Monday November 9th
H.M. The Queen as a poker player? She would be a good one, judging by her
expression yesterday at the Remembrance Day parade as she stood on the
Whitehall balcony. Princes Andrew and
Harry conspicuous by their absence. Her
expression, was neither of sorrow nor happiness, but alert, impassive, unchanging,
and not missing any detail of the elaborate choreography of the salutes and the
wreath laying. She stood also,
completely alone; the Duke of Edinburgh now not being fit enough to endure the
ceremony. One of the red tops this
morning had a headline which went something like ‘Harry Wreath Snub’. This was occasioned by the fact that Prince
Harry, Duke of Sussex, had commissioned a wreath, but its delivery to the
Cenotaph had been officially refused, since he is neither a serving nor
honorary officer, nor now an official member of the Royal family. Prince Andrew, Duke of York, was not there
for more obvious reasons. Piers Morgan
is involved in another Twitter spat with the Sussexes, for calling out their
equally carefully choreographed visit to a U.S. war memorial as a PR stunt.
We had our own rather more subdued Remembrance Day event. Lindsay’s father, a Spitfire pilot, used to
visit his friend’s grave every Remembrance Sunday. His friend was another pilot, killed on a
training exercise in 1942. We continue
the tradition. A light rain falls. Poole Cemetery is in a rather hidden away
spot, just off Dorchester Road, a short distance from the Ringwood Road. There is no-one else.
Last week saw the final BSO concert for the time being; the
programme now halted by lockdown.
An excellent article in The Telegraph this morning, by Tim Stanley. Stanley is a young journalist, but has an
impressive CV including a BA in Modern History from Trinity College, Cambridge,
an MPhil, and a PhD. His PhD was on
Edward Kennedy and the infighting in the U.S. Democratic party. His article today is headed ‘Trump is a
louder, cruder version of America.’ His
thesis is that there is nothing particularly unusual about Trump as American
politics goes. He states: ‘Trump was not
the least racist president ever (his words), but nor was he the most
racist. That title might go to Thomas
Jefferson, who owned slaves, or Teddy Roosevelt, who said “9 out of 10” Native
Americans were better off dead, or Woodrow Wilson, who imposed segregation on
the federal government. Wilson was a
Democrat, a party that was for slavery before it was against it, against civil
rights before it was for them – just as Biden backed an anti-crime bill in 1994
that, its critics say, led to the mass incarceration of African-Americans for
minor offences. Now he is the candidate
most aligned with Black Lives Matter, although the Democratic Party’s halo is
slipping, Trump gained votes among many ethnic minorities including
Muslims.’ The byline of Stanley’s
article is ‘The idea that the defeated president is a shocking anomaly in U.S.
national politics is a liberal delusion.’ The last word? ’…They (liberals) seem to have an impression
that pre-Trump America was fundamentally decent, but he was no alien invader
who conquered the system – merely a louder, cruder version of all we ever knew.’
This might be an historic day. The lunchtime news carries the announcement
that Pfizer have a coronavirus vaccine, and that the trial results suggest that
it prevents nine out of ten infections.
Thursday 12th November
After indifferent weather (though still mild), today is
bright, sunny, and windy. A lovely six
mile walk in the New Forest, starting at a place called Janesmoor Pond. The walk leads in a complicated fashion through
the woods to emerge at the Sir Walter Tyrrell pub, and then, after a visit to
the Rufus Stone, wends its way back. For
32 years, since my removal from South London to Dorset, I have intended to
visit the Rufus Stone, but never have until now. Listen up, Americans and Canadians, it is
part of your history too. It commemorates
the spot where, in 1100, William the Second, aka William Rufus, was killed
while out hunting by an arrow fired by the said Sir Walter, which allegedly
glanced off a tree. He was buried in
Winchester. Very muddy conditions in a
number of places on this walk, but the weak autumn sun glancing through the
trees is lovely.
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| The glades of the New Forest |
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| The Janesmoor Pond |
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| The Rufus Stone |
The UK has advance purchased 40 million doses of the Pfizer
vaccine, but now (of course), doubts are being expressed. It apparently needs to be transported and
stored at -80deg C – a logistic nightmare for any practical use. We haven’t seen the safety data yet
either. But quite a number of vaccines
are nearing trial completion, so we will see.
Yesterday we visited Greenslade’s fish shop on the quay, and
bought some halibut and scallops – lovely.
After finishing ‘Go set a Watchman’, the novel by Harper
Lee, which certainly shocks with its much cruder depiction of the racial issues
in the South than ‘To kill a Mockingbird’, I have turned to much gentler fare,
which I am enjoying immensely. It is
‘Excellent Women’, by Barbara Pym. A
novel of the 1950s. Having languished in
obscurity, and had the manuscript turned down for publication, her career was
re-launched by Philip Larkin’s description of her as ‘one of the most
underrated novelists of the 20th Century.’ The humour is gentle, the sarcasm beautifully
understated, and it conjures those ‘lives of quiet desperation’ in the post-war
world as though one was living it – which to some extent I was.
Mediocrities – are not we all? With a few exceptions.
Saturday 14th November
How we will move into our house in two weeks I do not
know. Everything is half finished and
the dust lies thick everywhere. The
lowering of spirits is compounded by a deeply depressing day, with continuous
rain. A third of the way around the
world to the west, the weather in Georgia looks lovely, as the belated U.S.
Masters golf tournament gets under way.
No azaleas, but fall colours.
Ridiculously difficult golf holes.
After early rain the course is soft and scoring is good, the halfway
best total being 9 under par. Bizarrely,
the autumn home rugby internationals get under way again (we’ve only just
completed last season’s games). Dominic
Cummings, the prime minister’s aide is unceremoniously sacked, after briefing
against the P.M. There has been an
internal power struggle in Number 10, Downing Street. Donald Trump has still not conceded the U.S.
election. Amusing comment from a U.S. political
commentator, Anderson Cooper, after a press briefing by Trump described as
‘rambling.’ Cooper says on live TV,
‘This is the President of the United States, that is the most powerful person
in the world and we see him like an obese turtle on his back, flailing in the
hot sun realising his time is over.’
More epidemiologists on TV this morning. One issue raised is as to whether the vaccine
not only reduces the physical manifestations of Covid-19 but whether the
transmission and spread of the virus is reduced – an important side issue. Stupid queries again from interviewer, ‘How
can we be sure the vaccine is safe?’ A
self-evidently silly enquiry. One of the
epidemiologists, who should know better, gets the acronym for the MHRA (the
Medicines and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency) the wrong way round.
To return to the subject of mediocrity, a melancholy
affliction which is the lot of most of us.
There is, of course, an allied question of self-esteem, something that
is at a very low ebb in the heroine (probably the wrong word; narrator or
central character is better) in the ‘Excellent Women’ novel. Her name would be Mildred, of course. I remember being shocked at the end of
‘Amadeus’, which I was fortunate to see at the National Theatre very early in
its first run. Paul Schofield, to whom
one’s attention was drawn the entire time on stage, as to a magnet, faced the
audience in his wheelchair (as Salieri), and said, as if in a benediction,
‘Mediocrities, I absolve you all.’ For
the first time, I had not thought of it before, I realised I was a mediocrity.
George Eliot too, has a lot of observations on ordinariness,
and mediocrity. I struggled with
Middlemarch, the favourite novel of so many.
I kept wanting to shake Dorothea and to say – ‘Snap out of it, you
stupid woman.’ These remarks may bore
you – as Eliot says, ‘We do not expect to be deeply moved by what is not
unusual.’ This is the remit of TV
programmes like Casualty and Holby City.
Situations and diseases which crop up perhaps once in a doctor’s career,
or certainly, infrequently, happen roughly ten times in a single hour on the
TV. Otherwise it would not be exciting. QED Ms Eliot.
There are certainly many fine, quotable lines in the book, but
interspersed with the dreadful inevitability of the suffocation of the
heroine’s hopes. Another piercing blow
suffused by a little hope comes at the end of Middlemarch. ‘But the effect of her being on those around
her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly
dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as
they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden
life, and rest in unvisited tombs.’ Oh
dear, how many unvisited tombs are there?
Mediocrities again.
Time to leave the Glums and the glooms.
Monday 16th November
A grey day. We
discover that the tilers have laid tiles inside which were intended for
outside. A depressing bombshell. The tiles look alike but have different grip
finishes. There is nothing we can do
about it. In a very low mood we leave the
site.
A short while ago we attended the funeral of a neighbour who
had been suffering from Lewy body dementia.
These distanced limited number affairs enhance the feeling of gloom too,
but the service is well managed. I
discover belatedly, that this man’s cousin taught me at Haverfordwest Grammar
School between 1959 and 1961. I did not
comprehend at first: the relative said that I must know cousin Leslie, but
since there were several teachers with the same surname of Thomas at the
school, it did not resonate. Then I
realised that he must have been Mr L C Thomas, who of course was known to the
boys as ‘Elsie’. Small world.
The Masters Golf ends with a triumphal round and deserved
victory in a record total of 20 under par for Dustin Johnson. England footballers look lacklustre in a 2-0
defeat by Belgium.
Wednesday 18th November
I’m conscious that I haven’t mentioned Covid numbers for a
long time. Deaths are increasing, but
are nowhere near as many as in April and May.
Numbers of diagnosed cases are up hugely – but this is a reflection of
the vastly increased numbers of tests.
The reduced numbers of deaths and the fact that these are already
plateauing has prompted many to complain about the government’s latest
lockdown. Critics have also pointed out
that Boris Johnson, who is now self-isolating following exposure to another
case, is probably immune, and could be swabbed and tested every day to ensure
that he is able to continue working. If
overpaid footballers can still be tested and play football, they reason, how
come the P.M. and his advisers aren’t using a bit of common sense here?
Friday 20th November
Yesterday was clear and bright, today miserable and
grey. Temperature 5 deg C this morning,
quickly rising as the latest batch of rain sweeps in. I rarely mention our house build in this
diary, because reactions could vary between extreme boredom and jealousy. Nothing to be jealous about this week. Apart from the tile disaster, the bathroom
designer has allowed a washbasin unit for the cloakroom which is too large. (One could view this as a casualty of
lockdown: the CGI creators were furloughed at the time we needed the
images). As the electrician says, ‘If
you have norovirus it could be useful: you could evacuate both ends without
having to move from the seat.’ And
another basin turns out to have a blemish and its backplate has cracked as it
was fixed to the wall. We are becoming
inured to these mishaps. Ordinarily, one
would be deeply upset to lose a thousand pounds or so. In the context of the build, one needs to
place this in proportion. Mistakes have
generally been few and far between.
Michael Deacon, journalist, previous parliamentary sketch
writer and now food critic, has turned 40.
In an article this week he gives 40 ‘precious pieces of wisdom.’ Some of the truest seem to me to be:
·
The best smell in the world is chip shop vinegar.
·
The greatest year for pop music was whichever
year you turned 14.
·
Politics is just football for the kind of people
who got picked last for games.
·
Social media was invented to undermine the faith
of sensible people in freedom of speech.
·
There is no better false economy than a cheap
bed.
·
The most enjoyable drink of the night is always
the first.
·
Love is being able to sit together saying
nothing, without feeling an anxious need to break the silence.
News today that Professor Tony Gershlick, of Leicester, has
died of Covid-19. A great colleague and
deservedly regarded clinical scientist.
He was about three years younger than me by my reckoning. This seems to bring the pandemic very close
to home.
But to end today on a brighter note. This week, Lindsay left her mobile phone
somewhere on Poole Quay. Having had one
stolen in the past we feared the worst.
(N.B. if you do this, do not ring the phone. Try ‘find my iphone.’ Once you ring it the person who has it will
realise you can find them and switch it off).
Also – block the Sim card. On
this occasion however, when we located it, a call came through – it had been
found and the finder wanted to return it.
I hotfooted into Poole to find two Macedonian families, obviously very
poor people, who returned it, and initially refused any reward until I
insisted. As the gentleman pointed out,
Lindsay’s credit card was in the inside pocket of the cover. It had not been used. There are still good people.
During this week we have had news that Moderna
Pharmaceuticals have an effective vaccine; and although the efficacy data is
not out for the Oxford vaccine, it has been shown to be well tolerated and to
induce a good antibody response in older people. Hooray!
Saturday November 21st, 2020
I put the year in above to remind me that we are still in
this nightmare year, and how far into 2021 we have to travel before we are all
vaccinated and (presumably) protected we do not as yet know. Among the various wry comments that I receive
or read, one captured my imagination. A
lady, rising from the couch after an examination by her doctor says, ‘Doctor,
how long will it be before there’s a cure for the coronavirus?’ The doctor, a caricature figure with a white
coat and a stethoscope, says, ‘I’m sorry I don’t know; I’m not a journalist.’
Do many others have a completely disrupted sleep
pattern? If I wake at any time after 4am
my brain whirrs with thoughts for the day, and our impending move. I find it best to get up, to drink Green
& Black’s hot chocolate, and to exercise my brain in a crossword or tablet
game of patience. Then I go back to
bed. Tonight is a little different. Yesterday’s dream involved walking in the
Romansch area of Switzerland and trying to remember to say ‘Allegra’ for
hello. Then being told off for arriving
for the evening meal in the chalet at 5.45pm instead of 5.30 (how very
Swiss). Tonight it was a flying
dream. Psychologists love flying dreams. Looking on line you can see virtually any
interpretation of them. If the flying is
easy and you soar, glide, and swoop, then this is due to a feeling of power, of
conquering some problem, of freedom. If
difficult (as it was for me tonight), then it is due to being weighed down by
current problems. That is the
interpretation I might take tonight – but it is a little like necromancy or
fortune telling – the clever fortune teller will give you something that chimes
so well with your current preoccupations that you instantly hail them as a true
genius with a glass into the future. Of
course Freud and Jung had great fun with flying dreams, and inevitably sex had
a lot to do with it!
Tuesday November 24th
Very much preoccupied with move back to our new house. Several visits per day are now the norm. There is always some minor item which
contractors want to discuss.
On Sunday we had a lovely walk over on the Studland side of
the harbour. Normally we walk along the
beach all the way to the village and then sometimes on to the Bankes Arms, a
well situated pub with an area of lawn which overlooks Poole Bay and Old Harry
Rocks. This time we walked inland,
skirting the so-called ‘Little Sea’, an inland stretch of water which is home
to migrating waterfowl at this time of year.
Despite walking in the area many times before, I have never been to the
Little Sea, which is a calm and peaceful place, ideal for bird watchers. Then we walk back to the ferry using the
beach, marching through the naturist area with not a naked torso in sight. The Maritime Management Organisation wants to
make Studland Bay a marine reserve, because they have discovered sea horses in
the eel grass at the bottom of the bay.
This would disbar thousands of people who love to play, sail, surf, and
anchor here, year on year. Leisure
anchorage has been going on here for many years, and it is only a few years ago
that the sea horses have been detected by some eager divers. We don’t know what the upshot will be. A remarkable feature of our inland heath walk
is the huge amount of lichen which covers the knolls, heather and trees
here. So it presumably remains very
unpolluted.
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| 'Trouble with Lichen' - the heather walk to the Little Sea. An otherworldly landscape |
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| The Little Sea, Studland |
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| Furloughed liner, Studland Bay, and Old Harry |
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| Sandbanks Ferry |
News this week that the Archbishop of Canterbury is to take
a sabbatical, which provokes some risibility on the part of those people who
like to write to newspapers. Some are of
the questioning variety. The Archbishop
apparently wants to spend some time in prayer and reflection. Many question, ‘Is this not what he is
supposed to do anyway?’
Wednesday November 25th
The day before we start moving. Very busy.
Little to add. If our computers
get up and running the other side of this move I will write more…
