Ta Daah! My boat is back in the water after nearly four months of being laid up ashore. We have seen photographs, sent by our secret agents in Dartmouth, showing APPLETON RUM bobbing happily alongside a brand new pontoon in the new floating marina. This is wonderful news and we still hope to get down there next week to give her a reassuring pat on the poop deck and some words of reassurance that we still love her. More next week on the exciting tribulations of driving over 100 miles on British roads; I can hardly sleep for the excitement. We move to British Summer Time on Saturday – a new (and later) dawn is beginning.
So here we are: one year ‘in’ for the United Kingdom and still in lockdown though, admittedly, this is Lockdown Number 3 as opposed to Number 1. We were given a brief parole last June – just a short taster of what life used to be like – before being plunged back into confinement and misery. 126,445 people in the UK have died with Covid 19 since it all began, yielding an overall probability of dying from the disease in the UK of just 0.18%. This probability drops to a mere 0.06% this year, now that the vaccination programme is in full swing. The figures are not available for the number of deaths caused by neglected treatment of other ailments; for suicides; for the increase in mental illness; for the untold anguish of those who have been died alone, apart from their loved ones. Was it – is it – really necessary to confine an entire country for the sake of a disease with a less than one percent fatality rate? Jane tried telephoning the hospital in the Big City the other day to enquire after her heart monitor (prescribed in November 2020), and was simply cut off after the initial recorded spiel about Covid 19: no discussion. As I write, daily deaths in the UK are down to 63, still dropping at 31% weekly; hospital admissions, 354 (dropping 20% weekly). Excess deaths are now below the 5-year average for the time of year. About 29 million people have been vaccinated (56% of the UK adult population) and the programme is set to achieve its next milestone of all those over 50 being immunised (or offered immunisation) by 15 April. Meanwhile, in Europe, the continent is suffering a third wave of infections which – it is predicted – will be coming our way. Will that be a problem in our – now – much more robust state of immunity? It is hard to say, for the government continues on its metaphorical line of stick and carrot: of lights at the ends of tunnels followed by dire predictions of more deaths and more mask-wearing. This has been the official stance for some time now and, frankly, it is becoming somewhat tedious. We are frequently encouraged by phrases such as, “just a little bit longer” or “we should be out by Easter when all the at-risk groups have all been vaccinated”, but these exhortations are then immediately dampened by a cancellation of all foreign holidays until at least July and predictions that we will still be practising social distancing well into the Autumn, if not into next year. It is worse than torture. Down here at the coalface we are still twitched that a neighbour will report us for entertaining friends in the back garden (none will come anyway), or for taking the car to go for a country walk out of area; but, looking out of our window, there seems to be a lot more cars moving around than there used to be. Bearing in mind that the law says we must remain in our homes except in exceptional circumstances – such cases roughly being only to exercise, to go food shopping, to go to work or to go to the doctor – one wonders where these cars have come from or are going after 2000, when the supermarkets have shut. We live in a cul-de-sac with only eight houses ‘upstream’ of us, yet at times the traffic flow (including at night) is like the M5 on a Bank Holiday. I may exaggerate slightly, but you get the gist. The press says that it is those naughty old vaccinated people who are breaking the rules, but I have seen no evidence of that among the people I know (or maybe I just don’t get invited to those sort of parties); either way, I think the cracks are starting to show and people are becoming a bit more lax. The government remains adamant that it will not relent from its published timetable for coming out of lockdown, and perhaps it is right to be cautious and to place an embargo on foreign holidays; but I see signs of it moving the goalposts yet again for the long-term emergence: before, it was, “wait until all those over aged 50 have been vaccinated (April 2021)”, then it was, “wait until all adults have been vaccinated (August 2021)”, and now – the latest one – is, “wait until the whole world has been vaccinated (God knows)”. Good grief: like the Hotel California, we will never leave at this rate.
The European Union (EU) has made a complete dog’s breakfast of its vaccination programme and, like a drowning man, is thrashing around looking for someone to blame and someone to drag under with it. Surprise, surprise, it has selected for scapegoat its erstwhile member, floating happily in its lifeboat of vaccinated passengers, the United Kingdom. Encumbered by its bureaucracy, the EU failed to streamline its approval process for the vaccines, failed to invest widely and speculatively, was slow to set up contracts with the pharmaceutical firms, laborious and unimaginative in negotiating terms, and dogmatic in insisting that the whole process be dealt with centrally, instead of member states acting individually. Unencumbered by EU or most other traditional restraints, the UK invested very early and very widely in vaccine research, eventually coming up trumps with the Oxford AstraZeneca vaccine: a joint venture between Oxford University and the global pharmaceutical firm Astra Zeneca. The company undertook to supply the vaccine to the world at cost and a rapid contract was agreed with the UK government. The UK started its vaccination programme in December 2020, initially using the alternative Pfizer vaccine, but then moving on to include the Oxford AstraZeneca serum after it had received medical approval. This successful process was like a red rag to the EU bull (particularly the French), and its first response was politically to discredit the AstraZeneca vaccine as unsafe (since rescinded); its second response was to restrict the vaccine to certain age groups (first the elderly then, in a remarkable flipflop, just the young); the third response was to claim that AstraZeneca was favouring the UK contract at the expense of the (later) EU contract; its fourth response was to threaten to invoke a law intended for use in time of war or conflict, and block all exports of the vaccine to the UK and some other countries. A crack unit of the Italian police made a dawn raid on the AstraZeneca laboratory in Italy yesterday to find – ah ha! – a batch of vaccines earmarked for (oh dear, how embarrassing) Belgium. Paradoxically, and bizarrely, the EU has done such a good discrediting job on the Oxford AstraZeneca vaccine in Europe that up to 60% of its citizens are declining to have it and Germany, alone, has 1.5m doses unused in storage (which begs the question of, ‘so why ban exports of a vaccine that you have plenty of and which none of your people want?’). Meanwhile, Europe is suffering a severe third wave of infections and its people are suffering and dying – all because of political posturing and bluster. Thank God we left that poisonous organisation that puts saving political face before saving lives.
I walked into the kitchen to see how breakfast was coming along and was brought up short by the sight of the chopping board, on which rested what appeared to be two large rabbit droppings. I drew closer and recognised that they were – in fact – two single dates, all the more prominent for being alone on the vast expanse of the beech board.
“Tell me that’s not our breakfast”, I asked of the Head Chef.
“It is. It’s still a fast day. One for you and one for me”, was the reply.
In a small saucepan on the hob bubbled, what looked like, a teaspoonful of berries. That was the second component of the feast. The third component would be a tablespoonful of yoghurt. The two of us later sat there in the Garden Control Tower (aka the Breakfast Room or conservatory) gazing at our bowls: the contents looked jolly nice and, on tasting the repast, they tasted very nice; but was that it? Apparently it was: two mouthfuls then gone. We wondered then what to do for the rest of the day. The diet continues, you see: five days normal food, two days on 800 calories. Notwithstanding this little episode, the programme still hasn’t been too bad or onerous, but both of our weights have plateaued and we just have to slough on through the doldrums before we pick up the Roaring 40s once more. I have lost just over a stone (actually 15 lbs) since January, though most of that was in the first month; I feel very much the better for it so I think it has been worthwhile, though I am developing an aversion to broccoli. The daily exercise bike workout is still going on, though calling it a ‘workout’ may be somewhat an excessive description for thirty minutes of pedalling at 85% full power. Never mind, it is thirty minutes more exercise than I used to get.
My search for quality sartorial elegance has had some success, though not in the trousers department (Blog 85). Thwarted by the dearth of decent cavalry twill trousers, I directed my attention to my upper half with the aim of obtaining a new waistcoat for my Harris Tweed ensembles. I already have a mustard coloured waistcoat and a green check one, each matching nicely with two appropriate sports coats; however my Donegal Tweed coat with the slight red thread would benefit from a complementary maroon or red waistcoat and so I searched accordingly. Yet again, there was some difficulty in finding a suitable item of the right colour and quality, but I was determined not to be beaten. I finally struck success when I found Tom Sawyer Waistcoats (www.tomsawyerwaistcoats.co.uk), based in Ipplepen in Devon. The small family firm had a good range of waistcoats and I ordered one in maroon immediately; it is being manufactured as I write. I will let you know how I get on with the end product (I know you will be interested). I see that the firm also makes cravats and I could do with some new ones; the oldest I have was bought during a run ashore in Gibraltar in 1971, so is getting on a bit now.
Speaking of sartorial elegance, the memsahib tapped her way into breakfast the other morning wearing high heels, tights, a very smart dress, a matching necklace and lipstick, her (longer than usual) strawberry blond hair beautifully coiffured and curled under. My jaw fell open. Boy, does she scrub up well, though my remark of,
“My God. You’re a girl!”,
did not go down terribly well. I couldn’t take my eyes off her over breakfast. In fact, so often did I stare at her that it invoked the order,
“Will you stop that!”
I immediately averted my eyes, lest I be accused of sexual harassment or even sexual assault (you never know where you are as a privileged white man in 2021). On enquiry, she revealed that she had been inspired by my own determination not to let appearances go in lockdown and so had decided to break the monotonous routine by occasionally dressing smartly: a practice she intends to repeat once a week at random. For my part, I gulped down two cups of black coffee thinking that, perhaps, I was dreaming and in need of waking up (I have never inspired anyone in my life); but, no, it was not a vision, it was my wife. Cor, I say! Alas, at midnight the golden carriage turned into a pumpkin and Cinders put aside her frock, her shoes and her jewellery to become a thing of shreds and patches once more: she bounced into breakfast the next day wearing her jeans and gym shoes. Never mind: I can wait another week.
26 March 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 
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