Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn and caldron bubble. It is January, and so marmalade-making time in the Shacklepin household, and the cauldron – or rather the large jam-making pan – has, indeed, been bubbling away for over two hours. Steam fills the kitchen and the extractor fan is roaring away at full speed. Jane spent all yesterday afternoon mutilating an enormous batch of Seville oranges and removing the pith, then I was roped in to help cut up the peel into thin strips. I have managed to avoid this task in the past by the simple expedient of making myself scarce at the critical times; in a moment of weakness, I slipped my guard this time and was caught just as I was transiting the kitchen on my way to my garage/workshop to whittle away at some bits of wood. Crikey, slicing that peel took ages: I thought at one point that I would die of old age before the last carcass was done, but – at last – all was finished and I was able to perform my traditional ceremonial task in this annual event: that of tying up the muslin bag containing pith and pips, immersing the bag in the pan, and securing the assembly to the overhead gantry with string and a round turn and two half hitches. I have my uses, you know. The bubbling and the stirring or whatever she does will keep Jane occupied for the rest of the day now, so I have retired to my study to write to you good people.
Christmas for the Shacklepins went well. We had our good friends Sam and Laura (who are also “childless”) to stay for three days from Christmas Eve and we wined and dined well. We managed to fit in a couple of good walks between rain showers and spent the rest of the time, when not eating, just sitting together contentedly reading books or playing the odd game. The three days went by in a flash and soon, sadly, our guests were gone and Christmas was over. In short time we changed the bedding and straw in the guest room, set the washing machine running, and started to dismantle the Christmas tree. Once Christmas Day has passed we do not prolong the celebrations or decorations in our household: by New Year’s Day, all was back to normal and we braced ourselves for what always seems the longest and most miserable month of the year. Unusually, this year we did stay up to see in the New Year, but we were on our own and it was a very muted affair. We toasted 2022 and were in bed by 0030; apparently the BBC stopped showing Andy Stewart and The White Heather Club from Scotland quite some time ago. Scotland, or as I prefer to call it these days, “The Peoples’ Democratic Republic of Sturgeonia”, had – in any case – cancelled Hogmanay and virtually all social activity for Scots, who are cowed under the jackboot.
Close friends of ours, Gregory and Lynne, enjoyed a totally different Christmas. As is their custom, one son came down from Lancashire with his wife, two children and a dog; another son came from Bath with his wife and three children; finally, their daughter and her partner battled their way over from Switzerland with their three children. A total of fourteen guests and a dog descended on them, with not a footman, butler or cook in sight. Lynne had spent the weeks up to Christmas preparing meals for sixteen people, incorporating into the menu provision for the vegetarians, the vegans, the genuinely allergic, the fussy and the downright faddy. A good time was had by all on Christmas Day. Then, on Boxing Day, the entire family tested positive for Covid, despite all being vaccinated and boosted. They were incarcerated in the family home for ten days. The children recovered after only a day with mild symptoms; the men recovered after two days – Gregory had virtually no symptoms at all; Lynne and her daughter suffered the worst, possibly because it was they who were cooking and looking after the rest, but neither was sufficiently ill to necessitate taking to their beds. To add to this, the central heating broke down, swiftly followed by the internet. Amazingly, it all came together eventually and they were released after tests at the seven-day point: the male part of the family dispersed in dribs and drabs as they were cleared, and their daughter finally managed to get the clearances to fly back to Switzerland. Poor Lynne, however, was utterly exhausted after having cooked and cared for the entire family for a fortnight: over twice the planned time. I understand that sausages and beans featured heavily in the final days of isolation. Of course, no-one knows who brought the virus into the household and it would be invidious and pointless to speculate. What we can pluck from this somewhat fraught tale, however, is the fact that none of the family was seriously ill: the worst symptoms were headache, tiredness and a sore throat. If the event had occurred a year ago then, I dare say, our friends (in their mid 70s) might well have had to be admitted to hospital; this year, fully vaccinated, they shrugged off the infection very quickly. It offers the rest of us some hope for the future.
Talk of Lynne falling back on the basic menu of baked beans and sausages reminds me of the experience of a friend of mine, who was serving in a nuclear submarine. Returning to her home port after a very lengthy patrol, the submarine was ordered to divert to undertake a further secret mission without the opportunity to replenish stores. A nuclear submarine can run virtually forever because it has no need to embark oil fuel, makes its own oxygen and, like all warships, it manufactures its freshwater from seawater. The limiting factors on endurance are the eventual need for maintenance, to some extent the mental health of the ship’s company, and the supply of food. Royal Navy warships are provisioned for 45 days of food in frozen and dry provisions, and surface warships can replenish their stocks from a Royal Fleet Auxiliary support ship – a process known as RAS (Replenishment At Sea); however, this succour is not available for submarines. In my friend’s boat, the supplies of frozen food soon became exhausted and they reverted to dry provisions, with stocks of that also running low. Luxuries and other desirable food ceased to be available. Finally, they completed their second mission and, much to the relief of the ship’s company, steamed into Plymouth for some well-earned shore leave. The boat was secured, the duty watch set about shutting down the boat’s reactor and systems, and those members of the non-duty watch who were married and lived locally disappeared over the brow with alacrity at Secure for home comforts. The day after a return to harbour is traditionally a time when some of the rougher local married men return onboard and regale their comrades with salacious tales of their homecoming the night before. This particular occasion was no exception, but included a slight difference. One of my friend’s petty officers described to him, with relish, how he had gone home, opened the door of his house, met his wife who was dressed seductively for his homecoming, seized her, manoeuvred her into the kitchen and ripped open… a tin of peaches, which he consumed on the spot. I don’t suppose his wife was very flattered but, hey, they do say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
Following something of a cabinet rebellion, and much to my pleasant surprise, the prime minister held back from bringing in further Covid restrictions in England immediately before Christmas and he has indicated that he does not currently intend to take further measures at present. Dominated by the omicron strain, the number of positive test results has finally peaked and is now dropping rapidly. The number of hospital admissions is also falling. The number of deaths with Covid, which always lags behind the other parameters, is still rising but is slowing down; the figure is a fraction of what it was last year. I think we may have turned a corner in this two-year epidemic and, increasingly, authorities are admitting that the symptoms of the disease are mild for most people, despite being highly infectious. The main problem being encountered now is the degree of absenteeism caused by people who have tested positive (whether with symptoms or not) and having to self-isolate for ten days – basically, a repeat of the problem of the so-called “pingdemic” outlined in Blog 98. Essential services, such as the NHS, are suffering severe staff shortages and, in some parts of the country, the Armed Forces have been called in to fill the gaps. There is a dearth of data on the extent and depth of this problem: one inevitably is curious to know how many of the people off work, having tested positive, are actually ill – the remainder being asymptomatic; of how many of the asymptomatic are infectious; and (cynically), how many of the absentees have declared themselves ill merely to extend the Christmas break (doctor’s sick notes are only required after 28 days of illness at present). The enforced isolation period has just been reduced to five days with release after two negative tests, as in the USA; this replaces the rules in England that used to state that you had to isolate for ten days if you tested positive, but could be released after seven days if successive lateral flow tests on Days 6 and 7 were negative. Let us hope that that eases the “pingdemic”. Given the mildness of the omicron symptoms, and its significantly reduced threat to the vast majority of vaccinated people, it would be nice if we could abandon routine testing and return to the old tried and tested formula for dealing with cold and ‘flu, namely catching coughs and sneezes in a handkerchief and staying off work if you feel ill, returning when you feel better. But perhaps I am being too pragmatic: I am, after all, just a simple sailor. The next review of Covid restrictions in England is on 26 January; I hope we see some return to normality after that.
As I write, Boris Johnson is clinging on to his premiership with his fingernails after the revelation that he and Downing Street staff held a drinks party in May 2020 – a time when the rest of us were locked down and forbidden to meet with anyone. All I can say is that it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, as I don’t hold a strong opinion of any politicians, but the bitter pill is not the revelation; rather it is that the draconian restrictions on our liberty and zealous enforcement by the police were ever imposed in the first place. The outcome of the latest row, about an event 20 months ago, will be interesting, but I expect Boris will emerge unscathed as usual. I am tempted to repeat the words of Oliver Cromwell to the Rump Parliament, “For God’s sake, go!”, but consider who would we favour to replace him? Certainly not the leaders of the Labour or Liberal Parties, who would have us locked down again at the drop of a hat.
I had a wide range of presents this Christmas, including some excellent books, which I am digesting with gusto. Alas, I did not get that macerating lavatory for the boat (Blog 106) that I had been hinting at for months, so that will continue to be my aim for 2022. Pursuing matters lavatorial, however, I have channelled my energies into another long-time goal. After the self-closing toilet lid (Blog 72) and the perfect shave (Blog 106), my third ambition in the personal hygiene and grooming stakes is to have a bidet. Neither of our bathrooms is big enough for such an addition, and I have been pondering on a palliative solution for a number of years. I discovered that there are lavatories available (notably from Japan) that combine the functions of waste disposal and hygiene: some with heated seats, washing and drying of the nether regions and forced draught ventilation. A few years ago we nearly bought such a beast for about £1,000 and were only held back by the practicalities of wiring up the appliance in a bathroom. Finally, as Christmas approached last year, I stumbled on a practical conversion: you can buy a Bidet Lavatory Seat as a separate item. It is plumbed into the water supply and simply replaces the existing seat. When activated, one of two jets on the seat emerges from a housing, depending on the area to be washed: one is for washing the obvious bit at the back and the other points further forward and bears the delightfully delicate nomenclature, “the lady spray”. The device is made by the German company Grohe and only cost me £225 from the Bidet Shower Company (www.bidet-shower.co.uk). I spent a satisfying time designing the simple plumbing arrangements for the seat and had the whole thing fitted and installed within a few hours. Jane thinks the water from the spray is heated after I told her, in reply to a concerned question, that it was ‘tepid’. I did not mention that it is only tepid because the (cold) water has been sitting in the pipes in a nice warm house – I saw no need to bother her pretty little head with thermodynamic details at that stage. Anyway, I demonstrated the device to Jane and – for once – she actually seemed interested.
“So you move this lever to wash your bottom…?”, she said, reaching out to the control.
“Noooo!”
Too late. A probe emerged from the rear housing like a spitting cobra slinking from under a stone, and squirted a strong jet of (tepid) water into her face.
“Awk!”, said Jane.
“Er, you’re supposed to be sitting on the seat and facing the the other way, dear”.
She made no comment.
So the bidet works a treat (we have both since used it in non-facial mode) and I have given the new addition to our family a suitable soubriquet related to its function; alas, I am banned by Jane from repeating the alias here; you will just have to use your imagination as to what double-name I came up with.
I received the paperwork for my forthcoming minor operation just before Christmas. It won’t be a major procedure involving a personality transplant or anything like that; indeed, apparently I will be in and out within an hour, the slicing up being undertaken under local anaesthetic. According to the paperwork, I waived the option of having a general anaesthetic, which was news to me, and I was told that the operation site may well hurt for the rest of my life, which begs the question of why I am having the procedure done in the first place. Why do I keep thinking that having the job done under ‘local’ is to save the NHS money and time, rather than a concern for my welfare? Never mind. I also noted that “due to Covid” [sic] – that, now, well-known precursor of major unnecessary inconvenience – both Jane and I have to self-isolate for two weeks before the big event to make sure that I am Covid-free on The Day. Good grief, that’s half of January out (or rather, “in”) at a time when people who actually have Covid can be released after five days.
Bizarrely, I used to quite like going into hospital in years gone by, but that was when we had naval hospitals; private rooms for officers; trim, caring, nurses in starched uniforms and black stockings who called you ‘sir’; and an issue of gin and tonic each evening. Now, with the NHS, you are bedded in a noisy communal ward with a layout that appears to have changed little since the days of Florence Nightingale; the nurses and doctors are indistinguishable from the cleaners; you go into hospital relatively healthy and come out with MRSA, with Norovirus, with Covid19 or dead. No, I think, on reflection, a day case under ‘local’ will suit me nicely. The recovery time can be anything up to six weeks, apparently, but I know that the Chief Nurse will look after me well – she is worried about me already, bless her, and drawing up a list of essential recovery items that includes pain killers, dressings and heaven-knows-what. I shall, of course, milk this for all its worth. Provided I survive the knife, of course.
On that cheerful note, I bid you adieu…
13 January 2022
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 