Blog 80. Pull The Ladder Up, Jack…

“Someone seems to have got out of bed on the wrong side this morning”.
So went the breakfast greeting from my dear wife earlier in the week as she bounced into the Garden Control Tower in her new plimsolls. I grunted in reply. I had woken at 0500 and tossed and turned, as you do, snuggled up to Mrs S, was told to get off, rolled to my side of the bed, then nearly fell out. Then I remembered that we had discussed a possible strategy for this vulnerable and delicate time in her day that involved me simply getting up and leaving her to sleep in peace, bringing up a warming cup of the oolong several hours later only when summoned. So I got up, washed, shaved, dressed and repaired to the Breakfast Room (aka the Garden Control Tower) for a cup of black coffee and a glance at The Times. And that is where I made my first mistake of the day.
“Social Distancing Likely To Be In Force Until At Least The Autumn”, screamed the headline. I could hardly believe it. Here we were, in our third miserable lockdown, the UK economy in its worse state for three hundred years, half the population in a state of hysteria, yet with infections, hospital admissions and deaths plummeting like a stone because of a highly successful vaccination programme; and the prediction now was that we would still be faffing about with masks and two metres in September. Oh Brilliant! And I suppose the whole lot will start all over again in the Winter as the first sniffle comes along and that will be another Christmas ruined. Hrrmph.
That was the start.
Then I remembered that I had a parcel to collect from the Royal Mail sorting office, which was open from 0500 – 1230, so I thought I would take a break in that direction. It is an interesting characteristic of our national postal service (though it is actually a privately-run company nowadays) that, whereas all other delivery services or couriers, such as Amazon, will leave parcels with a neighbour or in the back garden, or will redeliver on another day, the Royal Mail insists on putting a card through your letterbox if you are not in, requiring you to pick up the parcel at the Main Sorting Office, which has totally inconvenient and anti-social opening hours. Theoretically, you can go onto the Royal Mail website to ask for a redelivery, but as the postman never fills in the reference on the card that he or she puts through your letterbox, that option is not available. Anyway, as an escape from The Times’ gloomy news I took the car out and drove through the cold, dark and deserted streets into town, waited five long minutes while a lorry took three attempts to reverse into the Sorting Office, searched for a parking slot, then dived out into the freezing cold to collect my parcel. On the door of the Sorting Office was a notice that said,
“Covid Restrictions. Office Opens at 0800. Sorry For Any Inconvenience”.
This was my second mistake of the day.
I was practically spitting blood. A return home, another cup of coffee, more gloomy news from The Times, a return to the Sorting Office at 0801 and final docking back home had all preceded the memsahib’s discerning assessment of my mood, given at the start of the paragraph. After I had snarled my way through breakfast I was offered some further advice:
“…and don’t take your bad mood out on me!”
And, behold, I was immediately calm for verily, I feared exceedingly, and said to myself, ‘what manner of woman is this, that even the wind and the sea obey her?’ (With apologies to St Mark).

Well, this could be the end of civilisation as we know it: the French have waived their law that prohibits employees from eating their lunch at their workplace. The last bastion has fallen. The reason, of course, is that well-known excuse for just about everything bad or inefficient at the moment, the Corona virus. If there are no restaurants open then, ergo, French workers cannot eat a proper lunch – hence the relaxation of the rules. We can gloss over the fact that the French actually have (had) a law that bans workers from eating at their workplace. For the benefit of those who have not been to France, I should explain that the whole of that country except the hospitality industry shuts down at noon for about two hours, and the natives go out for a proper sit-down lunch, perhaps with a small glass of wine. During this period businesses shut, parking charges are suspended, and the good people of France shake off their work problems, socialise, and generally relax in a civilised manner. They eat a proper cooked and delicious meal (ie not [usually] burgers and chips) which is served to them by harassed-looking, yet thoroughly professional and efficient, waiters or waitresses. The same procedure is followed in schools, where the children receive a balanced meal with not an Angel Delight or a Cabinet Pudding in sight. Odd and distinctly parochial though it may sound, I had never been to France on holiday before 2005. I had, of course, frequented the ports of Toulon, Marseilles and Cherbourg in the course of my service with the Royal Navy, but the odd beer in the red light district, a haircut run-ashore, or an expedition to buy a bottle of ink did not really count as cultural visits to the country of Britain’s nearest foreign neighbour. My reluctance to visit before 2005 was twofold: first, there was the natural English aversion to France, England’s natural enemy (or has been since 1066); second, and the main reason, was that I could not speak a word of French. My schooling, while excellent in many ways, did not include languages because I was a 13+ entrant to Grammar School, and that was the system’s punishment for me being a late developer; Grammar School 11-year-olds were taught languages but, as a late entrant at 13, I was taught instead how to draw the curve of interpenetration in engineering drawing, a rare skill no longer taught anywhere. On travel, I have always had the philosophical view that, for reasons of politeness and good manners, one should at least try to speak the language of a host country and so any holiday plans involving France (or any other non-English-speaking country) always reached an impasse. Up to 2005 we took all our holidays in Britain, where the language was intelligible (except for that time in Wales), the accommodation expensive, and the weather predictable (usually grey and wet). I must have had some sort of epiphany in 2004, because at that time I decided to teach myself French and I have never looked back since. Behold, the half was not told unto me: what a beautiful country, with lovely food, empty roads, perfectly decent people (even if they are French) and a totally different culture and approach to life. I have heard it said that the British eat to live, but the French live to eat. That is somewhat simplistic and trite, but not a bad summary. And when I say ‘live to eat’, I don’t mean that all the French are porkies; I mean the quality of the food, even in little roadside cafés is usually excellent. The French can even make a salad taste good. I do hope that the country reverts to its proper lunchtimes when all this is over – if it ever is in my lifetime.

Language and communication are so important, don’t you think?  I have commented before about the misuse of English and the need to avoid ambiguity that could lead to misunderstanding; saying “disinterested” when one means “uninterested” for example, or “infer” when one really means “imply”, such pairs having totally opposite meanings.  I was reading, some time ago, of an incident involving the emergency services that illustrates my point about the misinterpretation of language very well.  Someone had dialled 999 and, in a panicked voice, asked for the Ambulance Service.  He was put through and the conversation apparently went something like this:
[Emergency Operator]: “Ambulance Service.  Can I help you?”
[Caller]: “Oh my God! I’ve killed my friend.  I’ve killed my friend.  We were out hunting and there was an accident.  I’ve shot him. Help, for God’s sake, help.  There’s blood everywhere…”
[Emergency Operator]: “Calm down, sir.  Calm down.  It may not be as bad as that.  We’ll send an ambulance but, for the moment, only you can save him. Now, listen carefully.   First, make sure he’s dead”
[Caller][in a more stable voice]:”Right, right…I’ll do that…yes”
The operator heard footsteps as the man went back to the casualty.  Then there was a loud BANG and the caller came back on the line.
[Caller]: “Right.  I’ve done that.  Now what do I do?”
I suppose in a case like that, the breakdown is not just in communication, but in fundamental intelligence.

One way of characterising older and wiser citizens (apart from the sigh as they sit down) is by their conversations involving their medication or pain such as,
“I’m on the blue pills…”,
“Ha! I was on those last year. Now I’m on the green pills. They’re much better”
“Oh I need the blue pills for my leg. I get this ache just here…”
And so it goes on.
However, a further characteristic has now been added in 2021: the conversation regarding their Covid 19 vaccinations:
“Have you had yours yet?”
“Oh yes, I had the Oxford-AstraZeneca last week…”
“Pish, pish – I had the Pfizer two weeks ago…”
“We haven’t had ours yet. We aren’t yet 70”.
“Oh dear…”
As most of our friends are older than us (we hope that some of their wisdom, though preferably not their age, will rub off on us), the above has been a typical conversation on email, Facetime or whatever passes for a conversation nowadays. I am pleased to say that such dialogue has now moved on to a new level for – at last – I have been ‘done’ (vaccinated, that is, not gelded). Jane received the Oxford jab locally on Friday and I received mine at the racecourse of the Big City early on Saturday. The disparity of locations may be explained by the fact that Jane received a text from our local surgery and a local appointment shortly after; coincidentally, on the day she was vaccinated we both received letters from the central NHS Authority authorising us to log in online and book appointments at a nearby National Vaccination Centre. I opted to take the last option (having heard nothing from our surgery), a bird in the hand being worth two in the bush. Saturday dawned for us at 0630 on a dark and freezing morning and one of us leapt out of bed with great eagerness for what the day would bring; the other had a hangover after having consumed too much Crémant de Loire the previous night. The Big City Racecourse is located high on a hill north of the city itself and is very exposed to the elements. When we arrived for the 0820 appointment the temperature was -4C with a brisk easterly wind lowering that to about -8C by the chill factor. A whole host of volunteers, together with a clutch of firefighters from the local brigade, had turned out to greet me, which was most gratifying. It was some sacrifice, for I have to tell you, dear reader, that the conditions up there were perishing. The action took place in a large marquee that shook and crackled so much with every gust of wind that I could hardly hear what was being said to me. I was checked in at three separate desks and sterilised my hands at four separate stations. I was issued with an NHS standard facemark to be worn instead of my own. Wherever I sat, the seat was wiped down afterwards. Marshals (guides, not the US-variety) were everywhere to steer me in the right direction (very necessary as my spectacles had steamed up), and full credit to them for turning out in such inhospitable Arctic conditions. Finally, I got to sit down and be vaccinated with the Oxford-AstraZeneca serum, the most mundane part of the entire event. Afterwards I was directed to a high-backed easy chair such as one finds in the lounges of Old Peoples’ Homes to ‘recover’. My question of,
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea…?”
was ignored, but I was given the precious card stating that I had been ‘done’. Alas, there was no badge and not even an offer of a boiled sweet for being a good brave boy.
I was released into the void after fifteen minutes (presumably to make sure that I didn’t die on them) clutching a leaflet entitled delicately, “Covid-19 Vaccination – A Guide for Older Adults” that depicted smiling grey-haired stalwarts looking cheerful or sitting in wheelchairs. That’s it then; booster dose on 1 May, when the sun will be shining, birds will be twittering in the trees, and all will be right with the world.

Incidentally, vis à vis these early morning expeditions in the (electric) motor car, my Nissan Leaf has the feature whereby one can tell it to get its interior warmed up in time for the humans to enter.  This can be done on a programmed schedule, or on spec.  One simply sends a signal to the car on getting out of bed and, on departure, scuttles across to the garage, unplugs the car, and climbs into a warm cosy environment, steering wheel and seats hot, ready to depart into the frozen landscape.  I just thought I’d mention that if you are still driving that dreadful fossil-fuelled gas guzzler.  What’s that?  You’re going to keep it?  OK – you know best, I suppose, but what would that precocious little Swedish girl say about it (has she gone away yet, by the way)? 

The UK remains in its third lockdown but, as stated earlier, the number of infections, hospital admissions and deaths from Covid 19 are all plummeting.  At the time of writing, deaths in the last 24 hours stood at 621, dropping at 26% a week. 14 million people (28% of the adult population) have been vaccinated and the government has achieved its target of immunising those over 70 by 14 February.  Vaccination of the Batch 5 people, aged 65 – 69 (including me), has now started.  I am sorry to report further instances of police over-zealousness, this time of an incident more local.  The granddaughter of friends of ours works temporarily in Iceland, a frozen-food supermarket in a nearby town.  She was familiar with two elderly women who were regular customers, coming in weekly on the bus from a town 6 miles away to order their groceries and arrange to have them delivered.  Last week the bus duly arrived and the two old dears alighted – to be met by the Barsetshire Police who asked their business and whence they had come.  On replying, the ladies were promptly given an on-the-spot fine of £200 each and told that they should shop in their own town.  There was no warning or discussion; no attempt to explain; just ‘bang’, “you’re nicked”.  I think that that is totally out of order and, moreover, an illegal fine.  As I stated in Blog 76, the actual UK law on Covid 19 makes no restrictions on distance travelled, or time taken, to shop or exercise: what it says regarding shopping is “…you must stay at home…except to obtain essential supplies…”. If I were in those ladies’ positions I would refuse to accept the fine and let the police prosecute me in the Magistrate’s Court – if they could.  But then, two old ladies are such an easy target and unlikely to complain.

I see that the Europeans have decided to avoid using the Oxford vaccine because “it is less effective than the Pfizer and has unpleasant side effects”.  This is contrary to trial results, experience in Britain over the last three months, and the recommendations of the World Health Organisation (WHO).  It would appear that, because  our continental cousins have been unable to organise themselves and obtain sufficient of their own stocks of the Oxford-AstraZeneca vaccine, their strategy now is simply to discredit the remedy used by their hated arch-rival, Britain, and sow seeds of doubt in the minds of any Britons already unconvinced by the efficacy or safety of the vaccine.  More fool the Europeans, and what a childish and pathetic strategy.  The European Union has also extended its previous policy of preventing the export of vaccines from Europe in order to retain the material for its own use, this time at the expense of an order placed by Canada. One could not find a more clearer case for establishing strategically important manufacturing capability on one’s own soil, and so much for Whole World cooperation.

I was baffled by reports of the number of British people returning to the happy homeland in the current circumstances because it was my understanding that we were in lockdown, the fundamental requirement being “stay at home”.  As I described earlier, two people here were recently fined for travelling a mere 6 miles to a nearby town to buy a a packet of cornflakes, a bag of frozen peas, some corn plasters and a bottle of milk (or whatever).   How, therefore, is it that some people are returning from the Bahamas (where they spent Christmas, how nice) or Dubai (where they had many pictures taken as they sunned or inebriated themselves).  It turns out that these people are “Social Media Influencers” and so their trips were essential and permitted because it was “work”.  Yeh, right.  Look: I write this blog mostly every week and post it on the internet, which I suppose is a kind of social media.  Not a week goes by without me offering an opinion or sage advice in the hope of influencing my readership.  Do you think I could do a bit of crowd funding to pay for the memsahib and me to travel abroad?  To Fiji, perhaps to soak up the atmosphere and report on the quality of the restaurants and the sartorial standards there…The offer is on the table.  What’s that?  You can’t afford it?  No, neither can I.  Social Media Influencing indeed: a bunch of overpaid, over-indulged, over-exposed and over-suntanned air heads who should never have been permitted to leave the country in lockdown.  Stick them in a B&B in Workington in quarantine for a fortnight, eating pease pudding and saveloy from the local pork shop, and let them tweet, or whatever it is they do, from there.

So, here we are: 13 February 2021and the eve of St Valentine’s Day; bitterly cold in Britain and the Thames frozen over at Teddington; the wind blowing a hooley at -4C; no snow here in Barsetshire, but the windows are rattling and it is distinctly uncomfortable outside.  Yet the snowdrops are up, the hamamelis is in flower, and Mrs Shacklepin has started painting her toenails for the forthcoming Spring and Summer (always a good sign).  She is also preparing Beef Wellington for our celebratory dinner tomorrow.  What more can you ask as the counterpoint to my opening paragraph?  Oh yes, I forgot, I have had my first Covid 19 vaccination.  Just pull the ladder up, would you Jack?  I’m all right.

Brrrrr, it’s cold.

13 February 2021