Happy Christmas one and all. I must confess that when I made the same greeting almost exactly a year ago I never thought I would be writing the same words in the same circumstances, with Covid still “raging” and “infections soaring” according to the British media. Sadly, the headlines are – alas – more or less accurate for once, though the soaring infection rate is not matched by a similar rate of hospitalisations or deaths: the vaccines are doing their job. Everyone in England is on tenterhooks waiting for Boris to close down the country or have the unvaccinated shot and their bodies burnt, as advocated by the Magi: the scientists of the UK All Powerful Ones in the Scientific Advisories Group for Emergencies (SAGE). So far he has stood firm, which I grudgingly admit is to his credit; but our Prime Minister is a great one for ‘U’ turns or making last-minute decisions based on the last doom-monger to pound his ear, so anything could happen. I say “England” because Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are still doing their own thing, and never eased any of the earlier restrictions of compulsory face masks, social gatherings and so on, as England did in July. Curiously, their rates of infection per head of population have been no better than that in England; in some instances they have even been slightly worse. But a dominant section of our lords and masters loves lockdowns, laws and restrictions – the more extreme the better: the draconian laws are Doing Something, even if they don’t work, so we may yet be plunged into another period of misery. A two-week “circuit breaker” has been mooted for England, but we have all heard that story before: earlier in the year we were told that we were entering such a brief interlude and it eventually lasted six months. This time, if lockdown is proposed, I rather suspect that people and Parliament will fight back or simply not comply. We have had enough. A 24-hour 7-day booster programme has been implemented to ensure that everyone has had at least three vaccinations, but it seems to me that – booster or not – the infections are still spreading, and it cannot all be laid at the door of the unvaccinated. Fortunately, as mentioned in an earlier blog, infection from the omicron variant appears to involve relatively mild symptoms in most people, with a significantly reduced risk of hospital admission or death. The Chief Medical Officer thinks that the current rate of infections will peak quite rapidly, then decline as it has done in South Africa. Let us hope he is right. Ho hum – welcome 2022.
We have started the usual round of pre-Christmas social gatherings – not wild parties with paper hats, you understand, but genteel lunches with select friends, and then only with one other couple at a time. Each time we have unobtrusively taken lateral flow tests beforehand as both a precaution and a courtesy. I was appalled to read, in the “agony aunt” section of The Spectator magazine, of one couple who were invited to lunch by some very old friends, but on the condition that they take a Covid lateral flow test first. The invitees were appalled too. Next thing, people will be demanding a vaccination passport as a prerequisite for entry to their house. The advice to the couple by The Spectator was simply to treat the precondition as one would a dress code and just go with the flow (no pun intended), but I disagree with the comparison: a dress code on an invitation is a guide to the type of social occasion that is offered and what others will be wearing – it does not mean that you will be refused entry to a friend’s house if you are not wearing a jacket and tie. Dear oh dear, what sort of people is this virus turning us into? Give friends some credit for using a bit of initiative and common sense when invited for hospitality.
“Mask!”
Thus spoke a bus driver to a friend of mine as he boarded a local bus in Bath, where he lives. Juggling his Senior Bus Pass with the operation of fumbling on his face mask, he tried to lay the pass on the electronic reader, pay, and thus free his hands.
“Mask!”, said the bus driver aggressively and louder again, placing his own hand over the electronic pad and thus preventing payment. My friend, older than I, and slightly hard of hearing after years of working with turbines in HM Ships, continued to fumble and try to pay.
“MASK!”, shouted the bus driver for the third time, his hand still over the payment pad. My friend finally realised what was going on. Depositing his Senior Bus Pass temporarily in his pocket, he ostentatiously, and with great care, concentrated on fitting his face mask with both hands and adjusting it to fit. Only then was he allowed to pay and proceed. This is the society we have become, where senior citizens and veterans are berated and bullied in public for being too deaf or too slow to follow the latest diktat. Congratulations First Bus; you must be very proud for providing such an excellent bus service to the public in Bath and Bristol, particularly at this time of good cheer.
Christmas luncheons are Jane’s highlight of the year. The kitchen hums, steams and rattles like the boiler room of a battleship on full power; the special Christmas tablecloth and matching napkins are unearthed and submitted to Number 1 Boy (ie, me) for starching and re-ironing before decorating the polished Queen Anne table in the dining room; candles are set out; holly and other greenery emerge from somewhere; glasses for water and white, red and pudding wines are arranged, as are cutlery, according to Debrett’s Guide to Etiquette and Modern Manners. It is all rather splendid and I take great delight in laying it all out; equally, Jane takes great delight in afterwards re-arranging it (“Those are white wine glasses, not red, and none of them match anyway…”). This year, Jane went to light the candles just before the first of our luncheon guests arrived, but could not immediately find any matches. Fortunately, I was able to point out, on the sideboard, two books of matches that I had received as a free gift with the blades for my safety razor purchased last month (Blog 106). She opened one of them and looked in vain for the striking pad used to ignite the matches. There was none. The matches were of foreign origin and contained unintelligible writing in some East European language or other, but she finally tracked down the English version of the tiny instructions. Oh dear. The books of matches contained, not matchsticks, but small styptic pencils used to stem the blood after cutting oneself shaving. I did think it a bit odd that manufacturers of razor blades would supply gifts of matches, but had thought it best never to look a gift horse in the mouth. An alternative source for fire was eventually found and the styptic pencils were rehabilitated in the en-suite bathroom, next to my shaving mug. Still, the creases in the starched tablecloth looked good.
All the Christmas presents have been wrapped at last, and Jane’s presents labelled by a large “J” in felt-tip pen. I am not a great one for fancy labels as they would each say exactly the same thing (“Merry Christmas, darling, from Mr Happy”). I have thrown in a few rogue elements for Jane this year, as a pleasant surprise. The last one arrived today and is, The Pusser’s Cookbook with naval recipes such as Babies Heads, Sh*t on a Raft, Cheesy Hammy Eggy and Pot Mess. Alas, it does not have receipts for Oxford Cutlets or Beef Olives but, hey, you can’t have everything. I know Jane will be really pleased with this gift, which I will ensure is opened in front of witnesses – our Christmas guests Sam and Laura. There is, of course, no chance of this revelation spoiling Jane’s Christmas surprise, for she never reads these blogs and I know I can rely on your discretion. Cheesy Hammy Eggy: I haven’t had that for years; I can’t wait for Jane to cook it for me. Or not.
“Oh, thank you darling. What a treat!”.
So spoke the memsahib when I presented her with her breakfast fruit salad this morning – part of my policy of random treats to show that she is loved and appreciated. I had laboured with some skill that morning while she put the finishing touches to her coiffure and pre-breakfast toilet, a period that I normally use to quaff a cup of espresso while shouting at The Daily Telegraph. This time the caffeine and aggression had been deferred in favour of cuisine. As we sat there in the Garden Control Tower aka the breakfast room, listening to Classic FM and munching away, I could not help but notice, out of the corner of my eye, that – every now and again – she made a grimace and put her hand up to her mouth to remove something, and put it on the side of her bowl rather as one does with errant fish bones. She saw me glancing at her with some puzzlement.
“Tell me darling”, she said with a sweet smile, “did you peel the kiwi fruit before slicing it?”
“The kiwi fruit?”
“Yes, the small brown fruit with the tough skin and green centre.”
“Ah…not as such. Is that not left on for roughage?”
“No”. She paused.
“And did you wash the fruit before slicing it?”
“Errmm…”
“I thought not. And please tell me you didn’t slice it on the onion chopping board.”
“Absolutely not”, (taking mental note to get out to the kitchen and stow the board before she saw it.)
She sighed, removing another piece of brown kiwi skin or stalk from her mouth.
“Darling, you’re hopeless. But I love you”.
What better a Christmas present could a man or woman wish for?
It is Christmas 2021 and traditionally a time of good cheer, generosity and happiness. To all my readers, of all religions and none, I wish you a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. And don’t let Covid get you down.
20 December 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 