The Coronavirus Diaries, 30th April 2023, Bridlington

When I met up with friends Humph and Jane for breakfast yesterday morning at the Wish Cat Café it turned out we had all seen the land train in which would take us to the party venue and thought it would be a good way to travel. So it proved. We trundled along the esplanade, out towards and along the cliffs to Sewerby. Children waved to us. Whoever had the idea of introducing this service to Bridlington deserves recognition.

The party was lovely. Why I didn’t take a photo of the cake I have no idea. It was wonderful, and as well as featuring a photo of Ray on the top, included a model of her beloved piano and some paintbrushes and a palette on a lower tier.

There were speeches, music, the fizz flowed. The room buzzed with conversation. No one in my hearing mentioned the coronation. I realise I am becoming a tad obsessed by the disconnect between the gushing pieces in some sections of the press and my own experience and feelings. Today I read how we are being invited to stand (in front of televisions, in parks, wherever) and swear an oath of allegiance to the king during the ceremony. I seriously thought I was reading a satirical piece at first, but alas not. Bonkers does not really cover it.

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The Coronavirus Diaries, 12th February 2023, Back in Belfast

So far, so much walking. My step count is relaxed today, just one walk with Buttons, the house Westie, and a very sweet dog, currently hogging the rug in front of the fire. I didn’t expect to have her company this evening, or indeed any company at all, as the family (my cousin Kathryn, her husband, their two boys) and Buttons were setting off for a few nights at the north coast. They were here when I left with Cousin and Cousin’s husband, Kathryn’s parents, to visit Uncle Bill. They were absent when I came home.

I had just sent a very long email to someone and was about to relocate to the living room when there was a sound at the door. Kathryn’s face peered through the glass panel. Surprise! As I had turned the key in the door they were locked out. The coast was grey, the house there cold, so they turned around and came back. Just time for me to quickly ring round and cancel the party. No I am joking. So Jonny and the boys have gone to the cinema, Kathryn is in front of a computer finishing off some work, and I am sprawled in comfort on the green sofa.

Uncle Bill was well, and in better spirits than we had anticipated. He has a ground floor room. My cousin Alec, his son, has attached a bird feeder to the window, and there is a constant stream of avian visitors: a robin, various tits, siskins, chaffinches. Another bird feeder is pushed into the ground outside, and then there is a screen of shrubs. It is very bird friendly. A blackbird strutted across the grass. A little mouse, golden with a dark stripe down its back, has a nest beneath the feeder and makes the most of all the seeds the birds drop. We were entranced.

We stayed a while, promised to visit again soon. Or not so soon as Cousin is away to Australia for a month next week, and I shall probably not be back in NI until August. I’ll phone before then though. I am pleased I shall now be able to imagine the room he is in.

Yesterday I spent most of the day in the city. Lunch time found me close to Botanic Avenue so it seemed natural to eat at Falafel. Not as much green salad before, but still very good. There were three women sitting at a table close by. One had an English accent. She said something about plans to live in Belfast for two years. ‘Oh you blow ins,’ sighed one of the others, laughing, ‘you blow in and then off you go.’

The Coronavirus Diaries, 6th January 2023, Socks Ain’t What They Used to Be

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.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 29th October 2022

Uncle Bill had a good birthday do. We were a smallish group. It looked for a while as though it might be smaller as we could not find the rear entrance to Tom and Meta’s house where we had agreed to meet them. It made us late, and Michele, who began to worry, sent me a message to check we had the day right.

Tom has had a couple of strokes, and is not so steady on his feet, but there’s nothing wrong with his memory or his story relating skills. Uncle Bill was soon smiling and chuckling as some of the exploits of his cousins were recounted. Our generation seems a sober, unadventurous lot in comparison.

I gave him a Master Bo’sun calendar as I always do, and a Mr Horace Papers card about Stormont. I thought it would entertain him, but for a few short moments I had misgivings as he wore a very serious expression as he studied it. Then his face broke into a wide smile and he started to laugh. Phew.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 22nd October 2022: in Belfast

Well, things have been moving since I last posted. Whether they are going to improve soon looks very doubtful. I am beginning to think there’s an effective bunch of Fifth Columnists in the Tory party, intent on fomenting revolution in the country sine. That seems the most likely outcome of the current direction of travel as people reach the ends of their collective tether and storm the capital. I’d say we are only a few matchsticks away from major civil unrest in parts of the country. This is the country as a whole not the country some politicians talk about which seems to be made up of a tiny number of their friends. Anyway, without going into all, I would just say that I think Graham Norton got it completely right last night at the start of his programme.

I met Fiona today. She was wearing a very lovely cherry red coat. We caught up with important and less important matters over a late lunch at Dera, a Lebanese café close to Craft NI where I had already left a copy of MasterB’s calendar for Sue Cathcart, whose alter ego Mr Horace Papers has so entranced me. She has some work in their temporary exhibition space along with other artists working with paper. Sue had left two 2022 Mr Papers calendars for us. Fiona is looking forward to “I’ve found my marbles” day next month. Aren’t we all.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 19th October 2022: AnotherBullet Point Post

So, another bullet post. Where to begin? Well, the obvious place I think. The increasingly bizarre and frightening state of British politics.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 21st September 2022: the Rest of the Walk in Pictures

To continue. From Feering we walked on. The directions we had printed off were somewhat scant, and we quickly realised that it would have been helpful had distances been mentioned. There was also an instruction that told us to do something just before reaching somewhere. As the notes said, this is a walk popular with local walking groups, and it seemed local knowledge was required too.

As usual Celia was in charge of the notes while my job was to take photographs. There were several moments where we were not sure if we were in the right place, so to find the Plank Bridge and cross it was a relief. Fortunately the terrain was mainly easy and pleasant. The sun came and went. Likewise a stiff breeze. At one point it looked like it might rain. We were fairly sure we had missed a turning to Skye Green only to find a rather overgrown sign announcing it just after this finger post.

Across to cloud

Celia crosses the plank bridge

A sign to Coggeshall

We never did find Lees farm, but emerged in more or less the right place opposite a thatched house. It had a bench in the garden where we were tempted to eat our packed lunches, but the plastic flowers put us off, though I liked the thatcher’s sign of ducks and ducklings on the roof. Soon we were walking into Coggeshall town and getting our first sights of solid, attractive houses.

Thatched house

Duck family

Solidly attractive

I think I may have mentioned it already, but Coggeshall has, we learned, some three hundred listed buildings. We must have walked by most of them as we eventually found our way to the centre of town after the longest 0.7km ever recorded. There were very few indications of distance in the instructions and it would have been helpful if this one had been accurate. Once again we assumed we had missed our turning, or that it had been built over. But no, suddenly there was the Recreation Ground and a walled passage on the other side we walked through to the town centre.

The Coronavirus Diaries 10th September 2022, Coverage Fatigue

When Graham made a comment on my last post about the sycophantic remarks we could expect over the next days I thought it was a little harsh. Now I can’t bear to turn on the television or listen to the radio. Even The Guardian is stuffed with royal stories. At least there I can choose what to read.

When I was on the Mall yesterday I saw people, taking selfies with the Palace as a backdrop. Many people were clearly there to witness history, to read the notice on the gates, to marvel at the crowds. Yet television commentary described all of them as mourners. Am I mourning the Queen? I don’t know. I am still shocked at her death. It seemed so sudden. We saw her on our screens on Tuesday, physically frail, but still alert, no apparent cause to think that in forty eight hours she’d be dead. What happened? Was it just a simple case of old age like my cousin Alec’s dog who climbed into the car for a five minute drive to the place where he was going to have a walk, only to be found dead on arrival, eyes closed, curled up as though in sleep? That suddenness is what I am struggling with most. That and adjusting to understanding that when someone talks about the Queen today, they are talking about Camilla, not her mother-in-law.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 8th September 2022; The Queen is Dead

A cousin sent me a truly terrible poem someone had rushed out when the news of ERII’s death broke. I protested. She said I was harsh. I said no, I like poetry and if you want to honour Her Maj poetically cut out the mawkish, the glib, the trite, the Queen was none of those things. Don’t worry, I shan’t inflict it on you though I imagine if you are curious you could find it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Hopefully Simon Armitage will come up with something more thought provoking.

I am no fan of monarchy, and I know despite all the dithyrambs on tonight’s news the Queen had her faults. She interfered with legislation which might affect her finances; she only started paying tax very late in her reign; but like many in this country I had a reluctant admiration for her, and I loved her performances in the 2012 Olympics opening ceremony, and her appearance with Paddington earlier this year in her Platinum Jubilee celebrations.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 2nd September 2022 Hidden Bullet Points

Celia and I went to the Small is Beautiful exhibition today in South Ken. The ads for it looked good, but it was even better than we’d hoped, housed in a space which seemed to unfold as we made our way round. An exhibition can be made or spoiled by how it is laid out. This one felt like a journey of discovery and exploration. Engaging, stimulating, exciting and in the true sense of the word, wonderful.

It closes on Sunday so you haven’t got much time to see it in London, but then it’s off to New York. Might be a good excuse for a hop across the pond. There were people of all ages. Young children were both mesmerised and audibly thrilled by the whole thing. We went in the morning. We were actually the first people through the door and we spent nearly two hours there. Time flew by. Some of the pieces amused, some provoked, amazed the skill of all the artists amazed. My favourites were Simon Laveuve whose pieces I loved, and Slinkachu whose pieces I recognised, though I don’t recall from where. Anyway, check out the links.

A couple of days ago I had acupuncture for my shoulder and neck pain. I went back to Luke who I last saw four years ago. It has only just dawned me that this is now chronic pain as I have had it for months. The session has definitely helped, and I feel more positive that this is not something I am going to have to live with for ever. I go back fr more needles in ten days. Watch this space.

I’ve always been a reader, but at the moment I am never happier then when I have my nose in a book. A trip to the Barbican library netted booty: four novels to enjoy. The Barbican library is the best lending library I know. Unlike so many, it hasn’t been disemboweled and turned into a café with a few books around and a lot of computers. I think there are even still librarians working there, as opposed to library assistants. In the various lockdowns while our local libraries closed, the Barbican did all it could to make sure us borrowers could keep borrowing. We reserved our books online, then collected them from the library’s back door. It worked perfectly and gave our walks to the City real purpose.