Wednesday 29th April 2020

Wednesday.

The 70th day of March.

Or something. Not sure how many days we have now been locked down, but the time has gone pretty quickly and painlessly, except for the lack of orchiding, obviously.

I am, we are in good spirits, trying out new recipes, walking when we can, getting fit, sleeping well and the garden has never looked better.

But, little did I know, that dark clouds were gathering and our idyll would be shattered just before lunch.

Or not.

We shall see.

I have to be honest, that we did overeat a tad the night before. I made warmed up roast lamb and did roast potatoes, steamed veg and Yorkshire puddings. And wine. And gravy. It was just too lovely. Too lovely to leave any. So we ate too much, and so when we went to bed it did lay heavy. And I did have indigestion, and the meat sweats, which meant by the end of the night I felt like I had not slept, and felt like crap.

Jools said I looked like I had two black eyes. Nice.

So, at least it was a rest day from phys, I couldn't have done it anyway. But on the plus side, I wasn't hungry.

And yet, somehow, I failed to use the spare time I had in a useful way. But I did put the seedlings out, water them, fill up the bird feeders, wash up, and have the kettle boiled to make Jools her cuppa when she came back from her walk.

More productive than I thought.

And work.

Outside it was a fine, sunny became warm too. I wish I was outside.

Anyway. Meetings. Phone calls. Reviewing documents, planning audits. All in the general life of an auditor, quality expert and international playboy.

At eleven, I joined in an online coffee morning with some ex-RAF mates, when the phone rang.

It was Jen, nearly in tears. She had a fever, ached and felt like shit. She had to have a COVID test but could not get the site to work, could I go round to help?

Well, I said I would, and did go, but this is serious. If Jen had the virus, there was a chance I would get it too, but I could not leave her on her own, could I?

So, I drop everything, drive to Whitfield, where Jon is making lunch for her Mother, who is nearly 101 years old now. And Jen looked like death warmed up.

She wiped her phone with a disinfectant wipe, and a pen and the piece of paper. She told me everything, said he had received this code she had to enter to book a test.

Indeed, there was a 16 digit code, a mixture of letters and numbers to enter on a website. It took four attempts on her mobile to get it done before the cite was accepted. Then there was the entering of a post code. The site did not like the format of Jen's postcode, but gave no hint of what format it might like.

Four attempts at that, then the car registration, her name and date of birth, select the location for the test, luckily in Dover, and a time. She had a test for an hour's time.

Jen looks better already at the news, says I can go home now as its under control. She gives me another wipe, I can't hug her, of course. We were never closer than 2m, and for the most part she was in the kitchen and me in the dining room. Such is modern life now.

I go home, as her appointment was for half an hour. As it turned out, the queue to get to the shop car park down by the harbour went the length of the promenade, and took three hours to get tested, all that time her Mother was alone, and Jen was alone in the car as no one could take her.

By evening when she called, she was feeling better. Though we will have to wait 48 hours to see if she is positive or not.

Meanwhile, I was coming down with a migraine.

Arriving back, had lunch, and looking at my mails, I could see dots in my vision making reading very hard. I knew that if I pressed on, I would get a full blown attack, so I set my out of office message, packed up and went to bed.

Where I was joined by Scully. I did not sleep, at least not much, but it was fine just laying in the semi-darkness, listening to Scully gently snore and purr.

I get up at half four, get dressed and feed Scully who said she was wasting away.

Dinner was the new fallback; fishcakes, curried rice and corn. Which was very nice once done. We were careful not to eat too much.

The evening stretched out before us for like two hours until we could go to bed at nine.

lay in bed, once again, just after nine an I see that outside it wasn't quite dark.

So much rock and roll.

Chaos avoided

In 2011 the Coalition Government presented and Parliament passed the Fixed Term Parliament Act (FTPA), in order to give politics some stability and take away from the Prime Minister the ability to dissolve Parliament at his whim.

Since then no Parliament has lasted the full 5 years, obviously.

In another universe, the 5 year Parliament of David Cameron's 2 election party would be coming to and end, thus avoiding the "chaos" of an Ed Milliband Labour Government.

Phew, imagine what a shot state the country would be in now?

So, elections in 2015. Referendum in 2016. Another election in 2017. And another in 2019. Three Prime Ministers. Sectors collapsing and all high volume car manufacture to close.

It is worth noting also that Cameron was elected on a platform for the UK to be at the centre of the EU's single market.

That David Cameron and even Theresa May seem skilled politicians and presided over times of stability and wealth make them seem like some kind of Golden Age.

Instead we find ourselves out of the EU, heading towards a no deal end to the transition period, which hardly anyone is noticing, but will cripple what is left of the country once we exit these days days of the COVID virus. COVID is someone who would murder your wife and family, Brexit will slash the tyres of your car at their funeral.

The lies of how bad immigration is for the country has been proved the lies they always were by 2020, with those brave people keeping the NHS going and picking our crops from the fields. And yet the madness of Brexit continues. The lies continues. And who should be surprised by the liar-in-chief at Prime Minister? Not I.

These are dark days, but there will be more to come. The mis-handling of this crisis comes are the shambolic Brexit negotiations, of which Johnson was a Cabinet Minister for most of. His "deal" that got Brexit done breaks the UK internal market, and no one yet knows how it will work. Indications are that Johnson intends to break that international treaty.

We should be very worried indeed. No one will trust this country for a very long time.

Failure on a monumental scale

The UK has 21% of COVID-19 deaths.

That a country with 0.8% of the population can have so many deaths shows that some, something has seriously gone wrong.

Questions are being asked by the press and media. Not by them all, but by some. Like this week, BBC's Panorama program did an expose on how bad the PPE situation is for NHS and care home staff. It was shocking, it is on the i player and I think you should watch.

That the Government and Conservative politicians think is was, and is OK to send doctors, nurses, critical staff out to work for, in some cases, minimum wage, and risk their lives. And to think that being photographed standing on their doorsteps at eight on a Thursday night, or minting some medals or a Red Arrows fly by will make things better.

One nurse said, we don't want to be heroes, we just want to be able to do our job safely. And the Conservative Press attacks people who too part as they are Labour activists, as if there is just a political agenda, not over 100 doctors and nurses who are lying either in mass graves or still in a morgue. Their attitude is fucking sick, as they are saying, you voted Labour, you cannot be trusted to tell the truth.

Wankers.

And the reason for questioning how the country has ended up with nearly 50,000 dead by the end of April is important, as the people who got us to this point are now making the decisions on what to do next. I don't know about you, but I have ZERO confidence on them getting the next stage right, seeing they got the implementation so wrong.

The UK had months of notice from the WHO, and years to prepare after the Operation Cygnus in 2016. This has been a failure of monumental proportions, and one which the inquiry, which will happen, and will take the best part of a decade. But if we want to stop more deaths, the people who got us here have to explain how they got it so wrong and how we can be sure they won't fuck up again going forward.

But instead, this morning the papers are full of Johnson and his girlfriend announcing they have a son, pictures of a smiling Johnson climbing the Downing Street staircase like there is nothing in the world to worry about.

It is beyond shameful.

And yesterday, COVID-19 came close to Jools and myself, more on that in my later post.

Tuesday 28th April 2020

Tuesday.

And lo, the rain did fall, in stair-rods.

I laid in bed, when it was still dark and could hear the rain falling. It would do the garden good, I thought. Nothing quite like dozing to the sound of rain falling.

I doze some more, I hear a noise, and when Jools gets up she informs me of the dead field mouse laying in the doorway to the bedroom. I'll bring the poor thing down, I say.

So, back to the grindstone.

Jools is making coffee, so I had better get up, I grab the stiff mouse, tail longer than the mouse, and take it downstairs. The cats think its desert.

No desert for breakfast my kitties.

The rain falls hard outside, it is so overcast I never turn the table light off. Jools says she is going for a walk anyway, so that means I will have to do my session on the cross trainer too. Didn't feel like it, but I must not let this slip. It has been nearly five months now on this health kick.

I do my twenty minutes, and am down setting up the office and making breakfast when Jools comes back, soaked. But the rain will get harder through the morning.

Looks like I would be going nowhere.

So, there is work.

Always work.

Meetings, calls, and reviewing documents.

The morning passes very slowly.

Lunch comes and goes. The rain continues to fall. I stand at the back door and watch as a brave robin comes up the steps to the top patio, looking for worms and bugs. So, I take snaps.

Into the afternoon and I press on with work, whatever I did, it took all day.

I do another session on the cross trainer at four, though felt like crap. But did it anyway. Then it was time to start dinner: warmed through roast lamb, roast ptoatoes, steamed veg and Yorkshire puddings. It was quite the plateful.

And there was pink fizz, obvs.

We eat well, and are stuffed.

Which explains why I slept so poorly, too full after eating three hours before bed time. But more of that tomorrow.

It was a good day.

Through Brexit spectacles

Its funny, but for the last couple of years, no amount of Economic damage was too much to stop Brexit.

It must be delivered, no matter what the cost.

End of.

So it is "interesting" to hear many of the same voices now demanding the end to the lockdown for the sake of the economy. Because lives need to be sacrificed for profit. Apparently.

So, let me get this straight, people should be prepared to risk their life on a daily basis by being jammed into commuter trains, to go and do low paid jobs, that could kill them, thus saving some companies, so that in seven months time the economy can be wrecked by a no deal Brexit because Brexiteers don't like the word "Europe" and Dogma matters more than lives: is that where we're at?

That seems to be the sum of it.

Monday 27th April 2020

A year has gone by since Norwich were promoted to the Premier League.

Events this year might mean that Norwich will be the longest serving Football League champions of all time. That is the least of our worries, of course.

But something to think about.

Meanwhile, back in 2020.

It was Monday. Back to work.

And back on the cross trainer. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but I keep thinking of the image I saw of my reflection in the hotel in Holywell, and am determined to get fit, lose weight and feel better.

I do feel better, and it develops a routine, meaning we are tired by nine in the evening, so we go to bed. Such things help to a positive attitude.

At least that's what we tell ourselves. Jools leaves for her morning walk, and I go upstairs to do another twenty minutes or so, all whilst listening to the radio.

I am done by ten to seven, time to make breakfast and set up the office ready for work. Inbetween, Jools comes back, gathers her stuff and is gone. Leaving me and the cats.

And I am alone again.

No news in the meeting, just that we are all well and still laughing, mainly because in Denmark, shops and hairdressers are opening again. But not here.

The day was not filled with stuff, other than meetings: three hours in the morning and 90 minutes in the afternoon. By the time the afternoon one had finished, my ears were sweating and aching.

Last thing I felt like doing was phys, but you know, because, I do go up and get another 20 minutes done. This is now, by far, the longest health kick we have done. We deserve a medal.

Outside, it was another glorious day, but sitting at the table for hours on end meant I got cold, and was soon feeling really quite ill. I break away from the meeting to put a coat on, it barely helped. But the phys and hot shower did improve things.

I go to sit in the back garden for a bit, but time was ticking on and would soon be time to start dinner. And even though not much happened through the day, I can't remember what we had. Currently racking my braincell.Oh year, pizza with added slice chorizo.

And beer.

And another beer.

Followed by ice cream and coffee.

Because, Monday.

And that was that. A quiet evening listening to radio, then bed at nine.

As usual.

We care a lot

After Conservative driven decade of austerity that, by their own figures cost 120,000 people their lives, and failed to deliver austerity's main reason, reducing national debt, should be be surpised that their reaction to COVID-19 had delivered so much death an misery?

What is odd is that Johnson saying in his first major speech back at Number 10 that the rest of the world looks at the UK enviously at our success in tackling the virus. Not sure who is going to break it to him that the rest of the world, for the most part, is horrified. But the media just report it without criticism, apparently happy with this twisting of facts to fit a liar's narrative.

This morning, the ONS released its mortaility figures up to the end of last week for care homes, and what we can say, is that in the week ending 17th April, some 4,000 more people died in care homes than happened the same week a year ago. Needless to say, these figures with multiply the daily figures the Government announces at three in the afternoon each day. Since the start of the outbreak there have been 27,015 excess deaths than for the same period last year. These include deaths not of COVID-19, but all deaths, many of which will have happened as ICU beds are unavailable, and that it seems to have been Government policy to release infected patients into the care system rather than have them stay at the hospital they were in or go to a Nightingale.

All of this means that the Government daily figures can easily be doubled to show how many people are dying, and that doubling doesn't seem to include those who died at home.

If this is a success, I'd hate to see failure.

There is a view that journalists reporting the facts and revealing the failings of this Government are being unpatriotic at a moment of crisis. This is clearly tosh, as Governments should always be held to account, especially when the virus cannot read newspapers, watch TV or access the internet. There have been fundamental failings in the preparation for a pandemic, the ignoring of lessons from the Operation Cygnus in 2016, and repeated ignoring of warnings from China, Spain and the WHO who had actually been dealing with the virus and wanted to ensure the UK among other countries, did not make the same mistakes. Instead it made who new ones.

It is likely that the reluctance of Johnson to implement a lockdown in a timely manner will have ensured 90% of people died un-necessarily, and not having enough PPE and have it at the right locations, not having sufficient testing for frontline workers and in the right place will have meant that many of those died as a result of Government failings too.

UK manufacturers of PPE had stock, but NHS Trust's procurement procedures were so lengthy that by the time purchases were approved the manufacturers had sold and shipped supplies.

But yes, lets all happy clap along. Tractor production is up and Dear Leader is out of hospital. Hoo-fucking-ray.

The United Kingdom's #Covid19 death toll is already above 45,000, according to @FT analysis. That's 21 per cent of coronavirus deaths globally, even though the UK population is just 0.8 per cent of the world population.

Sunday 26th April 2020

Norwich are still in the FA Cup and have not been relegated yet.

We would have taken that at the start of the season!

In other news, I have lost some weight. Not a lot, but some. T shirts that were tight are no longer. So, it gives me encouragement to carry on, even though some days my heart isn't in it.

So, onwards and upwards, and carry on pumping the lard.

And so, to Sunday, and what to do? The original plan was to repeat the previous week's walk from the NT place back home, but that is more of the same. So, what to do different?

Well, I wanted to see another species of orchid, and on my radar was the Green Wing. My friend, Mark, told me of a new colony near to Whitstable, but that would be over half an hour's drive to see them. And as locals had been rightly complaining about the number of visitors during what is supposed to be a lockdown, I thought something else would be needed.

The nearest colony to us is on the golf course next to the Sandwich Bay Estate, but surely that would be out of bounds to traffic/ But then I remembered there is a public right of way along the beach. So, why not drive the ten minutes into Deal, park the car at the north end and walk to the estate along the beach?

Why not indeed.

What time to leave the house? After seven.

So, a plan. The plan.

We get up, have coffee but no breakfast. Put our boots on and load the Audi, and I drive us to Deal, past the castle, the car park and along the sea fron the the remains of old Sandown Castle.

We park on the main road, I gather my cameras, and despite being just seven degrees, I wear no coat, as I hope it will warm up later.

Which it does.

The Kent coast has changed over the centuries, Sandwich used to be a sheltered port on the Wantsum Channel, which separated the mainland of Kent from the Isle of Sheppy. A huge storm in 1287 changed the coastline, and ports silted up, former islands became joined, and the Stour now ran next to the town to where it ran into the sea in Pegwell Bay.

Now, north from Deal there is a wide stone and earthen bank protecting the country beyond from the sea. This wide flat topped bank made for easy walking, for which my back was grateful. And of course the easy going and good conditions meant I could take my time and look for any interesting plants and insects that might catch my eye.

I see much to like and snap, photos included here:

Field Mouse Ear.

Beach Daisy.

Rosy Garlic.

Common Ramping-fumitory.

Tree Mallow.

By then we had reached the Sandwich Bay Estate, which is, for some reason, a private estate, which costs the casual visitor (in a car) seven quid to visit. On the positive side it does mean tha the rare plants that grow there are well protected, but then the land is, and here I was going to say owned by some chinless minor member of the aristocracy, but it seems one of those sold it to an Australian millionaire at the end of the war, but the estate is now owned by a provate company on behalf of the residents.

Tool fees help in the maintenance of the estate, which is pretty something I guess. So, I have learned something, and will not be so unwilling to pay the toll in the future.

Anyway, past the Yacht Club, the past the huge houses that make up the estate, and then to the Prince's Golf Course, where usually botany is a dangerous activity, having to dodge the golf balls and irate golfers as we get in their way. What this year, everyone is locked down and gold is forbidden. I could wander hither and thither.

As much as I wanted.

Which was nice.

There is a footpath across the fairway that runs beside the coast road, and just a few yards in is the colony of Green Winged Orchids. Because of the irate golfers I usually go to Marden to get my GWO fix for the last few years, so returning here it is amazing how stunted these coast orchids are. At first you see what appears to be a purple smear on the grass, then the tiny spikes make themselves clear.

Most were just purple, but one or two were a paler pink in colour.

I take a few shots, I have snapped loads of them over the years, but what I really wanted to snap was a pure white var. alba, I thought there were none, then, just as I was walking to the gate to start the long walk home, I spot a single small white orchid.

Bingo!

And so to walk back to the car. At least we had a tail wind.

We could see the start of deal in the mist in the distance, it seemed miles away. But one foot after another, we walk back, I see more and more plats, snapping them as we went.

And, as we pass more and more walkers, most with dogs, we were a few hundred yards from Sandown Castle and nearly back at the car.

Yay.

We climb in the car, drive through the housing estate to double back to the seafront road, past the pier and to home, with the roads still pretty quiet.

Once home I cook bacon sarnies and make huge brews for a belated breakfast, it was eleven, so brunch.

It was a glorious morning, clearly the warmest day of the year, and for me, dressed in black, too hot to sit outside for too long.

I make asparagus cooked in butter with fresh buttered bread. The bread was fresh when we bought it two days previously.

That's my excuse.

It was a warm, nearly hot afternoon. Jools sat in the garden, and I sat in the cool of the house, fighting off the snoozing as I had supped a Leffe Blond with lunch.

And so to the evening, and dinner was, for the first time this year, pan-fried breaded aubergine. Two medium aubergines make enough yummy golden food for dinner and have enough for both our lunches on Monday.

And that was it, really. I edit shots, listen to the radio and post shots of flowers on Twitter. Situation normal.

Outside the day fades, and tomorrow is Monday. Apparently.

The new Eden

I have in my hand a piece of paper, and on that piece of paper is written the science.

There will be a cure in our time.

Or something like it.

There are strong calls from Tory "grandees" (paymasters) pressing for a loosening of the restrictions to boost (their) businesses.

The UK is in denial about how badly COVID-19 has been handled here. It doesn't help when the PM, the liar in chief, calls it a success. 45,000 people have died, over 100 of them doctors, nurses, care home staff. There hasn't been enough PPE for them all, or in the right place, nor has there been sufficient testing where the tests were needed by the staff.

The lockdown, when it came, was a result of things like the Premier League postponing fixtures and many sportspoeple announcing they had tested positive on March 12th. Schools remained open for another week.

Pandemic planning and rates of infections and spread are clearly modeled. I saw one report over the weekend that said if the US had locked down two weeks earlier, then 90% of those who did die, would have lived. I am pretty sure the same can be said for the UK.

The UK is not testing enough, and has only just thought about testing and tracking. Only today will people arriving at our borders be tested and traced. This was stopped in the middle of March when the containment phase ended. Think about the fact that whilst we, the people, lived in fear of leaving our house lest we catch the virus of be arrested, people were still able to fly into the country from the US, China, italy, walk through immigration and get onto a train or the tube, no questions asked.

And this is a success?

Johnson wants to be remembered as a Churchill figure. Instead he is a Eden, and a tinpot one at that.

Saturday 25th April 2020

It's the weekend. Apparently.

I mean, who is actually keeping track of these things? I paid thirty quid for a calendar in December and the reality is that I needn't have turned over the page from March, as every day is the same. Nothing changes, except the weather gets better.

But, the radio insists it is Saturday and therefore the weekend.

The world has changed: you just can't turn up at the butchers and buy stuff, you have to call ahead, and they will get your order, then call you back for payment, then arrange a time to collect.

Which is why I was heading to Preston just after dawn, well, half seven, having supped my first coffee of the day, in order to pick up our order.

The boys are surviving: times are hard, and there is no point in pretending otherwise. But clear thinking has them keeping their heads above water, and so one hopes that Mark and the boys will always be there.

Traffic is amazingly light on the way. I mean, it would, but until you venture from the village do you see how empty the roads are. One car follows me to Eastry before turning off, I go on to Sandwich, then take the road to Canterbury before turning off again, and heading through the fruit fields to Preston, where I am the first customer.

But there is panic as they have to find my order among the dozens of bags of orders. After ten minutes they do find it, but I am not allowed in the shop, can't shake their hands, but we swap greetings and I hope things change soon for them.

I drive home, through non-existent traffic, back to Whitfield then down to the Duke of Yorks and back home.

A Tawny Owl sits on one of of the telegraph poles, doing his best buzzard impression, but there's no fooling me.

I unload the car, the leg of lamb is too big for the fridge, so instead of Sunday lunch it will be Saturday dinner. I weigh it: eight and three quarter pounds. That was one heck of a lamb!

The day was cold, cloudy and breezy; not the weather for a wander round looking for wild flowers. So we have breakfast; fruit followed by croissants and yet more coffee. Which was splendid.

There is the radio to listen to. Which is what we do.

We have rolls for lunch.

Then ice cream.

And more coffee.

I tot up the cooking time for the lamb, and I realise if we are going to eat before bed time, I needed to start preparing. I google recipes and cooking times, and soon I am making holes in the skin and inserting slices of garlic and sprigs of rosemary. I hope this will be worth it.

Then in the oven, and three hours and 50 minutes to wait.

And soon the smell appears. The aroma of roasting lamb. It is marvellous. Mixed in with garlic too. We have several hours to wait.

I boil some potatoes, mix up the batter for the Yorkshire puddings.

But this was to be an unusual roast, as the vegetables were to be stir fried, laced with chili balsamic vinegar. But I would also make gravy as the puddings would be too dry otherwise.

Half four and the meat is cooked. I cook the potatoes, bake the puddings and so the stir fry. Lastly make the gravy.

I dish up, Jools opens the chilled bottle of pink fizz and all is done to perfection. Needless to say there is more than enough meat for everyone. Well, us two.

Each bite of the lamb is the usual lamb flavour, mixed in with roast garlic and rosemary. It was wonderful stuff. Wouldn't have worked as a traditional roast, but clever me for realising that.

I even make the spare Yorkshire pudding vanish mopping it up with some gravy.

Lovely.

We should have watched Bosch in the evening, but I can't get into it. So Jools watches the new series of Killing Eve and I lay on the bed with Scully ready some more about growing up in the West Midlands in Broken Greek.

Another day draws to an end.

Boris to retake charge

Tomorrow the PM is due to regain leadership of the country after his brush with COVID-19.

For the last month the UK has not had a leader, other than the revolving shower of shit that presents the day's virus briefing.

Not even Raab seems to be capable of making a decision, instead repeating that nothing will be decided until Boris is back. Yesterday Raab stated it is the fault of the NHS for not having the right PPE at the right locations. Even now, with 45,000 on the slab, the Government will not take responsibility for the death show that has unfolded.

Yesterday, nearly 800 people died, in hospitals. That is eight Hillsboroughs, or 12 Grenfells, or two Jumbo jets crashing; just no live TV pictures or shots of bodies being dragged out of the burning wreckage.

But the deaths keep mounting up.

And through this, there has been no leadership. No one making decisions. Just the three word mantra "following the science".

And the media just seems to nod along. Last week's about turn by the press, in particular, the Sunday Times who laid out the gross failures of the Johnson Government, but now, "fear not, Boris is returning".

Meanwhile another 336 people died in hospital.

Meanwhile the clock is ticking on Brexit. Yes, its still a thing. And the UK has to show the EU how they are going to make the border in the Irish Sea work, as Johnson's bright plan in stopping the Irish Border becoming a thing was to have a customs and regulatory border between Britain and NI. And the UK seems to be in no rush to explain how it is going to work.

Make no mistake, this border, down the middle of the Irish Sea is a real one, and breaks up the UK single market. If the UK fails to show how it is to be implemented and work, and instead plans not to implement it, would break an international treaty, signed in good faith by the UK and EU, if the UK never planned on honouring it, that would be a very bad look.

The UK has been very slow in releasing texts on sectorial areas, and insisting those it has released are stopped from being published.

There is to be just two more rounds of talks before the end of June when the cut off for an extension to the transition has to be made. The UK says it won't ask for such an extension, but it is madness not to seek one.

But then so is 45,000 dead, and the Government doesn't seem to care.

Brexit and the way the Government has handled COVID-19 are linked. Making something complicated sound as if they can be solved with simple solutions. Always was bollocks.

Friday 24th April 2020

Unlike many people, we are doing OK during the lockdown.

We are in good spirits, and I think this is because we both exercise, in varying amounts, but it means that come the evening, we are tired. So, we sleep well, sleep deep, and wake up once we are rested.

We can get out when we want, we live on the edge of the countryside.

We have food. We have jobs, that still pays.

We have few family to worry about, but we have friends. I don't think I know of anyone who has had the virus. It doesn't mean that we don't worry. I have had a sore throat during the night this week, and you worry if this is the first indication of the virus showing. A squirt of Sudafed and a coffee later, and all is good.

It will be great to be able to get out once again and go where we want. Although we did already appreciate what we saw on our walks in the beech woods and up on the downs whilst looking for orchids. That we loved that so much means we miss it all the more.

But even being able, or not at the moment, to go to B&Q or into town, or to visit Cath or Mike and Jane, or our friends Tracey and Wayne. Man, we miss that big time. We will do those things again, and meet and laugh and drink and eat well.

But not yet.

But it was Friday, the weekend already for Jools, and six hours or so for me at the coalface.

Jools did not set the alarm, so we lay in bed until nearly half five, though through my bloodshot eyes it seemed it was nearly six. But was fine. So for a change I get up first, feed the cats and make coffee.

It is a cold but stunning morning, the sun now rises so far east it is almost out of site behind next door. But the sky is all pastel shades, and looks wonderful. Few planes now cross over east Kent, so there are few trails to diffuse the sun.

Jools has an online yoga class, so as she logs in via Zoom, I scarper upstairs to do a session on the cross trainer whilst listening to the Home Service, sorry, Radio 6 on the DAB. I have enough time to have a shower, get dressed, make breakfast before setting up the office and logging into the daily meeting. And I was first to do so!

At least I look keen.

Nothing much to report from anyone, other than we're all healthy and in good spirits. Though there is a melancholy from some who can't socialise as much as they'd like. We hope there is light coming. But there is sunshine, and for some of us, able to sit in the back garden.

Jools leaves the house at ten to go shopping, stuff for us and stuff for Walter who lives over the road. He lost his wife two years back. Anyway, Jools get most of what we want, then goes to the pet food store in town, visits ASDA next door too and gets flour and yeast. I can bake!

Once she returns, it is all put away, then we have lunch, so at two once work for the day is done, we can get a peanut butter Magnum out of the freezer and sit on the top patio and look at our little bit of England before us. All full of flowers, insects and birds. It is all rather marvellous.

In fact, it is too warm to go for a walk, so with sit in the shade of the shelter down the bottom of the garden, whilst Mulder and Scully stretch in what little shade there was. And snooze.

Dinner was easy peasy lemon squeezy: nacos with home made salsa. I made the salsa in the morning, so the flavours would ferment, and indeed, it was rather good.

Jools had come up trumps shopping, with three beers, so I chase the nachos with some Leffe, which was very nice.

A quiet evening with cooking shows on TV, Monty was back on Gardening World, then staying up to ten, we watched a documentary on the Hubble telescope.

Lovely day.

If quiet.

Follow the science

Follow the science is the new post Brexit mantra.

It allows the Government appear to not need to make a decision.

This is of course wrong.

Only religious fundamentalists and Brexiteers believe in absolutes. Science everything is a theory.

There is not a "clear" science saying the UK should or shouldn't do this or that. Science will say many things, it is up to Government to listen to all spectrums and decide what to do. In listening to some science, the wrong path could be chosen.

But they won't tell us what science it is they are following. Could be astronomy for all we know. Nor will they tell us who sits of the SAGE committee. But yesterday, it emerged that Johnson's chief advisor and nerd, Dominic Cummings sits on the committee and is allowed to ask questions. Politicians representing Scotland and Wales can attend but not take part.

"The science" will be thrown under the bus when the blame is ready to be shared out. The science than the scientists who secretly, at the moment, advise the Government. Johnson, Gove, Raab et al will hide behind this, and throw the scientists to the lions. Look at it as "nerd immunity" if you will.

People have had enough of experts, but not when you can hide behind them to shield you from the angry mob which will be coming.

Over 41,000 people have died in the UK, second behind the US where you have a Moron in Chief who seems to want to kill as many Americans as possible, apparently so he can blame the State Governors he doesn't like or who he thinks have slighted him. That's a pretty low bar to get over to be honest.

Counting the cost

Each day the Government makes an announcement on how many people died the previous 24 hours. As long as they died in hospital and had a positive test result for COVID-19.

But this is not the true total.

The National Audit Office has been keeping count, and although figures are a week behind, they have extrapolated the total for yesterday, officially under 20,000, to 41,000. That is a town bigger than Dover. All dead.

The Government hasn't been counting those who have died in care homes, their bodies just piled up.

Forty one thousand.

I can't remember if it was Stalin or someone said about him, that one death is a tragedy, thousands, millions of deaths is just a statistic.

Dyson, who the Government contracted to make those very famous ventilators announced today that whey are no longer needed and work has stopped.

The hundreds of thousands of pieces of PPE from Turkey numbered only in the thousands and were less than a day's supply for the NHS when the RAF plane carrying the pallets finally arrived three days late. This is because the announcement of the consignment and the request were made on the same day: it was never going to arrive on Sunday.

More shops and garden centres are now to open, more people out on the roads.

The Government might know what they're doing. Or might not.

Good luck.

Thursday 23rd April 2020

St George's Day

And a rest day.

Which is nice.

It means I can be extra relaxed in the morning. LAy an extra ten minutes in bed, but there were chores to do. After coffee, I put out the bins, put out the seedlings from the shed, water them too.

And before you know it is time to start work again.

There is the usual early meeting, while we finish our coffees, swapping news and gossip, and mainly comparing the weather in various parts of Jutland and Kent.

Outside it is a glorious day here, the wind had dropped, and was much warmer.

Which was also nice.

I have to go to the doctors for my quarterly assessment as to whether I needs the pills I'm on. So I set out to walk over the fields and then down the Dip to the village.

I see little of any additional interest that I saw at the weekend.

There is a queuing system outside the surgery, I go in and am seen by the doctor, though I am at one end of the room and he behind the desk. He looks at me and says I have lost weight by still need the meds. The dispensary tells me that they don't have the drugs and I will have to come back in the morning after nine.

Bugger.

So, I walk down the Dip, and go straight on, heading for Windy Ridge, even if my back had been complaining for a god twenty minutes already.

And it is busy, I mean not crowded, but groups of people, a family of five, a couple in stout walking shoes with those odd skiing sticks for walking, another couple in sweat pants, and a mother with young son.

But further on as I neared the wood, I was on my own.

I was there to check the bluebells in the wood, to see if a stray EPO would show.

There were none. In fact only one small group were anything like pure-bred "English" Bluebells, the rest were hybrids, or "Spanish". They don't droop like the native ones. And some of those are pinker, even pink. Anyway, I walk on.

After a while I leave the wood to walk along the lane beside it, hoping to see butterflies, as it has been a rich spot in the past, but as it was gone eleven, any that did fly by were very twitchy, and none settled.

I walked on the lane leading back down to Collingwood, the ground now hard like iron, but due to lack of rain, not cold. Chalk downland drains so quickly, so it was like we had no rain.

Back down the hill, up to the road and along, pausing to check if I could see a Bluethroat, but no, as there is little manure to rummage in.

Back home it is lunchtime, and back to work, but I had missed little. So I put on a podcast and listen while I have lunch.

I try sitting in the garden, and was rewarded with a Holly Blue flying through, it briefly settled on the hedge, long enough for me to hurry over wearing my floppy slippers and grab a handful of shots.

Through the day I made a rich ragu, but in a change I used the hedge garlic from our garden instead of actual garlic, seeing as we'd run out. I simmered the tomatoes with the garlic for an hour, then let the pot sit for a few hours for the flavours to build.

I fry two small onions, some sausage meat, add that and the final five mushrooms in the bottom of the fridge, thinly sliced, to the pot. I add a litre of beef stock left over from the prime rib, mix and then set to boil, then simmer for 90 minutes until Jools was due to come back.

Finally I boil some pasta, make some garlic bread out of the stale remains of the cornbread loaf.

And, it was very good indeed. Not a huge garlic hit, but a slight afterburn. I liked it, so did Jools. And good news is there is more than enough to freeze for another day.

By then it was seven, and we were pooped, but we have a coffee whilst listening to the radio. It was nearly warm enough to sit outside once it got dark, but we were tired little angels, so we go to bed. Me curled up around Scully as usual.

The "plan"

The tactics are clear:

1) Pretend that idiots wishing harm on PM are representative of all govt. critics. (Ignore all examples of harm being wished on govt. critics.)

2) Orchestrate pliant MPs & client journalists in ‘quote tweet’ pile-ons against the most effective criticism.

3) Insist that the govt. has ‘followed the science’ without explaining what science.

4) If pushed on 3, argue that explaining the science will ‘embarrass our allies’.

5) Wibble about ‘national cycles’ when asked why the govt. failed to learn from stark foreign examples.

6) Repeat 5 when asked to explain unflattering comparisons with Germany, Ireland etc

7) Introduce pithy but vacuous slogans into public discourse so that blindly loyal forelock-tuggers at least have something to shout into the ether. See ‘population density’ & ‘herd immunity’.

8) Try to move the debate away from scrutiny of deeply flawed lockdown messaging towards one about when lockdown should end.

9) Blame govt. failures on doctors & nurses; WHO; Public Health England; civil service; China; the Boogie.

10) If all else fails, refuse all interviews.

https://twitter.com/mrjamesob/status/1249636026844397568

Wednesday 22nd April 2020

In another universe, I should be waking up after my ten year celebration in Denmark, an evening meal and drinking session.

But I am home.

And alive.

Middle of the week.

Swallows have arrived. They did last week, but yesterday I watched them from the patio, wheeling and whirling, whilst chirping like happy dolphins.

It is nearly summer.

Going to bed earlier and earlier means getting up earlier and earlier. If only there was some football to watch. I was awake at twenty past four, and soon dawn showed, with blackbirds singing loudly.

As soon as I'm awake, my bladder says, as you're awake.....

Back in bed, and I lay and just enjoy the silence of the morning.

Jools gets up at five, I lay a while so she can do her chores and tasks, so when I do get up at half past, the coffee is brewing.

Lovely.

Once that is drunk, Jools is off on her walk and I have to go on the cross trainer, once again listening to the radio. Not perfect, but it'll do.

I do twenty minutes, get dressed and am ready for the early morning meeting at half seven, by which time Jools had returned, loaded the car and left.

We are all well, still, and to date, no one in the company, in any country or facility has tested positive, which is pretty incredible.

After the meeting ends at eight, I go to put out the seedlings, water them, make breakfast and a fresh coffee.

This is the life.

And I have a stack of work to do. Stuff I had been putting off for weeks, so I do it all, and by lunch I am all caught up.

Best have lunch then. And a fresh brew.

Perfect. Again.

I would have gone for a walk, but I need to do a second workout, so take it easy in the early afternoon, have a glass of iced squash sitting in the garden whilst reading the latest Rail magazine, whilst all around the garden was a riot of colour and sounds. It is all rather marvellous.

It is odd spending such dark days in domestic bliss at home. I listen to the radio, we have food, entertainment and I have three quarters of a crate of Belgian tripel. We have the cats, each other, our health, are being paid and happy.

We are so lucky.

I do a session on the cross trainer, upping the level as before. But by the end I am so tired. Thankfully Thursday is a rest day.

Dinner is pizza and beer.

One was vegetarian, so I add bacon lardons and sliced chorizo, which made it very tasty indeed. We eat the pizza sitting on the lower patio, sipping beer or cider.

It is like being on our holibobs, but it is a working week.

We sit in the lengthening shadows, as swallows and swifts wheel above us. And the cats sit nearby in case we feel like feeding them.

But as soon as the sun goes behind the house next door, it gets chilly, so we head inside to warm up.

We play Uckers, Jools thrashes me, mainly because I went about twenty rounds without rolling a double.

What goes around and all that.

So ends another day working from home.

4273

I think we forget how expensive records used to be. I find myself wishing I had bought more when I had the chance as a teen, and started earlier. But I had no money.

The only time I got money to spend on what I wanted was at Christmas and birthdays when like many other children, I would receive Boots vouchers.

These could be redeemed for records, or shampoo, to the value of the token the card contained. This was OK until the price of records climbed above a pound for a single. It was with a token I bought Abba's Take a Chance on Me, from Boots. It came in a plain white sleeve, or the one I got did. At first I didn't think there was a copy, as it blended in with the racking. But there was at least one copy, so I came away with a copy.

Anyway, LPs were out of my price range.

In 1979, things began to change. In June of that year, we had an exchange student from Germany, and all them from Germany and my German class, went for a day in Norwich to our museums and stuff. And in our free time I went along with my friends to a little records shop overlooking the market next to the Sir Garnet pub. My friends all came away with UK Subs singles, on bright blue vinyl and in picture sleeves showing a bank note stuffed into a woman's bra.

I thought it most rude. But then my German exchange partner bough the Scorpion's Love Drive album. I'll let you google that cover.

Anyway, all my fiends had started buying records, so I thought I had better. Up to that point, I had two ELO cassettes, bought by Mum from a catalogue. But this meant getting into vinyl.

1979 was also the point when Thatcher won the election at the beginning of May, and she announced VAT was going up, so Dad went out and got a "music centre" to replace the teak radiogram we had used up to that point. The music centre was wonderful, but clearly, it was Dad's toy, so I would be discouraged from using it, which would lead by Christmas in me getting one of my own, but not a £600 Hitachi brushed silver thing.

Anyway.

Being 15, my Boots vouchers must have gone up as I was able to buy LPs; knowing little about them, and assuming they would be all filled with tracks as good as the hit singles, I bought Parallel Lines, which as it turned out did have every track as good as the hit singles. And I bought Live Killers. I liked Queen's Crazy Little Thing Called Love and assumed as the LP was in the charts, it would contain that song. It didn't. And was horrible. And even those songs I did know sounded nothing like I remembered.

I got myself a paper round soon after my birthday, and so had weekly disposable income of £1.85. Before I could buy records, I had to save up for my trip to Germany for the exchange. By then I was buying at least one of the weekly music papers, and was concerned I might miss out on some news in my time away so got the shop to save me the the two printings of Record Mirror I would miss when away.

For Christmas not only did I receive the usual Boots vouchers from the family, I got £30 in my tips for my Christmas box on the paper round. I had never felt so rich. I went out and bought Eat to the Beat and The Wall. Again Blondie held up well, and being just 15 I think I did not appreciate the rest of The Wall other than Another Brick in the Wall and Comfortably Numb. I have to admit either got played that much.

And so began my love/hate relationship with LPs. I would buy them, lots of them, mostly to play once, or sometimes just for the lead single, which is why i find it hard to do those top ten album lists that crop up from time to time on FB.

Anyway, from the start of 1980, my friends and I would go into town on a Saturday morning to trawl though the latest releases to decide what to buy. One time I had heard Last Sunday by The Small faces, and thought I found it on the Old Gold selection in John Menzies. As this would be my only purchase for several weeks, I was rather pleased to have found it. And then I got it home, put it on and found it to be Sunny Afternoon by The Kinks. I had no idea who had sung the track I wanted, just it was about an afternoon, might have been Sunny of Sunday.

Who knew?

But this wasn't the only thing my paper round money had to fund. As there was Tuesday Club.

Tuesday Club was a youth club held at the Oulton village community centre, and split into two halves. Before my teens, there was the Scout huts there, and there were table tennis tables, a kind of disco, but games and things. By the time I reached 14, the huts had been replaced with a functional but ugly hall, and those 13 and over could attend the club from, well, now I'm not too sure, was it seven to nine? I have no idea.

But two hours of music, flashing disco lights, gel lighting which was still a thing in Suffolk. And music.

Well, it cost 50p, I think to get in, which was a 6th of my paper round money. But it was the night out of the week, and we look forward to it, though it was fairly dreadful, or so we thought. Poor Mr Rogers who ran it, suffered greatly with our antics, and it got worse in 1980 when there was a pitched battle in a recreation of the Mods v Rockers on the dancefloor between the mods and everyone else. But it only happened once.

For the most part, we all sat around the edge of the hall, me and my friends waiting for the time when the DJ would play two, maybe three heavy records. Usually Whole Lotta Rosie, Paranoid and something else. We would go up, shake our heads while the mods stood around us and made fun. When their records came on, they had a fine old time, leaping and skanking about. They might have had the better deal. But they got maybe three or fours songs too. The rest was disco. Shimmering late 70s, early 80s classic disco. We hated it at the time, but it was wonderful, by the end of the decade I sued to go to a club that played the same songs and I used to thow myself about to.

Otherwise I was buying more and more records as my pay increased. Which was nice.

And at the end of 1980 I had persuaded my Dad to buy me a music centre. Not like his, but a cheap Pye thing, but had a turntable, tape deck and radio. But the turntable was too variable, and I tried really hard to get him to spend another £30 to buy me a Phillips, which sounded much better. And he did.

Truth is we read about music more than heard it. If it hadn't have been for John Peel we would have heard almost nothing of the great music being made. If a journalist we liked said a recored was good, we would try to order it. God knows what the person behind the counter made of: Bonk Bonk Bonk, Crispy Ambulance, Hagar the Womb, Shambeko say Wah!, We've Got a Fuzzbox and We're Gonna Use it, Echo and the Bunnymen, and so on and on and on.

I got most of what I wanted, although the heavy Reggae took some time to get from Brixton to Lowestoft up the A12.

By the time 1983 rolled round, I was on a YOP scheme, on £25 a week, of which I gave Mum a tenner, leaving me with £15 to spend on records. Lowestoft Electrical was the chart return shop, and they had twelve inch singles for £1.99, I could get a few of those a week!

We had a wide choice for our weekly virus fix, in Lowestoft starting from Station Square there was:

John Wells (mainly camera and Hi-fi, but had a large record department out back)

WH Smiths

John Menzies

Lowestoft Electrical (typical white goods retailers with a huge record department upstairs)

Morlings House of Music (early 80s, very poor, became chart return shop, spent half my wages here for five years)

Record and Tape Exchange

Trying to think if I missed any. But Lowestoft Electrical and Morlings had HUGE record departments. Lowestoft Electrical had a counter which were the racks for twelve inch records, three feet deep and twenty feet wide. Thinking about it, I wonder how the floor did not collapse due to the weight. It was all in the racks in random order, other than new stuff was put in the front of the racks.

Good luck, hunting.

And you could always try to order things, as long as you didn't mind waiting, of course.

For Christmas 1980, not only did I get a music centre, but I got the triple Rush retrospective, Archives, featuring their first three albums. Now, bearing in my mind I didn't have a long concentration span as far as LPs were concerned, a triple album wasn't really going to be played that much. I think I got it to"one-up" on my friends. As we always wanted to hear more music, but also have more than all our friends.

Saying that, we had one friend who said he had all the stuff we dreamed of, including Live at the Budokhan by Micheal Schenker Group, which was only available on import, he he said he had it, but he never let us borrow it or let us into his house. He might have been making it up. He was also a Kiss fan.

Kiss.

I mean, maybe if you lived in the mid-west they made sense, but not in England, not after Punk, I mean Kiss would only seem silly. Laughable, even.

But then we all have our odd obsessions, mine is Pat Benatar. Yeah. I wrote about that before. But it did lead to buying records on coloured vinyl, picture sleepves, picture discs, imports. All sorts. Mostly using mail order, and being paid for with postal orders.

I am 54 years old and I have no idea how this worked: but you would scour the lists at the back of the NME for the latest rare records, pick what you wanted. You would write a letter, I think, stating what you wanted, the return address, then go into town to the Post Office to get a postal order for the value of the recor(s), postage and packing for the amount, and they would attach stamps to the value on the order, which you would pop in the envelope with your letter, send to the shop, and if you were lucky, in a week or so the record would arrive.

This was normal. And how I got many of my Pat Benatar rarities. And other stuff too. I was still bying her stuff into the 1990s. Still have them too.

Tuesday 21st April 2020

I left the RAF some 15 years ago, I mention that from time to time over the summer. Anyway, part of the leaving ritual was going to the Medical Centre to show that you were Medical and Dental A1 when discharged.

I was nearly 40, fat, part deaf and knew I was anything but A1, and so in line for a medical (war) pension.

When it came to the hearing test, I knew I was part deaf, and tried my hardest to fail.

I passed.

The SMO passed me as A1 as did the Dental Officer, although my "temporary" crown he assured me would last until I died didn't last until my birthday in August. That year.

When I went to clear at Station HQ, aka PSF, I got a signature from the SSAFA, and she asked me what trade I had been. Armourer I replied. Ah, bad knees and back she said, and handed me a load of war pension forms.

Even at 40, you feel young, at least a quarter of a century of work ahead, you are barely out of your teens.

But the truth is my back is shot. I have two compressed discs, pressure from all sorts of ailments caused pain or sciatica.

And that is my life now: balancing my back and knee pain and my desire to go out and snap orchids, butterflies and wild flowers. I will try not to give into it. But, sometimes it is worse than others, and this year, even after the phys on the cross trainer, it has been painful. But I walk at my own pace, take breathers, and get the job done, just not that fast.

Oh well.

I mention this as sometimes when I go on walks or rambles, I say my back is complaining or screaming. This is the background. But I will always push myself for the next great shot.

Just saying.

Anyway. Tuesday.

Another sunny but windy day dawned. I lay in bed, Jools got up when the alarm went off.

Here we go again.

I get up and my coffee is waiting. Which is perfect.

Jools goes out for a walk, and I take the time to call my friend Tony in NZ to see how he is coping. He is doing fine, and it is good to spend 20 minutes catching up, but the clock ticks, and I have to do some phys and be ready for the early meeting at half seven.

We say goodbye and I go up to the spare room and do another session, to the soundtrack of the radio until I can program the Sony player, which should be straightforward. But I just need to squeeze that task into my packed schedule.

I do 20 minutes, cool down, then get the office set up and am waiting to log on on time, where we swap news and gossip.

Once that was done at eight, I make breakfast, brew a fresh cup of coffee and settle down to work.

It was a slow day, and I won't lie.

After a couple of hours, I go out for a walk, nothing too ambitious, but taking the track between the one taken at the end of last week and Windy Ridge, as I think I had only walked that once.

Anyway, not much new to snap, just good to be out of the house, walking over the fields to Fleet House where the pigs were hiding deep in the wood. So, I walk on, down the slope, past the farm and up the hill towards Windy Ridge, past the first lane west, taking the second.

That runs straight for about a mile, with high hedges and trees on both sides. Not much of interest, just a Lords and Ladies bobbing in the breeze. So I take a shot and walk back.

Back onto Collingwood, past the midden again and no sign of any Bluethroats.

Oh well.

Back home for lunch of stir fry, with a double helping of noodles. Who knew they could be so filling?

Anyway, back to work.

I watch a documentary on the life of Ronnie Lane. A very talented guy, who got fed up with the music business and Rod Stewart, turned into a gypsy and tried to become a farmer, until his inherited MS made that impossible.

A man so ahead of his time, so nice and not bitter.

I was going to do another session on the cross trainer, but my legs ached, and then Gary called. So we talked and time slipped away, and before I knew it, it was half four, Jools would be home in an hour and I had dinner to make.

So I packed away the office, made sausage rolls with caprese and garlic bread to follow, and that was all rather wonderful.

After 48 hours off the booze, I had three glasses of red vino, and the world seemed better.

And that was another day in lockdown. We listen to the wireless. Drink coffee. And to bed. At nine.