April is the cruellest month, breeding. Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing. Memory and desire, stirring. Dull roots with spring rain. (Eliot)
I slept very badly last night. Partly the wretchedness of the mortality statistics of the 10PM BBC News, which John is attached to. After the headlines I had to insist we turn it off. Partly due to my chronic pain caused by IBS and exacerbated by all the chocolates/sugar I have been consuming. That has to stop. Today. It will be difficult with it being Easter and Bell allowed chocolates without any rationing. My older grandchildren, Daniel and Portia, always complained that I ate more of their eggs than they did. I have now hidden the Neapolitan Lindt’s that I sent off for to Amazon in desperate or greedy fear of running out of supplies.
Partly because yesterday was the first time I had the opportunity to go and sit out in the garden and get some Vitamin D since we went into lockdown which may be affecting my melatonin levels. It seems the ‘over seventies’ may be in lockdown forever.
I want to spend extra time this weekend attempting to write more of a ‘work in progress essay’ on the clinical implications of the Zooming phenomena , so I am going to limit myself to a list today of anything that seems significant.
1 John and me both woke up last night at the same times. 1.40 AM and 2.35. On the first occasion John mumbled, ‘Bell is terrific the way she joined you for Bridge it signifies well.’ I was too uncomfortable to ask what it signified. On the next occasion it was again John who chimed up and started to tell me that his Kindle refused to allow the Raymond Blanc recipe he wanted to cook for DEFRA’s (see footnote for those who are not acquainted with the acronym) Easter lunch. Pancakes with spinach, cream and gruyere. (I cannot eat any of it.) I now realise that in the same way as I am writing for my life so is John compulsively cooking for his. Our lives. He is already busy baking bread this morning. Forgive us Gaia for our daily bread. It’s no wonder that so many of the riots in the world have been bread riots. Shakespeare knew all about food famine:
Let us revenge this with
our pikes, ere we become rakes: for the gods know I
speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge. (Coriolanus
2. Having Bell and Zac living upstairs is what keeps me sane. And my work. And Dido. And my family both here and in Hove The sound of children’s voices and tears are as musical as the blackbird’s early morning song.
3. One of the consequences of Zooming professionally is that I have not yet got to Zoom into Tanya’s family and my other grandchildren in Hove. By the time Tanya and me have discussed our patient lists we are too exhausted to talk about ourselves. We have to try and do better this weekend.
4. I cannot bear the fact that to be a good politician is synonymous with being a good liar. I don’t think Matt Hancock is experienced enough to handle this crisis but who is. To give him credit he doesn’t look comfortable or credible lying and at leat this morning he has admitted he is an uber liar with his acknowledgement of the Government’s hideous failure to provide sufficient PPE. When Wuhan first emerged into the media the Government was obsessed with Brexit. And did nothing at all. As I was having these thoughts someone called Piya posted this important article about how we must now resist the Government’s exercise in hyper-normalisation. Thank you, Piya who lives in our street and whom I have never met. And to Jamie and Jenny, who I also would not recognise but who instigated our street into mobilisation of easter eggs and chocolates for our refuse collectors. For some reason whenever I try to embed Piya’s articles from the bylinetimes.com Word Press refuses them. It seems they have an internal censor.
I hope much of today, now that I’ve exercised my diary compulsion will be spent with Zac and Bell and Dido. I have also booked in a Zoom call to Tanya and Dan and Portia our Hove castaways. (And Alanna Dan’s partner)
I have already explained that my son and lovely daughter in law T are as ferocious as any of the border controls operated by the Department for the Environment and Rural Affairs, which we have encountered when trying to bring Dido across from Calais. We are grateful to have such fastidious love, care and protection, as I tend to lack caution. There is currently no room at the Excel/Nightingale Inn. I am so grateful that Dido was not sent into quarantine.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
Tempest roams in the pathless sky
ships get wrecked in the trackless water,
Death is abroad and the children play. (Tagore)