Consistent Confusion
There was so much going on I started writing in the journal twice a day. Along with many others, I had concerns about the effects of the crisis and subsequent lockdown on my mental health. Tremendously difficult not to think about it, I seriously considered requesting beta blockers for the first time ever.
On the day of the biggest jump yet in the death rate, ONS figures suggested a much higher figure than the government who didn’t include those dying at home and in community care.
Police Forces persisted in interpreting emergency powers differently. In Cheshire, they told people off for walking too slowly. Phil said it was like Stephen King’s ‘The Long Walk’I. Minister’s pleas for consistency sounded hollow – how are the police meant to act consistently when the messages weren’t?
April Fools’ Day past unmarked chez nous; things were ridiculous enough already. I told Phil we needed bread. He said “No problem. I’ll get tooled up.” Returning from a strangely quiet shop, he had spotted an acquaintance who seemed to constantly wander about the place. As he often stayed with our elderly next-door-neighbour, I expressed concern for her.
BBC breakfast featured RAD (Royal Academy of Dance) online ballet. Pleased to have access to lessons at home, I logged on. Phil sniggered. I suggested he join in. After all, he’s the one who attended classes as a child (packing it in aged 12 due to a knee injury). Later, I played guitar for first time in ages while Phil cut his hair. Bad hair not an issue for him; you can’t go wrong with a buzz cut.
Overnight, 2 teenagers died of Covid-19. Maybe now young people would stop believing only old people were at risk and stop being dicks!
Arguments intensified over dire levels of testing. Gormless Gove agreed with ex-health minister Jeremy C**t while he wittered on about a shortage of swabs and reagents (whatever they were) Another big jump in fatalities coincided with the news that more traffic had appeared on the roads. Surely more than coincidence?
In the world of business, SMEs were going under fast, complaining the business interruption loans were inaccessible and chaotic. Apparently the interest rate jumped after the initial government -backed period. Greedy bankers win again!
Essentials
Thursday morning, goats took over the centre of Llandudno while the half-onion myth resurfaced. Nowadays you’re meant to place it in a corner of the room rather than rub it on your chest (see reference to Spanish Flu in Part 3), if you could actually find one right now. I trusted proven methods to look after my health. Diagnosed with Vitamin D deficiency, the GP advised me to take high-strength supplements all year round. The reduced access to sunlight made them even more essential. Critical supplies arrived just in time. Phil answered the door knock to find the postie had left the package on the doorstep and retreated down the street.
I planned to visit the weekly market early for equally essential fresh veg.
By the time I’d drunk badly needed coffee and donned my own version of PPE, it was lunchtime. I hoped the crap weather might put people off.
As an elderly neighbour emerged from his car, I bade him stay put while I ran past with a hasty wave and greeting. Further down a milk float obstructed the pedestrian steps. I hovered until I spotted the owner, who politely stood back for me to proceed. I remarked it was a daft place to park. On reflection, I missed a trick – I should have asked if he was still open for new customers. Telling Phil about the encounter later on, he counselled me to be nice to people in these tough times. In theory I agreed, but my gut reactions often got the better of me. Several domestic builders’ vans also clogged the streets. Nearer town, roadworks blocked whole routes. The plethora of men doing works about town verged on preposterous. Were they essential?
At the market, the morning rain had unfortunately not deterred custom. With no sign of the fish van or toiletries stall, the hand-crafted bread stall had literally 1 loaf left. They now requested card-only payments. I griped at the stupidity of this to be directed to the self-service cash till. The veg stall was not too busy, but people wove about like directionless bees. I loitered a few yards back until safe to approach. Phil had offered to meet me and help carry groceries. I rang him to say “don’t bother”. Spotting my walking friend across the square, we had a brief safe chat. Fortunately, everything was still hunky-dory with her. I told her I felt even more exhausted than usual with everyday life, the trials of shopping being largely to blame. I considered going to a couple of small shops but had lost the will by then and my bag felt really heavy even though I’d hardly bought anything. Later on, Phil ventured to the convenience store and bought quite a few of the items I’d failed to find – he was getting rather good at this new type of foraging.
Grant Shats had suggested making it law that we only go shopping once a week. He obviously had manservants to do his shopping for him, thus had no clue how difficult it was to navigate the shops, let alone come back from one trip with everything you needed. And how was fresh stuff meant to last a whole 7 days?
Or maybe he had food parcels delivered. Disabled people whinged about not being listed as officially ‘at high risk’, complaining they were not recognised as ‘special’ so they could have free food. In a strange turnaround, they now welcomed the label. Well, they could fill in the Tory government form if they wanted; no doubt containing a ‘DNR’ waiver.
I was cheered while out by a child’s rainbow poster and thank you note on a wheelie bin. If the crisis had taught society anything, it was that essential or ‘key workers’ nursed and cared for us, provided us with food, cleaned our public buildings and emptied our bins. Some of us had known this already.
The Science
In the Evening Matt Cock again blathered about ‘Ramping up’ testing with a new target of 10,000 per day. What was the point when they couldn’t even manage 1,000 a day? The Tory campaign chief came up with a new government ad campaign with the cheery message ‘people will die.’ Trump criticised the UK approach, saying their U-turn happened far too late, after he “studied it so hard”.
I had visions of him staring at primary-school level diagrams and graphs, explaining to thickies how the virus works (as presented by the Stupid Deputy Chief Medicine Woman on the pointless daily press briefings).
A new vaccine was muted. Based on immunity work for SARs-1 and MERS, PittCoVac was a spike protein generating antibodies that destroyed the bug within 2 weeks. You could be dead by then. The medicine was delivered via a microneedle array on a patch like Velcro. I winced at the thought at all the unfortunate mice that had been sacrificed to the cause. Johnson & Johnson and BAT also joined the ‘race’ to find a vaccine.
A day later, I read about the samba machine from Cambridge diagnostics which could apparently diagnose Covid-19 in under 90 minutes rather than 2 days. Health bods wittered about antibody tests enabling immunity certificates to be issued. So far unproven at best if not totally crap, how do we know they could prove immunity?
Surely co-operation would be better than competition under the circumstances. Methinks all the eggheads blathering about ‘The Science’ need their heads knocking together.
While the Nightingale Hospital based in the Excel centre was opened by Pow via video-link (the first of several planned field hospitals), the BMA said doctors would have to choose who lives and dies due to a shortage of PPE and ventilators. Obviously machines purportedly developed by Dyson and F1 were Crap.
Eddie Large was the first celebrity casualty of Covid-19, contracted while being treated for a heart condition in hospital. Meanwhile, Dynamo had been ill for 2 weeks but recovered, despite underlying health conditions. One of my minor claims to fame is that I booked him to attend a work conference before he was an international star. Not bad for a lad from Wyke.
At 8.00 p.m., Boris was seen on the doorstep of Number 10, clapping for the NHS. He looked rather dreadful after 7 days self-isolation. I prayed he didn’t come out (unless it was a bluff) like his mate Matt Cock who appeared in person on Question Time, with decidedly less hair. It turned out they were taking advice from one person rather than WHO about the quarantine period. Or was it yet more evidence of pretending to be ill? He denied the U-turn yet again and bleated about the logistics of delivering PPE – try amazon you prick!
Ain’t No Sunshine Any More
Friday morning, we managed an earlier trip to the local supermarket, larking about on the almost deserted main road. With no queue, the trip was more successful and less stressful, but still knackering. I was quite friendly with the guy staffing the kiosk. We chatted about requests to use cards where possible. I assured him my money was fresh and new from the ATM and bemoaned the ridiculousness of using plastic to buy a loaf of bread – as all the craft hipster places now demanded. “Come to the co-op!” he said.
On the way home, an inconsiderate tractor sped along, not stopping for us at the zebra. I put 2 fingers up at the retreating cab and shouted sarcastically “ooh! Better hurry up! there’s so much traffic on the road, I might get stuck in a traffic jam!” Phil laughed “You sound like Count Arthur Strong.” “Nowt wrong with that, he’s my role model now.”
In light of a forecast for a sunny weekend, hypocrite Matt Cock told us to “stay home”, adding: “This is not a request, it’s an instruction.” And of course the goalposts moved again; a drive of only 5 minutes for exercise apparently now permissible but renewed calls to shop as infrequently as possible. Arriva-owned Grand Central and Hull trains both suspended services, leaving the RMT ‘appalled’.
On civvy street, loo roll shortages led to sewer blockages while fly tipping soared as beauty spots closed. Bill withered, but not of Covid-19.
During a meaty weekend, I remarked on the irony of access to loads of meat but hardly any veg (the opposite of WW2). We joked about subbing vegan products for meat; think of all those air miles saved by growing sheep locally rather than shipping beans halfway round the world. Laughing one minute, the next, something I said sparked an argument, making me very upset. We made up soon after, but I had no clue what started it. Probably just a result of being cooped up together day after day. I spent most of Saturday on the journal. I hadn’t meant to but it seemed to have taken over.
The FA had already cancelled all but ‘top flight’ league games for the rest of the season much to the chagrin of teams in the lower leagues. Now, they cancelled all football indefinitely. Cold comfort for the likes of Barrow, following 48 years of hurt and the glorious Leeds United. Phil was not pleased, to say the least. It emerged that rich players still received full wages while clubs disgracefully ‘furloughed’ backroom staff. Discussions with the PFA suggested they may take a pay cut but no agreement had yet been reached.
The maddest conspiracy theory yet expounded the belief that 5g phone masts emanated the virus, leading to mass burning. I had received family messages a few times during the week. on Tuesday, my attempts to contact mum continued to be fruitless while sister 1 reported she had spoken to her briefly. Brother 1 said that on the bright side, he’d ordered her a load of Tena lady. Brother 2 pointed out she’d get done for stockpiling. Thursday night, Mum unbelievably had a hospital consultation via skype, with a view to admission for an x-ray on her wrist and treatment for an infection. On Sunday morning, I received messages dated Friday. Mum had been told she could not go to hospital (due to the crisis) to which she said “maybe tomorrow” (clueless as ever). She was also not prescribed antibiotics; nobody was getting them due to the pandemic, probably to ensure they are effective when they are crucial.
As explanation for the delay in messages arriving, I said maybe someone burnt our phone mast.
A Brief Escape
Keir Hardie returned to save the Labour Party, promising to ask the government ‘difficult questions’ about their coronavirus strategy. Jess Philips said it was no surprise that Britain’s second city, with a high proportion of inter-generational households, had seen a spike in cases. She accused the government of failing to address the issue, adding that while money was being dished out, it highlighted huge gaps. With parliament in recess, MPs were unable to fully quiz ministers. Perhaps she would benefit from a stint on Richard Blackwood’s massage chair; so relaxing it “makes you drive past the spar.”
The more I stayed in, the more agoraphobic I became, scared of what I might encounter in the outside world. But the lovely sunshine and the need for vitamin D prompted me to steel my courage to go for a walk and look for wild garlic. Suitably attired, we set off for the most likely clough, dancing in the street en route, still revelling in the novelty of hardly any traffic. We came across a few other people, the majority very considerate, but a minority who obviously didn’t know what 2 metres looked like. One family group in particular prompted a fit of pique. Nevertheless, we enjoyed some spells totally alone and filled 2 carrier bags very quickly with garlic leaves. Coming home, Phil nipped to the shop, returning with an unexpectedly decent loaf of bread, while I dealt with the pickings. Just about managing to sort a hasty snack, I collapsed on the sofa. Although it had been great to get some proper fresh air and to walk further than the shop for a change, fatigue and back ache defeated me.ii
Matt Cock had muted banning outdoor exercise if we didn’t ‘stick to the rules’ as people had been sunbathing over the weekend (apparently not allowed, even when adhering to social distancing). Local councils said they might have to close parks. Ministers told them not to. Talk about hypocrisy! With their second homes and huge gardens, they had no concept whatsoever of what is was like for ordinary people being cooped up. Myriad future health problems such as depression, vitamin deficiency and diabetes were stacking up. Not to mention the compounding of social problems including untold children now trapped in abusive homes and a predictably huge rise in domestic abuse.
That night, I tossed and turned unable to sleep as my head churned. The plague crisis obviously occupied a lot of headspace and made it hard to manage anxiety and worry. I tried to rationalise my thoughts. It was highly unlikely I had come into contact with the virus from the foray into the clough in spite of a few idiots. I was very careful when out and on returning home. I realised there was no point worrying. I’d also not worked on the journal on Sunday, so it was possible that contributed to mental disquiet. As already mentioned, getting stuff from brain to paper was a good coping mechanism. I resolved to write about it every day from now on, even at the risk of it becoming even more obsessive. For the first time since the lockdown, I successfully used mindfulness to get to sleep, but hours of shuteye were woefully insufficient.
Monday morning, I suffered severe fatigue. I actually dropped off briefly during my siesta, feeling slightly refreshed. Waking to the sound of voices, I looked outside. Four people occupied the ‘community garden’. Possibly a family group, I did not recognise them as living nearby and they were definitely not exercising!
Over the weekend, Bumbling Boris was whisked to hospital ‘for tests’ as it emerged his pregnant girlfriend had Covid-19; no surprise after all the idiotic hand-shaking he’d been engaged in. Lord Bath became the first posh fatality.
For Sunday dinner I tried to make meat-free moussaka. It emerged from the oven a strange grey colour with undercooked spuds and a sloppy filling – improvised isn’t the word! Monday night, I added a gratin topping to the leftovers (tip: linseeds a good addition) and re-baked it. Much improved in texture and taste, I declared I’d invented ‘med veg gratin’. At bedtime, I could barely keep my eyes open and rapidly fell asleep. Coupled with exhaustion, the return of droning Chris Witless on the pointless daily briefing obviously had a soporific effect.
References:
i https://stephenking.com/library/bachman_novel/long_walk_the.html
ii My Cool Places blog: https://hepdenerose.wordpress.com/
iii My haigas: https://wordpress.com/posts/mondaymorninghaiga.wordpress.com
The Corvus Diaries 