I think the hardest thing about my convalescence is that I can’t put my boots on and head into the autumn countryside for a good walk. The weather is perfect for walking. The leaves are changing colour. The woods will have that smell particular to this time of year. The light starts to fade earlier and earlier, soon walks will have to be planned so we can finish in daylight. A pub to warm chilled fingers and toes will be, if not a necessity, a welcome luxury. Fortunately I have lots of photographs of walks taken, and I can enjoy those, though obviously they are no substitute for the real thing. They whet my appetite though, and I look forward to walks where my corrected foot does not hurt by the end of the day.
Which sounds very dramatic, but it’s under local anaesthetic, and although I expect to be in some pain for the first few days, which I am not looking forward to at all, the major inconvenience is that I am going to be forcibly inactive and horribly dependent. The silver lining, apart from having, I hope, a pain free foot at the end of all this, is the amazing response of friends and neighbours who are following a rota drawn up by Celia, committed to giving me meals three times a day, bearing me company, doing my washing, cleaning MasterB’s litter tray, feeding him, doing my shopping, and all the myriad things that make up daily life. Except for the cleaning. I have not located a cleaner who is willing to come here on a temporary basis to keep the cat fur and dust at bay. Asthmatics beware.
I’ve been self-isolating since Saturday. I have swept, dusted, mopped, vacuumed. Bed linen has been changed. Washing has been done, dried, ironed, folded and put away. I have defrosted the freezer and cleaned the fridge. I have cooked meals, now stored in the freezer, bought cans of baked beans and other things it will be easy for my carers to prepare. Not all of them. Some are intending to cook for me. I hope some are going to eat with me. Reinhild is up for a board game or two. Celia is planning a poetry evening. She was planning musical evening with Octavia on flute and B on ‘cello, but we thought the neighbours might complain. Bake Off starts tomorrow and a new series of Taskmaster, which began last week, got off to a promising start.
It’s already quite late, so I am not writing anything now. These pictures are from our walk last night. There’s the not so Little Cottage in the Woods, the horses, the light through the trees, the empty road. I hope they give you some idea of how magical it was.
I have already got the Master B Ginger Ninja 2023 calendars printed, and some are on their way to various destinations around the globe. They are going quickly, but you have still have a chance of getting one.
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.
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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.
Setting out into the lowering sun
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.
Pre sunset Thames at 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.
Tate Britain Divali
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.
Tate Britain Divali front entrance
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.
Grr! I love the tiger
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.
Thank-you
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.
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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.
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