Blog 42. And no idea how many weeks to go

“Covid deaths in UK 429 in the last 24 hours”, screamed the headlines in Apple News at the weekend (I gave up reading the BBC News some time ago in order to keep my blood pressure down). What the headline and follow-up did not say was that the number of deaths was 36% down on the previous day and that it was the second drop in succession. The daily death toll has since gone up slightly but, overall, the trend of UK deaths from CV19 is definitely downwards, albeit a gentle slope. Well, that’s Apple News added to my list of alarmist media, a list stretching now to several pages. We are still watching the government Daily Briefing at 1700, but have taken to switching off at the first stupid or inane question by the Press (usually it is the first one, which is always by the BBC). At a time of national emergency we are still getting carping and point-scoring. Imagine this lot after Dunkirk:
“Prime Minister, is this government ashamed by this debacle and are you going to personally apologise to the families of the soldiers killed or injured on those beaches…?”

How times have changed. Start polishing those bullets.

The charts on deaths, as measured against other countries, are, in any case, not a lot of use. Countries with a large population (eg the USA) can be expected to have, proportionally, more deaths each day and the graphical curve will have a higher gradient (as is currently the case). Charts of deaths per thousand population would help to normalise the data, but even that would not take account of the population density. Sweden, for example, with a large land mass but relatively small population, can reasonably be expected to have fewer deaths per thousand per day. Such a debate could go on forever (and probably will, long after this is over), but I still say that looking at the absolute number of daily deaths is not helpful; relative and normalised trends are far more useful.

Jane and I are still ticking along and the sun is still shining, though there has been a cool breeze from the north east. The temperature reached 21C (70 F) yesterday. We embarked on another expedition into the bundu on Monday (I think it was Monday…), another circular walk with the customary flask of coffee and Christmas cake at half-way point. Seven miles altogether, over the hill and far away. It is amazing how well the crops have come on in just a few days and after that rain: the Big Dusty Field has become the Big Green Field and the Straight Path Near The Stables has become the Straight Path Overgrown With Knee-high Nettles. Back at headquarters, the grass seed I sowed on the dead patches of the lawn still has not germinated, but the rest of the lawn is verdant, lush, and growing like topsy, demonstrating a strong sense of self-preservation not normally to be expected in organic ground covering. That threat must have worked.

One of the positive aspects of this pandemic – and there are positive aspects – has been the enormous growth of creative art that is circulating. I don’t mean that squiggle on the bike shed wall, I mean the jokes and videos being passed round on email or being presented on YouTube. The quality has been high and the humour ranging from subtle, through droll, to hilarious. The memsahib was in stitches yesterday over a video demonstrating how [not] to make a face mask if you are not into sewing, and I haven’t seen her laugh as much as that since our honeymoon night. Humour is very important at times of stress and it is good to know that there is so much talent out there. I am not a great fan of graffiti (as you will infer from my previous blogs), but I did hear of this example, found in a ladies’ lavatory:
“MY MOTHER MADE ME A LESBIAN”
And someone had added underneath,
“IF I SEND HER THE WOOL WILL SHE MAKE ME ONE AS WELL?”
Very droll though, when I first heard of this example, I was shocked that ladies wrote things on lavatory walls. I have led such a sheltered life.

I was reiterating (with some strength of conviction) one of my earlier blog points the other day, regarding the inconvenience and impracticality of continuing the two metre distance rule after lockdown, when I was conscious of a silence and a distinct air of incredulity from the other side of the supper table.
“ What?”, I said.
“And when, pray, have you ever queued anywhere, with or without a two metre gap?”, she said archly. “You just wait in the car in the supermarket car park”
This, of course, is irrefutable. In my defence, I had to remind her that the current rule is for only one person in the supermarket per household, alas. Also, the last time she let me do the shopping on my own, I came back with celery instead of celeriac, several packets of very expensive Duchy Original biscuits, a handful of beans and was followed by a large giant. She grunted in reply, which I took to mean grudging acceptance of my argument.

Now, about those Women. When my godson married (interesting diversion from CV19 here), I wrote a valedictory letter to him containing sage advice about women; I wrote a similar letter (but about men) to his sister, my goddaughter , when she married too. Heaven knows, I had failed the poor children in my sacred oath throughout their infancy, and this was a last desperate attempt to make good before my Day of Judgement. Of course, the drawback was that I have never really understood my fellow man, and what I know about women could be written on the back of a postage stamp in Times New Roman, 12 point. Take the case of my dear wife (peace be upon her). I never take her word at face value now. Some years ago – it would have been the Year 11 or the Year 12 I think – we were shopping with friends in our nearby Big City. Our perambulation took us past several ladies’ dress shops and, inevitably, we were drawn into one of them like the Starship Enterprise caught in the tractor beam of a Romulan Bird of Prey. Once inside the belly of the beast, the memsahib took a fancy to a particular outfit and went off to try it on. I hung around, as you do, trying not to look like a pervert among the red knickers, black bras and bits of string in the area, until she eventually reappeared in the new gear and gave a twirl.
“What do you think?”, she said brightly.
Now here is the crux of the story. Never reply honestly. I looked at her in horror.
“Oh no. Oh good Lord no. It looks awful. It’s almost the colour of vomit”, I said.
Well. I had read the word “flounce” before that, but I had never before seen a woman actually do one. Jane flounced. She shot back into that changing room, left the outfit and returned in her normal attire. And said nothing. In fact, she said nothing to me for the rest of the afternoon. I read in a psychology book once that women punish you by not speaking to you, but that men take – on average – nine minutes before they realise they are being punished. I eventually cottoned on after about twenty minutes when my wise and worldly friend, who was with us and his wife, took me to one side, shook his head sorrowfully, and said to me,
“Horatio, Horatio, Horatio… That was most unwise. You never tell them the truth. You say, ‘Oh, my dear, that looks positively splendid. You simply must have it – a wise choice for the more mature and handsome woman you have become, and so flattering to your fuller figure’, or something similar, and let nature take its natural course”.
And here is the thing. I tried back-tracking. I suggested that Jane try the outfit again so that I could reconsider. It was curtly refused (with a toss of the head). I begged her to go back and buy that outfit. I begged her for two weeks. It took a whole month of grovelling and toadying before, in the end, she grudgingly went back and bought that skirt and top. How did she do that?

Returning to the present, I must be doing something right for all is rosy in the Horatio garden. I actually overslept the other day, after taking a sleeping pill and descending to 100 fathoms, and Jane brought me a cup of tea in bed. Yesterday, after we visited the farm across the road before breakfast, she cooked me a full fried breakfast with local farm sausages, organic tomatoes, mushrooms, free range egg, fried potato and – the piece de resistance – fried bread. I think she may finally be realising my worth, charm, sensitivity and loving nature after all those years. Either that or she wants that fence finished. In this, I am reminded of the story about the captain of a Roman galley who, out of character, gave his galley slaves a day off to swim in the warm waters of the Aegean and followed it up with steak and an amphora of wine for every one of them. A Senator, who was onboard as a passenger, watched this spectacle and remarked to the Slave Master what a lovely gesture it was and asked if, perhaps, the Captain had found a new religion. “No”, replied the Slave Master, “it’s just that the weather is fine at the moment and the Captain wants to go water skiing tomorrow”.

So it is now revealed that only one third of schoolchildren are participating in their online lessons at home. Quelle surprise. Judging by the number of people we see exercising every day, most of their parents are not doing a lot of home working either, and they apparently see the present situation as a national holiday rather than a national emergency. Yes, I know I’m not working either. I am different. I am retired. I am on the cusp of being vulnerable. And a war veteran (sort of). Be that as it may, the government is going to have quite a job getting this lot back to work, as some of them are beginning to enjoy themselves, and that will never do. Persuading the self- employed to return to work will be easy, as they have yet to receive any government grant and – indeed – I see signs of little jobs restarting already (the Great Hot Tub Project down our drive will be under way again next Monday). For the rest, who are still being paid 80% of their salary via a government subsidy while enjoying a mortgage holiday, inertia may be harder to overcome.

It is worth sparing a thought for those people still working a normal week and providing an essential service. The NHS gets a good clap every Thursday, but there is little appreciation for those working for the police, fire brigade, refuse disposal, water services, electricity generation, gas distribution, the vast logistic and food organisation; for mariners, fishermen, farmers, the administrators of government and – last but not least – our armed forces. Because of the contribution by such a wide range of occupations I do wonder if it is just a little bit invidious of us to be clapping only the NHS every Thursday. Perhaps instead we should have an enormous picture of the Corona virus that we can shout “Hate, Hate, Hate” at once a week. Didn’t someone write a book about that?

There is a certain management technique practised by the Commanding Officers of HM Ships that runs on the general lines of:
(Self) “Right sir, my team has screwed the starboard propeller back on, we’ve pumped out the After Machinery Space, the shipwrights have welded a patch over that hole in the port bow, I’ve found a cure for the common cold and I think I may a have a solution to world poverty”
(CO) “Yes Horatio, but have you sent off that defect list yet?”
I was reminded of this approach this morning before breakfast as I assembled the impedimenta for painting the other side of the fence later (yes, there is no getting away from it). While the memsahib was doing Things in what we are pleased to call the Dressing Room, I decided to steal a march on proceedings by clambering up into the garage loft to collect tubs of fence paint, brushes, the paint mixer and overalls (General Service. Officers. White Cotton), such process not being helped by being caught short in the middle. As I finally emerged, struggling, from the garage balancing these items, an upstairs window was thrown open.
“Have you remembered that we change the towels today?”
“No dear” (through gritted teeth).
“I’ve thrown them down the stairs”.
“Yes dear” (catching two paint brushes just as they fall off the pile).
“And I will thank you NOT to widdle on my geraniums. It scorches the leaves”
My God, how did she see that? My wife is like Mr Pinkerton: The Eye That Never Sleeps.

As I write, sipping my coffee, the sun is shining into the Garden Control Tower and three goldfinches are feeding away on the bird feeder. The garden is bursting into flower and all is (almost) right with the world. Jane is toasting the bread in preparation for its anointment with her home-made marmalade (January 2019 vintage).
“I’m ready for my coffee now!”, comes the cry with, perhaps, just a hint of censure. “Are you writing that blog again? You’d better not be putting me in it”
No dear. Truthfully. Past tense; you are already in.

Drinks Person leaping to attention to operate the Nespresso…Just another day blooming in the Shacklepin household.

23 April 2020