years away from university. Thinking about twelve years ago, a year before the Olympics and Paralympics in London, a year after David Cameron became Prime Minister, five years before the referendum on the EU that has blighted us ever since. And more happily, yesterday marked twelve years since MasterB came home as my cat.

We didn’t have an evening at home together though. I went out to celebrate another anniversary. It’s twenty -five years since a group of us obtained the qualifications which bring me my income today. Itv was hard work, and we bonded. On the whole, we don’t meet each other very often in the course of our work, and if we do, there’s seldom the opportunity to exchange more than a couple of sentences. Sit us down in a restaurant off Oxford Street with good food, wine circulating freely, and there’s no lag in the conversation.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 13th April 2023, Thank-you Graham

I have a cold. I blame it on someone on the bus the other day who was sneezing. I had opened the window beside me, but most windows were closed, allowing germs to circulate. I am not particularly unwell, just feeling rather tired, a slight headache, a certain sensitivity in my nose. I took some paracetamol an hour ago, and I’m drinking lots of water. A lazy evening now, after a good meal. I’ll watch Taskmaster at nine o’clock and then retire to bed with my book.

MasterB came outside this afternoon when I went to gather young dandelion leaves which are growing so abundantly in the garden. They had a reprieve when the gardeners came last time because it was too wet to use the mower. They may get another reprieve tomorrow as rain is again forecast. It’s definitely spring. The weather veers between blue skies and sunshine to sudden squally showers and cold winds with startling rapidity. But any inconvenience is outweighed by the explosion of colour that is filling our days. Cherry blossom has replaced the daffodils, bluebells are springing up, tulips struggle to stay upright in the wind.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 20th March 2023, Darling Boy

Freddy at the helm

Darling Boy was what my neighbour Carol used to call Freddy. I don’t know where he took his lessons, but boy did he know how to schmooze. My candle is lit and in the window. I am thinking fond thoughts of the Darling Boy, and smiling at some of his naughtiness. it’s a long way and twelve years from the heartbreak I felt twelve years ago. It’s true, time does heal. You don’t forget, but it ceases to hurt quite so much. Whereas in the early days I kept thinking about his last days, remembering the fit that preceded his death, my panic, shock, guilt that I hadn’t been able to do anything to save him, now I remember the years he lived with me, the way he could make me smile, laugh on even the bleakest day; the way he blinked his eyes at me, followed me about until I sat down so he could climb on me; how he accepted being taken to das Boot and coped with my initial and ongoing incompetence, then behaved as though he had been on boats all his life.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 19th March 2023, of Cat, Talks, and Inhumanity

First of all Cat. The title of this blog is a give away, although I didn’t consciously realise that Cat, real name Freddy (the Gorgeous Boy) would play such a large part in it when I began. But he had a large personality and a way of being centre stage most of the time. As some of you know, I never intended to have a cat, but Freddy decided I had a vacancy I knew nothing about and moved in. He saw me through some very difficult times as well as good ones. He kept me company while I studied for new qualifications, made freelance journalism from home something of a challenge as he regarded the phone as love rival and would steal my pen as I tried to take notes, cost me a small fortune in vet bills as a result of his territorial fights. Tomorrow it will be twelve years since he died.

The date must be engraved somewhere in my heart as I have found myself thinking of him a lot in recent days, my eyes filling with tears at inopportune moments. I had absolutely no idea I could love a cat as much. Dogs yes, but I had never lived with a cat. Never truly understood how much they gave, how companionable they could be, how funny, loving, and also demanding. I shall be forever grateful that he lived with me for fourteen years. Mother and Aunt both loved him and he knew it, basking in their admiration.

So tomorrow night I shall light a candle to him when I get home. His ashes are still in the airing cupboard, a place he was not allowed in life, because I couldn’t when it came to it, bear to scatter them.

But the candle lighting will have to wait until after tomorrow evening’s talk, and maybe even after that. Celia has been away at her daughter’s in Wales, helping to pack up for the family’s imminent move to Stratford-Upon-Avon. Tomorrow she returns. We will have catching up to do. Charlie (Mr Celia) and Michèle, are coming to the talk too, so we shall be a little social bunch. Michele and I thoroughly enjoyed Hew Locke’s talk last Wednesday. He come across as a very thoughtful, highly intelligent, perceptive man. So interesting, honest and engaging, which come through in his art. I loved his comment about statues. This was in relation to the pulling down of Colston’s statue, a statue Locke had dressed in fake gold in a photograph back in 2007. There’s a lot more to it than that, but best you read about it here. There has been much talk about removing Cecil Rhodes’ statue from Oxford. Oh no, said Locke, not before I’ve had a go at it. Maybe that is what we should do, not just add explainers but add to statues of people lauded who profited by exploiting others.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 26th January 2023, Domestic Incident

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.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 10th December 2022: Love and Friendship

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.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 5th November 2022, Bonfire Night

No, I’m not doing any fireworks tonight. I quite like the colourful displays, but I thoroughly dislike the increasingly loud fireworks. The effect on pets, domestic animals and wildlife is appalling. So tonight I shall be mainly sitting on the sofa, watching television or reading, giving reassurance to MasterB that he is safe. To do this, I shall ignore all bangs and flashes, behave in a way that I hope convinces him there is nothing to be afraid of. It seems to work pretty well. I wish I could say the same technique is effective when it comes to storms, but sadly it’s not. Storms terrify him.

This morning was definitely cooler. Like many, I have not got my heating on. Actually I haven’t needed it, the weather has been so mild, but over breakfast I thought this might be the time when I succumb. However, as the day wore on, I realised I was perfectly warm. Yes I am wearing slippers and a thick jumper (sweater to those of you across the pond) so perhaps I’ll manage a few more days, maybe weeks, before I give in. Some people are saying they are not going have the heating on at all this winter. I don’t think I am hardy enough for that, though my first energy bill may change my mind. I’ll look out the thick socks.

UK politics continue to dismay. We have a Home Secretary and assorted underlings who seem entirely devoid of imagination, compassion or empathy. Anyone seeking asylum here is regarded with extreme hostility, housed in what are effectively internment camps. Chris Philp, a man whose smooth appearance inadequately disguises a soul so callous it seems as though he’s trying to get to the number one position in the list of Most Coldhearted Living People, most of whom are members of his own party and include Jonathan Gullis who really makes you wonder about the selection process for Tory candidates, thinks asylum seekers complaining about the dreadful conditions where they are housed is a bit of a cheek. The Daily Mail, whose long and shameful record of xenophobia is well documented, had a headline this week One in Six of Us Born Abroad. No I didn’t read the piece, but I am pretty confident it was meant to outrage (a favourite Daily Mail word) his readers. Some on Twitter pointed out King Charles III’s father, Rishi Sunak’s father, Winston Churchill’s mother, the captain of the men’s England football team’s father were all born abroad.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 30th October 2022, in Flight

Up in the air and currently above the clouds, heading home after ten days in NI. In the way of these things, the time seems to have passed in a flash while the day I left home seems long ago. The weather has been kind, Uncle Bill’s birthday tea enjoyed by all but especially the man himself. The autumn colours have been beautiful, the dogs appreciative of their walks, Belfast abuzz.  

On the final walk this morning there was a short shower of very fine rain. We’d left the house in sunshine, so I was doubly grateful it wasn’t a downpour, though a piece in the Guardian yesterday about the benefits of walking in wind and rain, and yesterday was very windy, may make me revise my opinion of wet weather walks (and encourage me to upgrade my waterproofs). Then there was a rainbow, arcing above the house where Poppy Junior lives. We didn’t see her, though we heard her barking in the house on the return leg. She knew we were there.