Blog 75. Start Pumping That Iron.

Well, I never thought I would ever be reporting this: it is undoubtedly a tergiversation in Shacklepin behaviour, so marked that I am still reeling under the realisation that I have done it. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer, better out than in: I have ordered an exercise bike.
Those who know me, or are regular readers of these blogs, will recognise that all sport and any form of organised exercise, gymnasia, sports gear and gym shoes are as horrifying to me as kryptonite is to Superman. The very smell of a medicine ball makes me shudder. Yet here I am, going completely off piste and siding with my nemesis. The reason, of course, is that the current confinement and Jane’s minor disability have made even me realise that I must take exercise if what passes for my muscles are not going to atrophy. Already those hams, once firm and the envy of many, are starting to wither and sag like the sails of a once-fine ship-of the-line becalmed in the doldrums. Drastic circumstances demand drastic action and I have done the deed. Naturally, I must now give consideration to the creation and purchase of a new rig to be worn for the cycling exercise: an old pair of grey flannels with bicycle clips will probably not do. I do not possess any sports rig: my Navy-issue gym shorts that reached to my knees (and would now be trendy) were outgrown quite some time ago; ditto my Jellicoe Division gym vest from Dartmouth. Tee shirts do not feature in my wardrobe. I did once have a track suit top with “RN Engineering College Shooting Team” on the back, but that disappeared years ago. Hence, a whole range of sartorial options is now available to me. Trim white gym shorts with zip fly, side waist adjustment and discreet logo, perhaps or maybe a track suit? A plain tee shirt or just a polo shirt with the RNSA crest? Lycra, perhaps, with those funny leggings and padded seat? I am not sure about the feet – I draw the line at “trainers” – but I think I may have a pair of old gym shoes, as required for wear in the petroleum-ridden atmosphere of the AVGAS pump room of HMS CASSANDRA, stowed in my old naval trunk, hopefully with a bottle of shoe whitener; short white socks to match the shorts should complete the ensemble. I wonder if a headband would be useful to keep the sweat and my hair out of my eyes; perhaps not? Gosh, this is so exciting. I suppose I will have to let Jane have a play on the machine, but that is only fair.

To complement the exercise, a weight-loss diet has started – this time in earnest.  Jane has borrowed The Fast 800 Diet by Dr Michael Moseley that reports the loss of  seven kilograms (~15 lbs) after two weeks by one user.  Yeh, right: I bet it isn’t that quick for us.  Weigh-in took place on Monday morning before breakfast (trust me, you don’t want to know) and this task will be repeated weekly.  Having measured her BMI, Jane subsequently claimed that a diet for her was unnecessary, but she felt that I would benefit from it (glancing at my firm pert buttocks) and thoughtfully said she would  keep me company on the journey.  Of course, alcohol is banned and we have had to scoop up all the Christmas sweets from the coffee table and donate them to the children across the road to avoid temptation.  So far it hasn’t been too bad: we do not snack or eat a great deal in the normal course anyway (though we do eat well – quality not quantity), so I am hoping the transition to a strict régime will be painless.  The other morning we had egg and bacon “muffins” for breakfast, comprising eggs wrapped in bacon, sprinkled with parmesan and baked in muffin moulds (there was no actual muffin).  They tasted a bit like mini Quiche Lorraine and were delicious. The trick of these weight-loss diets is to follow the recipes religiously and that involves weighing out each portion accurately.  The diets do work (we have been there before), but it places the onus on Jane to produce the food.  Before you leap to her defence, yes, I have offered to help with preparation several times and, no, she didn’t want my help.  You see, in the present confinement she is desperate for things to do and doesn’t want me stealing her jobs; she even asked me not to empty the dishwasher while I routinely made the tea in the early morning, because she wanted something to look forward to.  She is crackers, of course, but we all get our thrills in different ways.  As to the diet, my guess is that, by the end of January, every stick of celery on our plates will taste like a Mars bar and every grain of rice will be licked off the bowl.  But think how slim and streamlined we will be: positively svelte.  Maybe I should go for that lycra after all.

Poor Jane.  She has a punishing régime in the mornings which starts with her having to drag her eyelids up at Call the Hands and moves on to the 4-minute painful leg massage (by moi); a shower in the “freezing” 24 degree C atmosphere of our bathroom; the drying and styling of her hair; the usual mysterious female cosmetic treatment; ten separate leg exercises; and the application of ice packs for five minutes afterwards.  She then turns to on the breakfast, just to bring a smile to my little face (usually, after all that, it is about ten o’clock).  God broke the mould after He made her, for she is The Perfect Wife.  Mind you, it’s a pity about those plimsolls and she can be a bit bossy when she wears wellington boots.  Can’t have everything.

The United Kingdom is experiencing déjà vu.  As I predicted in Blog 68, on 5 January the country was plunged into Lockdown Number Three, but this one, unlike November’s, has no end date.  The Chief Medical Officer has even stated that lockdown may have to be reimposed next winter, despite the vaccination programme.  I will not repeat my two-word response to that announcement, and I would have added his name to The List if it were not already on there.  In announcing the latest lockdown, the prime minister suggested April as an end date, but no one believes that. 
It would be easy to become depressed by this development,  but one must keep in mind the positives: vaccinations using the Oxford-AstraZeneca have now joined the Pfizer vaccinations in a two-pronged attack on the virus and the aim is to immunise the most vulnerable by mid February.  The total number of people vaccinated as of 3 January was 1,296,432. Such a programme of inoculation is quite ambitious, but just feasible; it will depend on first rate organisational skills by the NHS (hmmm…), but the Armed Forces, in the form of the Army Logistic Corps, will be assisting, so that offers some hope of success.  It comes none too soon, as the rate of positive tests is still increasing markedly and hospitals in the worst affected areas are close to 100% capacity.  Daily deaths are approaching the value that we encountered in the April 2020 peak, currently 1,162. .  As a precursor to all this, on New Year’s Eve in London the mayor authorised significant expenditure on a firework display showing the flag of the European Union (which we had just left), a Black Lives Matter aggressive fist, and a display saying “I Love You NHS” (pass the sick bucket).  The public, having been drawn out to watch the pretty fireworks, were promptly ordered to disperse by the Metropolitan Police, London – at the time – being in Tier 4 (motto “Say At Home”).  You couldn’t make this up.  Like it’s predecessors, the latest lockdown will not affect us much personally because we have stopped going out anyway, but when Jane’s leg gets better we would have liked to have driven farther afield for a walk; that is now forbidden.  We have broken out the reserve jigsaws.

The choice of jigsaws can be an interesting one (or it can in a lockdown with not much to write about).  I favour the mechanical or industrial ones that involve artefacts, perspective, order and method; Jane (naturally) favours the ones that involve plants or birds.  I ask you!  How could you prefer wishy washy flowers to the firm lines of a locomotive with its strong elegant design and the Stephenson Link?  Alas, we have just completed an excellent jigsaw of St Pancras Station depicting a 1950s versus a modern scene and I have been forced to accept a new puzzle that takes in chaffinches, goldfinches, celandines and asters. The things you have to do for a successful partnership, but I shall survive.

Inevitably, a debate is developing over the priority attached to the Covid vaccination programme.  No-one has actually said “Let’s not bother with these dozy and dying old people: We are more important”, but the inference is there.  The latest section of the community demanding immediate immunity are the teaching unions, who are clearly terrified that their largely fit and young members Are Going To Die unless they receive a vaccination, because they are in close quarters with apparently contaminated children for six hours a day, 190 days a year (or they were before lockdown).  The fact that supermarket staff are in contact with the potentially contaminated adult public for 15 hours a day, 364 days a year without complaint seems to have escaped the teaching unions’ notice.  Priority for receiving immunisation was bound to be a contentious issue, but the primary aim of the UK vaccination programme is not, contrary to what many believe, to stop everyone from catching Covid 19: rather it is to ease the pressure on hospitals and and minimise associated deaths.  The people most likely to have to be admitted to hospital with the virus, or to die from it, are people over 65 and those with other underlying conditions.  To his credit, the Chief Medical Officer has pointed out that:

“We accept there is a level of risk that society will tolerate, and we should tolerate. People die – that’s one of the things that happens… zero risk is not something which is a realistic possibility”

Sixty years ago we had the public safety announcement, “Coughs and sneezes spread diseases.  Trap your germs in a handkerchief” and left it to the population to use their common sense.  In 2021 the government feels the need to put the entire population under house arrest in order to achieve the same goal.

“How many times have we seen this?”
So went the refrain when I selected The Good, The Bad and The Ugly on the television the other night (you can’t beat a good Clint Eastwood film, that’s what I say).  I clicked over onto Tora, Tora, Tora and there was an even louder groan. Scrolling through the channels, I hovered the remote selector over The Longest Day, but thought better of it.  I did point out that the network was showing Forty Shades of Darkness (or something like that), which we hadn’t seen, but my suggestion that we should give it a go was met with a very robust response:
“We’re not watching that!  It’s all about H&M.  We’re not having any of that nonsense”.
I pondered on what the ‘H’ must stand for, but then vaguely recalled that H&M might be a women’s fashion chain, hence the confusion.  Either way, the film was off limits.  The fact is, the television choices have been pretty dire over the last ten months and the festive period offered the worst selection of all.  We are not addicts of the television set, preferring other pastimes, but we do like the odd armchair treat now and again after a hard day of doing nothing.  As well as the free channels we do have the option of Amazon Video, but even when that is taken into account, there is very little there that really appeals to us.  As to the repeats that I mentioned above, it is sometimes nice to see an old programme or film again, but it becomes a bit tedious when the same feature is repeated two or three times in a week.  I think The Longest Day has been on about six times in as many weeks; likewise the (many) others.  Ironically, PBS America has come up with some good documentaries; I say ironically, because often the production originated in the UK in the first place. I started watching one programme about the Civil War on PBS America the other day, searching in vain for signs of the Roundheads and Cavaliers before I realised it was about a different civil war (odd that).   Sky Arts has also produced some good offerings that have been worth watching, such participation being the video equivalent of reading an improving book and being very good for increasing our smug factor when dropped into a Facetime conversation.  Quite a few of our friends like opera and we keep wondering if we are missing out by not sharing their enjoyment.  Every now and again we dip into that murky pool to try it out, but so far the pleasure has evaded us.  I was listening to Nessun Dorma from Puccini’s Turandot the other day and commented to Jane on how moving and beautiful it was; she agreed, but then asked rhetorically would we like to sit through four hours of it.  So the jury is still out on the subject of opera.  But I wonder if our disenchantment with the television programmes on offer is part of a broader fading of interest in television as a medium for entertainment: perhaps there is so much on offer on the networks that very little of it is a treat any more and we are much harder to please.  I also wonder if we have the attention span that we once had.  When we had one television channel, the BBC, it broadcast in black and white only from 1700 to about 2300 (concluding with a religious epilogue and the National Anthem), but we quite enjoyed most programmes.  A film was shown on Sunday afternoons or, later, on Saturday evenings, and we thought of that as a tremendous treat.  In hindsight, not all the other programmes that we watched were actually all that good, but I suppose we knew no different.  Come to think of it, I wonder if we in western society  are becoming harder to please in all walks of entertainment: holidays abroad (the more exotic the better) are a must-have; cruises in hazardous areas such as the Antarctic are popular; children must be entertained in Disneyland or Alton Towers; fairground rides must be absolutely terrifying and include near-death experiences; leisure trips in outer space will probably become commonplace in my lifetime.  We are becoming very sophisticated in our tastes.  It is odd, really, for I have always found the bracing easterly wind on the beach in South Shields in the summer to be very invigorating on a family holiday.  For the present, I shall derive simple pleasure from being able to browse through a shop again without wearing a face mask.

I have said it before, and I say it again. I will never understand women. Jane and I were sitting at breakfast the other day, quietly reading our digital papers, when she said,
“Are you having another cup of coffee?”
“Probably”, I said absently and continued reading details of the latest problems in Belarus.
Ten minutes later she got up abruptly and proceeded to get herself a cup of coffee. Difficult though it was to display a flounce while wearing cords and “trainers” in the short journey from the breakfast table to the coffee machine, she managed to do it. There was definitely an unspoken message there, and I raised an eyebrow (I am not insensitive to atmosphere you know).
“Did you want another cup of coffee?”, I asked. “You should have said, that’s my job” [regular readers will know that I am The Drinks Person and she is The Food Person].
She harrumphed.
“I asked for a coffee ten minutes ago”.
I was mystified.
“No, you didn’t”.
“Yes I did. I asked if you were having another coffee”.
“Correct. And I replied ‘probably’. You didn’t ask for a coffee for yourself”
“It meant the same thing”
I will not repeat the remaining dialogue as I am sure you get the gist and, if you are a man, you will understand my frustration. Women: they never say what they really want. I should have learned that after that dress purchase débâcle described in Blog 42.
Well that’s at least 50% of my readership that I have alienated I suppose.

Thinking of coffee, the success of High Street coffee shops, such as Starbucks and Costa Coffee never ceases to amaze me.  Of course, they are not a new thing as Coffee Houses were popular meeting places in Britain in the 18th and 19th century, but they experienced a revival after that chap started Starbucks in Seattle in 1971.  Jane and I really enjoy our coffee and are very picky about the form it takes: it has to be fresh, for we never drink instant coffee.  Consequently, you would reasonably expect us to love the likes of Starbucks or Costa but, actually, we rarely frequent them.  There are two reasons: first, because we could just as easily make a really good cup of coffee at home without the expense (we currently have three coffee machines); and, second, because I find the process of ordering the coffee and enjoying the drink awkward and annoying.  In Costa, Starbucks and other coffee chains I first of all have to queue to place my order, an exercise which is fundamentally anathema to me.  After I have waited while someone ahead of me orders six entirely different and complex versions of coffee with sprinkles, I finally get to order.  I pay for my drink then have to hover around at the counter like a lemon for an undefined period, wondering if I have been forgotten, while the brew is created.  Finally, when I have the coffee, it is usually delivered in a small bucket instead of a cup and I am faced with the prospect of finding a free seat or table, drifting around the coffee shop like a satellite lost in space, spilling coffee onto the tray in the process.  And that does not take into account of the difficulty facing me with all the choices of coffee available: skinny latte, flat white, macchiato, caramel brulée, cappuccino to name but a few; all I usually want is a black coffee, preferably made with Mocha, Java, Colombian or Jamaican Blue Mountain roasted beans.  If I visit France or Spain I can walk into a café (or sit outside) and I will be served a coffee, at my table, by an efficient waiter or waitress.  I can sit and watch the world go by, chat with my companion, and generally enjoy the relaxing experience in a pleasant atmosphere. I also get a little biscuit.  If I want another cup I can simply summon the waiter or waitress, who will also accept my payment in due course.   We cannot do that in the UK (or, presumably, in the USA).  There used to be a very good family-run coffee house in Britain called Cawardines, which mirrored the continental experience; the wonderful smell of roasting coffee pervaded the area around the shop and encouraged customers.  Rather than a choice of somewhat bizarre confections, the range of coffee was based on the type of beans.  Sadly, many of their shops have now closed, though a few still remain in the West Country.

The top news this week must surely be the storming of the Capitol Building in Washington DC by supporters of the shortly-to-depart President Trump.  The politicians inside the building were debating the finer details of the November 2020 election with a view to endorsing (or rejecting)  the result when the incursion took place.  Rioters stormed the building and rampaged through its chambers and corridors. One posed in the Speaker’s chair. One person was shot and three others died from other causes.  The police and security officials were overwhelmed and the debate had to be stopped.  The National Guard was called out to restore order and a curfew was imposed in the city.  The rioters had been whipped up to a frenzy by a call to action by the outgoing President Trump, who felt that the recent election contained irregularities and was, therefore invalid.  He had made similar statements and rallying calls after the election result in November.  Later, a pipe bomb was defused and a lorry loaded with assault weapons was intercepted by the police.  After reconvening and examining the results from several states, Congress endorsed the election of Mr Joe Biden to be inaugurated as President on 20 January 2021.  I do not normally think it appropriate to comment on another countries’ political affairs, believing that such topics are an internal matter for the people of the country concerned.  However, I remember President Trump’s speech after the election result very well, and I have listened to his later speech just before the Congress debate.  There is doubt in my mind that in both speeches he was inciting revolution and insurrection because he did not like the democratic result.  I was shocked then and I am appalled now.  I do not believe any right-thinking American, Democrat or Republican, would endorse this sort of behaviour.  I would venture to suggest that the USA came close to a coup d’état on Wednesday 6 January.  It is unprecedented.  There is talk of the Vice President and Cabinet invoking the 25th Amendment for the first time and removing President Trump from office now.  Whatever, the whole affair was deeply shocking and I think there will be a reckoning.  My heart goes out to decent Americans at this very difficult time.

The weather in Britain is currently running through a steady cold spell, with temperatures hovering around freezing for over a week now.  It was -3 degrees C at noon today.  For next week, the weather forecasters are predicting another “Beast from the East” (journalists love these terrifying phrases): a euphemism for a severe cold spell, possibly with heavy snow.  Well, it seems to me that, if we are to get heavy snow and disruption then this is the best time to have it, with many people working from home, minimal commuting, and schools shut.  Bring it on.

We were sitting there in the drawing room, reading our books and listening to classical music on the wireless, when suddenly Jane burst into life and started peddling her legs in the air and winding her arms around like a whirling dervish.  My initial thought was that she really had lost it this time and I gently sought an explanation (‘gently’ because you never know how these people will react).  It appears that her fitness watch (purchased after her heart episode last year) had told her that she had been immobile for too long and that she must start moving.  This was her solution.  I shook my head sorrowfully: a further manifestation of this dubious addition to the household.  Already, the simple question in the morning of, “Did you sleep well, dear?” produces a glance at her watch and a deep scientific analysis of her slumber, invoking terms such as ‘sleep quality’ and ‘REM sleep’.  Often, the objective report clashes with the subjective report so that a report of, “Gosh, that was a good night’s sleep” (no doubt dreaming of her garden again) will subsequently be tempered by, “Oh dear, only five minutes of REM sleep and Quality of Sleep only 30%”.  As I told her at the time, you can become too fixated on instruments: if you feel that you have had a good sleep, then you have had a good sleep.  In a different context, I remember once when I was in the destroyer HMS BARCHESTER and she was conducting a gunnery exercise with a consort, HMS PLYMOUTH.  I was listening to the conversation on the internal gunnery broadcast between the Director Control Officer (sitting in the high-up gun Director with powerful binoculars) and the ship’s Gunnery Officer (sitting over a radar display in the dark Operations Room, deep in the bowels of the ship).  There was a dispute as to what the Director (and, hence, the ship’s armament) was aiming at; it was supposed to be pointing at HMS PLYMOUTH.
[Gunnery Officer]: “Director, report target”
[Director]: Target is HMS PLYMOUTH
[Gunnery Officer]: “Director, check again”
[Director]: Target is HMS PLYMOUTH
[Gunnery Officer] (beginning to lose his calm demeanour): “It can’t be PLYMOUTH! Director, describe target”
[Director] (looking out of Director window with binoculars): “A vessel under way, long and grey, one forward gun turret, one mast, one funnel with black cap.  White ensign.  Looks like a Royal Navy frigate.  There is a number on her side: F 1 2 6”
[Gunnery Officer] (subdued): “Ah….Roger…”
Moral of the story: try to keep both feet on the ground and don’t always trust the instruments. 
The footnote to the exchange, by the way, was the pipe:
“Weapons and Electrical Officer, bridge” on the ship’s Main Broadcast.  When things go wrong then always blame the maintainer.

At a favourably reduced price we have acquired two more Amazon Echo devices, so that we now have pods located in the drawing room, the Garden Control Tower (aka the conservatory), the bedroom and the study.  The world is therefore at our vocal command from almost everywhere in the house.  The latest capability that we have discovered is to ‘drop in’ on another room, that is to say, to use the Echo as an intercom.  Initially this went well, but I have encountered a few technical problems more recently.  The command from the study, “Alexa drop in on the conservatory” and the subsequent request to Jane for a cup of tea seems to result in a somewhat loud garbled response and no tea.  I think there must be some interference on the wifi loop or something, which I shall have to pursue in due course.  Odd really: Jane heard me all right when we first tested it.

Now, if you will excuse me I must change into my kit and start pumping iron.  Or is that to do with the other end?

7 January 2021