Today marks the 75th anniversary of the atomic bomb being dropped on Hiroshima, which is a reminder that there are worse things than Covid 19. I remember the date as it was also our wire haired dachshund’s birthday. Obviously she was born much later. The fact that we continue to manufacture and stockpile nuclear weapons, and some regimes have made it clear they are happy to deploy them, is also a reminder how callous and cruel human beings can be. Much of the time animals are much better company. Not that our dachshund was angelic. Like most of her breed she was stubborn and opinionated. A big dog in a small disguise.
Yesterday I rang the vet practice to make an appointment for MasterB’s boosters and annual check up. The receptionist exclaimed that she loved his name, and then referred to him as an older animal. Older? MasterB? No one has told him. He may be in his eleventh year but he still thinks he’s a youngster, a rather large kitten. But her words made me blink and wonder how many more years I have with him. Last year the vet pronounced him to be in perfect shape, perfect health, to have a perfect coat, to be simply perfect in every way. I had to agree. Now I just want him to stay that way.
My first haircut this year. My first haircut since 8th December 2020. I love it. There are, I realise, advantages in being forced to go through the growing out stages of a haircut. At almost precisely six weeks after my December cut my hair was wild. Then it settled down, seemed to grow into a new style and I was happy with it again. The pattern repeated itself over the five months. My curls grew back and I liked having them. So today although I had a couple of inches cut off my hair it is longer than it was in December, still wavy, and in a bob with graduations and layers. I had it done at the Vidal Sassoon Academy in Buckingham Gate, a building that was formerly used by members of the Met Police where they stocked up on bacon butties when demos were on.
Lauren cut my hair. She walked across the foyer in a cardigan decorated with lemons and I watched amused as three women opposite me followed the progress of that cardigan covetously with their eyes. At that point I didn’t know Lauren was going to cut my hair.
I liked her and trusted her immediately. On the way to having my hair washed I told her about the cardigan reaction. “M&S,” she said delphically, “I got it in the sale.” It turned out she had been a wig maker, having got into that from being a costumiere, having got into that through learning how to sew because she did an art foundation course, liked drawing clothes but didn’t know how to make them. She’d spent much of lockdown on the Isle of Wight at her parents’ house going slowly bonkers having got away from New York where she’d been working a day before that would have been impossible. Now she’s escaped to London. You can follow her on instagram @lamacdesign. I am. If she sets up a salon I want to be her client.
As I don’t think Celia’s son or daughter-in-law read this page, it’s probably safe to tell the story of how we almost lost a painting yesterday. If you are here in London you’ll know that unlike today which has been wet and windy, Thursday was one of those unseasonably mild days with blue skies and plenty of sunshine. I was very happy to accompany Celia over to Bermondsey where she was picking up a painting her son had bought. We strolled along, met another neighbour pushing her baby grand daughter in a push chair. The granddaughter was dressed in a red suit, and burst into tears when I spoke to her. Thank goodness I used to teach adolescents if that’s my effect on the very young. We admired buildings, the tiling on a pub:
We wondered about the Bermondsey Medical Mission and how Lena Fox was connected to it.
We collected the painting and then set off for a snack by the river, and shared a slab of banana bread. Back through the narrow streets and some enjoyable browsing in Bermondsey Street. We lusted after glass at the London Glassblowers where there was a table of items which will be in their January sale, seconds, as are all the pieces I have acquired from the London Glassblowers, but beautiful none the less.
There was a new charity shop raising money for Save the Children; food shops; puppies on the pavement. I even went to look at Christmas trees, but they were all enormous. We found a shop selling beer and books, a winning combination. More puppies. more meandering. In a park a bench dedicated to the memory of a young man killed violently drew our attention. It is beautifully done, full of personal touches, and I hope the making of it brought some healing for his grieving family and friends.
So, Monday and a to do list. I have not had a working landline since Thursday. What, are you thinking, is this an old post? surely this is something that happened in October. Yup. TalkTalk strikes again, and again customer service has been found wanting. After acknowledging the problem, and promising to be in touch they weren’t. I sent daily messages, which were ignored. So finally and reluctantly I faced the online chat support.
Two hours later and with my stomach rumbling, an appointment for an engineer to come on Wednesday afternoon was arranged. Then an hour and a half after that an email saying the visit would be on Thursday morning, which I had already said I could not do. Another half hour online, the appointment rearranged, though I see no email confirm this so I am more than a little disbelieving. It is amazing how life sucking these exchanges are.
However, I did get ten more cards written and posted, a box of bits handed into the charity shop, a jigsaw bought for Charlie for Christmas, and some other gifts sorted. Not Celia’s. Or at least only half Celia’s. I am sure I had her Christmas present organised, but I can only find half a present for her in the cupboard, and I have no idea what the other half was. So I have been thinking, and I believe I can get a good other half. I know Celia reads this, so I am not saying more, though I should alert her to the fact that Charlie’s present is from the charity shop, and only after I had paid for it did I think to ask if it had been checked to make sure it is complete. It hasn’t. I have the receipt, so if he finds pieces are missing, could you let me know please Celia?
Back to our walk yesterday.
We set off from home just after three. Already the sun was starting to sink. it was cold but dry with no wind. We strode through the little park to Kennington Park Road then onto Vauxhall.
The river looked cold and beautiful, with pink streaks from the sky reflected in the water. This was where the Cockerpoo took a shine to Celia. Then over the bridge and left to Tate Britain.
Don’t tell me art is a dispensable extra, a frippery optional thing. Dozens of people were there. All happy, all enjoying it. It drew the crowds. Art and culture are necessities, just as love and food and warmth are. You can see people expand, relax, grow. I think of Mother, deep in her dementia, responding to poetry, holding my hand and squeezing it to the rhythm of the words, turning to me as I read to her like a flower turning its face to the sun. Man cannot live by bread alone. Nor woman.
I have more pictures, and I think this probably merits a post of its own. My favourite was the tiger, burning bright just across the river from where Blake lived.
If I had that tiger I think I would be a very happy person.
Sunday and quiet. I read the Railway Children. I have seen the film countless times, and loved the stage adaptation which I saw at Waterloo Station some years ago, but I don’t think I have ever read the book before. I enjoyed it, though the sexism was a bit much. A lot much in fact. It made me start thinking about how we are divided and ruled in so many silly ways. Pitching girls against boys, women against men, calling it the battle of the sexes; are you a cat person or a dog person? Both. More war analogies. Currently we are being encouraged by some to divide along other lines – ease lockdown soon, keep it in place; blame the Chinese, the scientists; blame is very much a tactic used in the divide and rule handbook. It seldom achieves anything other than mistrust and anger. We point fingers, squabble and fight among ourselves, while the people who run things in governments, in banking, carry on in some stratosphere most of us never see.
I think it says quite a lot about my concentration that the only book that has held my attention for longer than an hour is one written for children. This morning I came across a tweet by the Reader Organisation. Those of you who have followed this blog for years will now I am a fan. I deeply regret that it no longer holds annual conferences in London. Anyway, the organisation is tweeting a video each day of one member of staff reading a poem. Here’s the link. You are invited to recite the poem aloud yourself and give feedback. I read it aloud and felt quite emotional. Continue reading →
There was a man sitting at a table outside a closed pub writing in a notebook. He had a can of beer in front of him. It brought a whole new meaning to BYO.
My bike ride today was to try to gee myself up. Some days I seem very lethargic. The hours pass and I do very little. I was thinking a lot about my friend Vicki in Melbourne. She emailed me to say her father had died. Not of coronavirus, at least she didn’t say so, and she did say the family had been able to spend time with him before he died. It’s so hard when you lose a parent. Given that happens to everybody we are unaccountably bad at looking after others when it happens to them. In many workplaces you are allowed one day off to attend the funeral of a close relative. One day. It’s ridiculous. It’s unkind. It’s dangerous. Would you want to be operated on by a surgeon who had just been bereaved? flown by a pilot who had had one day off when her mother died? I wouldn’t. You are vulnerable when you are bereaved, fragile. It’s like an altered state.
So fresh air on a noticeably cooler day than we have for some time sounded like what I needed. My goal was Westminster. I reckoned it would be quiet, which was what I wanted. The ride to St Thomas’ was uneventful, though one speeding driver of a 4×4 on a narrow road might have ended my existence had I not heard her coming and pulled over. Her shouted “sorry’ out of the window as she sped on did little to appease. I wonder if she observes social distancing. Probably not.
Opposite the hospital and right where I parked my bike was this sign.
I realise I did not include another photo yesterday from outside Guy’s Hospital.
Free to key workers
The windows of the school opposite the hospital were covered with children’s drawings, all of them to thank the NHS.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
This outpouring of thanks is wonderful, and I should love to see it translated into greater investment in the NHS, better pay for NHS workers. But I fear that when we are over coronavirus it will be the rich who remain rich and the poor who become poorer. The rich are good at lobbying, and using influence to get what they want. That Philip Green and Richard Branson, neither of whom are UK taxpayers, expect the rest to bail them out while they keep their billions, says it all. Amazon must be making a fortune from coronavirus, all those deliveries. Does it contribute millions to the UK treasury? No. Tesco accepted a government hand out to pay its workers and then paid out more to its shareholders.
Some of my neighbours are saying that when this is over we shall all have learned what really matters and the world will change. I’d love them to be right, but I can’t see it. As China gets over the virus it’s a return to business as usual and the clean air people have enjoyed is already polluted.
I walked to Westminster Bridge and took another picture.
I ❤️ NHS
It was still very quiet, hardly any traffic other than buses and some cyclists. One or two people on foot. I could see hospital staff enjoying their breaks by the fountain where the geese swam. I walked onto the bridge. I was about halfway across when I saw around ten people coming towards me. I was surprised. They filed by. Then a group of cyclists who looked very much as though they were out together. I was more surprised.
But that was nothing. When I reached the far side of the bridge by the Palace of Westminster which I had expected to be deserted there were families and couples evidently doing a bit of serious sightseeing. I revised my plans and returned to my bike. I rode through Archbishop’s Park. I wish these signs were everywhere.
Up betimes, and the plants watered before the day warmed up. According to Celia this si the end of pur sunny spell, and having reached 26C the temperature is due to drop to 12C. Presumably that means there will be fewer people in the parks. After my experience yesterday I decided to return to the City for my constitutional today. I rode my bike as far as Guy’s Hospital, then left it to walk over London Bridge and up to Leadenhall Market. You never see Leadenhall Market like this. It’s busy during the week with City workers, busy at the weekend with visitors.
Equally empty Leadenhall
This shop window felt quite poignant. They must had had the Easter display up weeks ago.
All Hallows Barking by the Tower looked very fine. It’s a church that survived the Great Fire, and Pepys knew it. The year before the Great Fire there was the Great Plague. People have drawn parallels between then and our current situation. We owe much of our understanding of those events to Pepys and his fellow diarist Evelyn. If WordPress is still going in for hundred years time, maybe scholars will be picking over this and other online diaries.
All Hallows Barking by the Tower
The Tower itself was quiet.
Obviously it’s closed to visitors. When Celia and I ventured into the City two weeks ago there was hardly anyone about. There were more today, mainly cyclists, perhaps like myself opting to take their exercise somewhere other than a crowded park. Strangely I met one of my regular clients there. We chatted and I told her about my podcasts. I hope she’s going to listen. I was surprised to see two Yeoman Warders in their work uniforms by the closed gate. I had a chat with one of them. It turns out he’d love to visit the Titanic Quarter in Belfast. Do it, I advised, it’s excellent.
I think today’s post should be about counting blessings. I’ve witnessed a couple of things today which suggest some people are not coping with the situation we are in at all well, are resentful and angry, wanting to blame someone, anyone. It doesn’t help. It won’t make the pandemic come to an end faster, but it may speed your end if you give way to these feelings. I am not saying people don’t have a right to feel the way they do, I am saying they need to find a way of managing this feelings which doesn’t involve dumping on someone else. We are, as David Cameron said once, in it together.
One of my bad habits is keeping magazines and supplements I have not had time to read in the misguided hope I shall one day read them. I seldom do. However the other week I caught up on an a short interview with Adam Kay about his reading habits. You can read the whole thing here. The book that changed his mind? His answer: I thought my opinion of David Cameron was immovable – that he was a terrible prime minister. His autobiography For the Record made me appraise him anew. I can now add “grasping, desperate shell of a human who exists in a moral vacuum”.
That’s pretty savage, but I tend to agree. I was once forced to shake Cameron’s hand. I felt sullied by the experience. Not that our current prime minister is any better. But for tonight, I hope he is comfortable and cared for, having just been transferred to ICU due to the worsening of his symptoms. Much as I loathe Johnson, I wouldn’t wish coronavirus on anyone, so I hope he recovers well and quickly. I just wish he weren’t prime minister. I have to remind myself there are others who would be even worse in the post.
So blessings I can reel off pretty quickly and in no particular order would include:
MasterB, without whom this whole lockdown business would be immeasurably harder. I had a night of broken sleep last night. I woke at four in the morning worrying about money. It was listening to MasterB’s gentle breathing that got me back to sleep.
It’s been a grey day. Celia tells me it was sunny mid morning but I must have missed that. It felt like one of those days that doesn’t ever get going. Or maybe that was just me. I slept badly last night, mainly I think due to my neighbour TW who is being particularly tiresome. In itself, the isn’t unfortunately unusual, but it is an added stress I could do without. Probably though not as bad as the stress of my neighbour Pam is enduring. Her daughter is a nurse. Every time the daughter goes to work Pam worries about her life.
I read this morning that the low wage increase might have to wait. I should have felt this was a bit more reasonable had it been accompanied by a message saying those in high earning tax brackets should expect to be paying substantially more. It wasn’t. Unbelievable as it seems, there are people (I don’t mean Farage, that man is so far beyond the pale that were he not to say something bigoted and ignorant it would be news) busy trying to blame the NHS for the lack of PPE. Excuse me? Is this just spin or does Laura Kuenssberg not read the news? Jeremy Hunt turned down requests to stockpile equipment for a pandemic when he was Minister for Health. Now his is one of the loudest voices saying how dreadful it is the NHS lacks the equipment it needs. It is Jeremy. It is. Feel any shame? Thought not.
I am equally shocked, or stunned might be a better word, to read that Johnson has a 72% approval rating for his handling of the crisis. Did they only poll Express, Mail and Sun readers? The bit that made me have to lie down under a damp tea towel How? why?was that Trump has a 90% approval rating among Republican voters. WTF? We really are doomed.
Fortunately this stuff was balanced by a video of nuns miming to We Will Rock You The one playing air guitar gets my vote. I don’t watch any of the Britain’s Got talent ilk of programmes but if I heard these nuns were going to be on I’d be tuning in and voting. Actually I’d probably vote for them to be the government.
The number of silly and funny videos being shared at the moment is astronomical. Continue reading →
My little mum was born a hundred years ago today in Larne Co Antrim. None of her siblings was born there, but my grandfather, not the most pleasant or successful person in our family’s history, had lost his farm and was working as a carter, probably in the docks. Mother didn’t like the fact she was born in Larne. It doesn’t have a great reputation. It does have the most hideous roundabout ornament I have ever seen, though it’s fairly new, and Mother never saw it.
The street she was born in has gone. Cousin and I visited a few years ago. In a shop, we found a painting of a hare that Cousin fell in love with. If you ever visit her home you’ll see a print of it on the wall.
I left my details with someone at the museum who told me that the person I needed to speak to to see if there were records of our family time in Larne extant was Marion. Unfortunately Marion was on holiday. More unfortunately Marion has never got in touch with me.
So Mother’s early circumstances remain unclear, though they were obviously pretty tough. I know she was baptised at home because she was sickly and thought unlikely to survive. But survive she did.
There are no pictures of her as a child. I think this one is the earliest one I have of her. She looks like a young teenager. She probably was.