CORONA DIARY CHAPTER 17: December 3rd to end of 2020

Thursday December 3rd We are now nearly a week the other side of moving. There have been panics and incidents ‘incidents and accidents, there were hints and allegations’, but until today we have been blessed by cold clear dry weather, and waking up before dawn in our bedroom perched on Evening Hill looking at Whitley Bay and beyond it Sandbanks and Poole Bay has been wonderful. The redundant cruise ships, including the enormous Allure of the Seas, which dwarfs Sandbanks, add to the maritime interest. Plenty of rather miserable rain today, rather reminiscent of the early days of the construction of the house. In much of Scotland they have snow so I am sure we should be grateful. The one-month lockdown ended yesterday, and the golf course has been inundated with members getting a first round in, so it has been impossible to book. On our first night in the house, we came down in the morning to find a flood in the plant room, due to a leaking soldered joint. A surprise to the plumbers because they had completed this a long time ago and the heating has been on for a long time to warm up the screed before tiling. Otherwise, the sophisticated system that allows one to control lights, TV, radio, blinds, etc, has had some glitches but we are assured they will be sorted. The main problem has been the extraordinary amount of dust, this time mainly from rubbing down paintwork, but also from tiling. Our furniture is stacked from floor to ceiling in the garage, and is also gathering dust. Lights are hanging out of ceilings and off the walls. Hopefully they will be put back in sometime. A phone call from my consultant in the myeloma clinic this morning. I have an IgM MGUS, with a slight reduction in the levels of other immunoglobulins, which fortunately remains stable. She is concerned about the risk of infection for me and I should probably therefore be more careful about isolating. She was particularly concerned that I have been to supermarkets, though being a non-Woke household, it is true that Lindsay does most of our supermarket visits. A thought occurs. Is it safer to shop at Waitrose than more down-market supermarket chains? I reassure her that I usually go late to the Alder Hills Sainsbury’s because it is much more spacious than others and is rarely crowded at that time, but it does give me pause for thought. There remains huge controversy and anger about the latest lockdown and the emergence into tiers as of yesterday. But the figures for cases and deaths are incontrovertibly in decline since the lockdown, and surely vaccination must come in the next month or two. Advice from my haematologist is not to have the Oxford vaccine because it is a live adenovirus vector, so maybe I will get the Pfizer or Moderna vaccines (advice subsequently rescinded – apparently the Oxford vaccine is okay). Another Tory MP has made a stupid jingoistic statement about our country being better than others. This relates to the MHRA regulatory approval for the vaccine; the first approved in the world. He implied that red tape and bureaucracy in the EU and the USA have prevented them from getting on with the approval process. Understandably there has been a strong reaction. Trump (yes, still him) has reportedly been incandescent that the U.S. has not been the world’s first country to approve the vaccine. I think he has sacked somebody but I’m not sure.

A poignant conversation this afternoon with my younger daughter who has been staying with her mother for the last week to keep her company during cancer chemotherapy and radiotherapy treatment. Katie managed her admission to hospital in midweek with fever and sepsis, and I feel rather helpless that I cannot support her. I am surprised to find, for the first time in many years, that I feel really sorry, sympathetic and tender towards her mother, but since she is now two husbands on from me there is really very little I can do other than to support my daughters and send my best wishes for her recovery. As you may imagine I debated long and hard with myself as to whether to write the above, but if a diary is to mean anything, it is also about feelings as well as facts.

Friday December 4th A cold day with a moderate wind. A few patches of sunshine. The north of England and a substantial amount of Scotland has snow. The front page of the Telegraph today has a drone picture of a train crossing the Ribblesdale viaduct, with snow all around. More memories. Happy ones of walking the Dales Way and climbing Yorkshire’s Three Peaks, Ingleborough, Whernside, and Pen-y-Ghent. Our self-isolation amid the pandemic makes such memories seem so much more out of reach and unattainable. The same pang of remembrance came on Tuesday when we watched England play cricket against South Africa in Cape Town. There is frenzied activity in the house so eventually I get out and do a short walk. The fleece hat and gloves are needed as I walk around the harbour and back. The hippy characters who operate paddleboard and kite surfing lessons from vans beside the harbour do not have any customers. The lack of kitchen facilities here in our house has curtailed Lindsay’s creation of lemon drizzle and carrot cakes for our builders, so some shop bought items have appeared from time to time. Yesterday I returned from some essential trip to find iced buns in the kitchen. Like Swann and his madeleines, this immediately conjured up memories of break time at school, when the retired Army C.S.M. who supervised these things produced tray upon tray of them, for I think, about thruppence each. We did not dip them in weak herb tea however, but guzzled them together with our school issue one-third of a pint of milk. Here I could tell a story of the sad fate of the C.S.M., but while true, it might risk libel, so I must refrain. Poor Swann in the Proust novel however took ages and many paragraphs to recover his memory about the madeleines at Combray, but his prose is far superior to mine. While musing on this (of course I had only read the English translation), the topic of mediocrity returned once more. The mere taste of the tea and madeleine gave Swann the following sensation of joy: ‘I had ceased now to feel mediocre, accidental, mortal.’ I wondered, ‘Do the French feel mediocre too?’ Well yes: ‘J’avais cessé de me sentir mediocre, contingent, mortel.’ Time to get back down to earth and go and watch Bournemouth play Barnsley, in a frozen South Yorkshire. Tomorrow morning for the first time for over a month we have a gym class. Are madeleines the cure for mediocrity? To me they are just odd-shaped little sponges.

Monday December 4th Friday night brought some childhood recollections. In the many houses and flats that we lived in as a child, none had any double glazing. The wind and the rain beat against them, the draughts whistled through the cracks and rattled the sash windows, and many a night I was lulled to sleep by a storm, occasionally to wake as the flash of some lightning and following crack of thunder percolated the somewhat threadbare curtains. So it was with some surprise that at 4a.m. on Saturday I was awakened by a southerly storm beating against our bedroom windows. They did not rattle, but the force of the wind was extreme. Dark silhouettes of trees waved violently in the distance. Another Proustian memory perhaps? Deep puddles of undrained flood waters covered the roads, but as Sunday dawned, the temperature dipped and the weather paradoxically improved. We spent much of the day cleaning within the house, pausing to watch some football. The promised cricket from South Africa was called off because of positive Covid tests. An interesting interview with the head of the MHRA, Dr June Raine, with Andrew Marr, was noticeable for her very strong emphasis on the complete safety of the new coronavirus vaccines. I think she must have decided to put herself on the line for this one. Of course no one can state that a vaccine is ‘absolutely safe’, but she has clearly decided to go all out and commit on this. It’s strange how pervasive some old terms are – I was surprised to hear her say when asked about pregnancy and the vaccine – ‘If you do fall pregnant…’. Such an archaic term, and a throwback to an era of blame for women, the phrase ‘fall pregnant.’ Perhaps she decided that the vernacular was required. Prof Jason Leitch, the Scottish clinical director, on this morning’s news (he is refreshingly candid), said it was ‘absolutely a dialogue that people should have’ but the safety data was good and it was ‘a lot safer than having Covid.’

Dense fog covered the golf course and it was closed this morning, so still no golf. Our four members (we were due to play together) dispersed, including one who went to tend turnips on his allotment. How do you tend to turnips at this time of year? Maybe they are ready for lifting. Maybe turnips are his word for ‘Bunburying.’ It is very cold – around 2 degrees C. Quite the antithesis of friendly distanced golf chatter, it was heart-rending to speak to my daughter this morning and to see her in tears as she waited outside the hospital while her mum was having assessment and treatment for cancer inside. Both daughters are in residence. She is very lucky to have them.

Some nighttime listening, a very pleasing selection of restful classical music from Radio 3. It began with an Andante Soave (soft or pleasant andante) on the piano, written by Fanny Mendelssohn. A beautiful piece, as mellifluous as modern pieces by Einaudi, but with so much more purpose to it. I can’t find the review, but a Telegraph musician reviewing Einaudi last year used the word ‘meretricious’ – superficial and false. Another review highlighted his technique as ‘seems to circle around basic left-hand minor chords (in sequences of three or four) decorated with delicate but repetitive right-hand motifs. And repeat.’ ‘When Einaudi finally raised his hands to signal the concert had drifted gently to a conclusion, he was greeted by the kind of rapturous standing ovation that could wake the dead. Handy for those of us who forgot to set our alarms.’ ‘Einaudi has more followers on Spotify than Mozart (not that the late Austrian genius is counting).’

A sad parenthesis. Peter Allis, the voice of golf commentary has died at the age of 89. His presence at a microphone on a golf course brought the same feeling of satisfaction that one experienced on hearing John Arlott, Brian Johnston, or Christopher Martin-Jenkins at a cricket match. And back to classical music. My parents had two records that I can remember before the age of seven when we went to Malta and all items ‘got put into store.’ One was a 10 inch 78 rpm record, on the MGM label (bright yellow), with a recording of ‘Vilja’ on one side and ‘Night’, both from the Merry Widow, on the other. The other was a red label 12 inch disc (HMV – the dog gazing into the sound horn) of Yehudi Menuhin playing the Mendelssohn violin concerto. Despite everything he did for English music and English musicians, I have always had something against the late maestro. When I was at school in Bath, we were asked to go to act as an audience at the Bath Assembly rooms one Saturday morning. The Assembly Rooms had recently being rebuilt in the 1960s after being bombed in the war. We were asked to be a trial audience for Yehudi Menuhin, who was very much involved with the Bath Festival at the time. Dutifully we went; dutifully we sat there – for about two hours. During that time the great master wandered in once or twice, looked around a bit, and then exited. We were puzzled. He didn’t seem to have brought his Strad along. At about midday he wandered in again, spoke to the organizer and then disappeared. And that was the only time I ever saw him. I suppose I can boast that I have ‘seen’ Yehudi Menuhin… Oh, and we also had a recording of ‘Tubby the Tuba’ by Danny Kaye.

Sunday December 13th A gloomy day with high winds and light but severely wind-tossed rain. The distant sea is obscured by a hazy, misty cloud of moisture. Puddles gazing out of the window to where, perhaps next year, we might have a patio. Our frustrations are minor compared to so many others, but why, in the chaos of our move, can I find books entitled ‘Keeping Chickens’ and ‘The Optician of Lampedusa’ but not our address book? Readers may scoff at not keeping it all online, but it was precisely because I was trying to find an address which I know is only in the address book to add it to contacts online so that we can send a Christmas message. A lovely concert this week: beginning with Fanny Mendelssohn Overture in C, then Benjamin Grosvenor playing Chopin Concerto Number 1, then Haydn Symphony No. 88. Grosvenor played a modern Argentinian composer encore too. Concert all done by about 9 o’clock, and no faffing about with an interval, drinking wine which is all but undrinkable at exorbitant prices, and trying to avoid the gaze and conversation of various patrons. The dialogue in the news has shifted subtly, or not so subtly, from coronavirus to Brexit. We are now approaching a possible no deal scenario. About ten, or maybe even 15 years ago, I had a very able SHO who was a no-nonsense, get down to it, stay as long as it took, sort of person. She was distinguished, among other attributes, by a purposeful stride and a permanent ski bumbag accoutrement. She worked primarily for my co-colleague, a lady consultant in cardiology. I knew that the SHO had been going through a hard time in that her mother, who was estranged from her father, had advanced cancer. After her mother’s death, she announced that she was taking a break from medicine for a bit. I asked my colleague what she was planning to do. ‘Oh, she’s going to wander round the alps and do some climbing with her Dad, I think.’ ‘But it’s February, Diane.’ I interjected. ‘I sort of don’t believe it. What is she really going to do?’ ‘Oh, I think she’s quite keen on climbing,’ Said my colleague. ‘And she’s going with her Dad. I think he is quite a well-known climber.’ The penny dropped. Our SHOs’ name was Scott. Her Dad was Doug Scott. I thought of all of them when I read the obituary for Doug Scott this week. He was the first Briton to summit Everest. He was only 79.

Tuesday December 15th More torrential rain storms this morning, and now sunshine. The weather will be unsettled for some time to come. Much activity in the house, mastic, carpentry, glass fitting to the stairs, carpet underlays. We try to keep clear. A new variant of coronavirus has been detected, thought to be underlying the current very rapid escalation of infections. Another possibility is the complete disregard for social distancing, particularly among the stupid and the young, e.g. London’s Westfield Shopping Centre. As a consequence London will be locked down in Tier 3 again in the near future. In trying to keep away, I find time to read a little bit of my Literature Review magazine. A leader from that excellent writer William Boyd describes his one evening with Billy Wilder, in 1983, the director of ‘Some Like It Hot’, that superb movie in which the talents of Marilyn Monroe are allied to Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis. Wilder became taciturn and bitter when asked about Monroe. He mentioned that her husband, Arthur Miller, rang him during the shooting and asked if it was alright for Marilyn only to attend the studio after midday. ‘Yes, that would be fine,’ Said Wilder. ‘Except that she never shows up before 4pm anyway.’ From Boyd’s account it is a miracle that Wilder coaxed such genius from his players in the film. I discover today that I have been elected a governor of the new University Hospitals, Dorset, Trust. A mixed blessing I feel. Meetings will of course be in Microsoft Teams as before. One hopes that we can be together in real meetings before too long… When asked to choose the latest book for our book club, for some whimsical reason I chose the novel ‘Lolita’. I remember it as a cause célèbre from childhood. I am sure I was unaware of its initial publication in 1955, but I do remember its film release with those provocative pictures of Sue Lyon, in the heart shaped dark glasses, sucking a lollipop. I was around 14 at the time. The book may have been passed around at school, but it is such a complex and subtle novel, quite different from the explicit ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’, also a much thumbed ‘pass the parcel’ schoolboy book. But Lolita is an extremely uncomfortable read by modern mores, and I am finding it quite difficult. The style and densely allusive nature of the book is quite remarkable, particularly the subtle allusions to Edgar Allan Poe’s Annabelle Lee. Annabelle Lee was also a preoccupation, as I recall, of the virago in Clint Eastwood’s ‘Play Misty for Me’. It is interesting that the best writers of the English language are often foreign born, and therefore better educated. Joseph Conrad is always cited as an example. Little wonder that Lolita was rejected by adolescent schoolboys… There is much trumpeting of the initial rollout of the Pfizer vaccine. Pictures of happy 90 plus year olds receiving the jab. The first male to be immunized was called William Shakespeare. There is some realism though – perish the thought. Quite reasonably, in my view, there is some questioning of whether it is worth giving it to frail individuals in their late 90s who might die of something else within the next year or so. I do hope that there will be enough of the Pfizer product left to vaccinate those undergoing cancer treatment or who are immunosuppressed, who cannot receive the Oxford live virus vaccine, or whether the powers that be at the Department of Health are desperate to protect the caring professions because of the positive publicity. If the vaccine does prevent virus shedding then there will be obvious secondary benefits to the immunization of healthcare staff. Apologies for my solipsistic view of things.

Monday December 21st, the shortest day ‘All changed, changed utterly,’ as Yeats wrote about an entirely different subject, around 100 years ago. Until last night we were planning on how our bubble would work, with the allotted number visiting during a period of five days over Christmas. But now we are virtually locked down, irrespective of tiers, with no-one allowed to stay over any more. The reason – a huge hike (only 20 years ago that word only existed in U.S. English. The correct use of course is to imply a pleasant walk) in cases of coronavirus, and the reluctant admittance that there is a new variant of Covid-19 which is particularly prevalent in Kent which seems to have more transmissibility than plain old coronavirus. As if the continent didn’t hate us enough already, the French (of course) among other nations have blocked the border with the UK to avoid our virus polluting theirs. Five hundred years ago, when syphilis was first brought back from the New World, countries vied with one another to name it after the country they thought was to blame. Hence the ‘French pox’, the ‘Spanish pox’, the ‘English pox’. Nobody thought to blame China in those days… So Christmas is off. Some have filled the shops to buy food, which they thought they wouldn’t need, and some have a surplus which they now cannot share. Added to that it seems dark almost all day; the weather is foul and rainy – the golf course has been closed five days in a row, an unprecedented (that word again) occurrence. A Matt cartoon captures a prevalent meme: Joseph is opening the door of the inn to three men, bearing – toilet rolls; cans of baked beans; hand sanitizer. ‘Ah, three Wise men’, he is saying… Another shows the silhouette of the three wise men on their camels, breasting the dunes and following the star. A bubble comes from the one at the back: ‘Bollocks, I’ve forgotten my facemask.’

I’ve looked at my pictures from the year in order to find some sort of sequence to send in a Christmas card to friends. It has been a fascinating experience, to see us sitting in the sunshine in ski clothes in Lenzerheide in January, mixing with friends, enjoying the most extraordinary early Spring and Summer, and gradually withdrawing into ourselves as more and more things have been cancelled, and a post lockdown period of enjoyment now again so far away. I wish all who may read this a very happy Christmas and a much better New Year. ‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas If the fates allow But ‘til then we’ll have to muddle through somehow … So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.’ Not the original lyrics, but as sung by Max Bygraves on his bygone years Christmas album ‘Sing along a Max’ – somehow appropriate.’ December 31st, 2020 Quite a hiatus. Christmas has come and gone. I have not been able to hug my daughters, or indeed been able to offer them hospitality in our new home. We are proud of it – despite the numerous unfinished rooms, boxes piled high with books and our other treasures, and wires hanging from ceilings and walls. There is a hole in the wall where a washbasin should be due to incompetent bathroom design, and a mountain of instruction books on everything from water softeners to steam ovens. It is pleasant just to be in our own home again, and not to have to fritter away thousands of pounds on house rental. We had hoped to have family to visit, but the lockdown rules were a visit by day and not an overnight, so we got up early on Christmas morning and drove to West Sussex, spending the day with children and grandchildren, and then returning home. Now with more stringent rules we are facing a New Year’s Eve on our own. A friend posts a picture of the wines he is opening for the evening, a Meursault and a Chateau Gloria (envy, envy), and the evening’s TV viewing makes me feel out of touch and old. Lindsay suggests it is deliberately aimed at young people with the aim of keeping them indoors, and there is probably some truth in that theory. Our most enjoyable interlude was a Boxing Day visit to Kingston Lacy, where there was a Christmas light extravaganza, but that was really our only (distanced) social event.

Some views of 'Ignite' at Kingston Lacy

I started this diary with some hesitation – it was clear that it was going to be an unusual year – and with little else to do during the first novel lockdown, maintained a daily entry for some months. Now it will be more fragmented, but I hope to continue. I have not mentioned cases or the science for some time, but there is a huge upsurge in cases here and in many other places. The new variant is said to be much more transmissible. Some hospitals are seriously concerned that they will be overwhelmed. It seems to be a race against the clock to get as many people vaccinated as possible to try to obviate a major prolongation of the lockdown. Two tiny spots of good news – the so-called English variant is possibly only so because of the detailed virology that we do on cases as compared with other countries; and Brexit is done. The signed deal (which will not please everybody) was passed by parliament by an overwhelming majority. Roll on 2021, mass vaccination, and a brighter future. Love to all. Andrew McLeod, BA, MA, MB, BChir, MD, MRCP (Lond), ex FRCP, ex FESC (some of these appellations were earned, i.e. by exams; others were gifted, and the exes I gave away!)