Wednesday January 27th
We have passed through two major events in the last
week. The Presidential Inauguration, and
my birthday. I say that without any
acceptance that this is bathos. Trump
boycotted the ceremony, and by leaving early, was able to commandeer an
official helicopter to make his way down south to his pad in Florida. Dramatic change of emphasis with Biden. His avowed goal was first and foremost to
deal with the pandemic, the death toll in the U.S. being not far shy of half a
million people. So for the first time in
a while it was good to see Dr Anthony Fauci, from the NIH, on a podium again. Another good sight on Inauguration Day –
Obama, Clinton, and George W Bush all standing and conversing together. There is something of a collaborative
approach between the GOP and the Democrats at the moment; almost a coalition,
but don’t expect it to last. The
Republican Party will have its work cut out to move on after Trump, who still
has millions of supporters.
 |
| Stormy seas and kite surfing against a backdrop of 'Old Harry' A propos of nothing but evocative of recent weather |
On my birthday, some friends appeared for a distanced conversation
(outdoors), but otherwise it was just a day for the two of us, with some fine
wines and simple steak and chips. Thank
you to the friend who gave me the Ch. Gruaud Larose 1998, simply superb; and a
small glass of Niagara-on-the-Lake Peller icewine to finish our meal. There were no major surprises in the present
list, but it is the first time that I have been given special protective masks
as a birthday present. Chocolate is of
course, never unwelcome.
The last few days have been grim indeed, with huge numbers
of people admitted to hospital and record numbers of deaths. On 20th January, 1820 deaths were
recorded in the UK, and the 7 day average figure was around 30% higher than in
the April first wave. Only in the last
few days has there been a clear cut fall in deaths. In the last 24 hours the UK has broken
through the 100,000 deaths statistic, and the government is eating humble pie,
and by humble pie, it is Boris Johnson who has at least had the grace to ‘take
full responsibility’. Today, the
sanctimonious BBC News has largely focussed on the human lives stories of those
who have died, and while it is sad to hear these renditions of human suffering,
there is a very real sense that the Beeb is wallowing in it. Indeed, an excellent article in yesterday’s
paper by Janet Daley draws attention to the intrusive nature of the in-hospital
coverage, some of which feature interviews with patients who subsequently died
after being filmed. Under the byline
‘Manipulative broadcasters are feeding despair’ she writes that ‘this
intrusive, emotionally manipulative programming is not serving the national
interest. ‘I am sorry to have to tell
you’, she writes, ‘that the delinquents who organise illegal raves and the
indifferent who host big parties ARE NOT WATCHING. They detached themselves long ago from this
phenomenon, which, for various reasons, they feel has nothing to do with
them.’ She goes on to describe the
terror and despair felt by the lonely and isolated, and states that they find
it ‘too demoralising and voyeuristic.’ I
agree. I’ve felt uncomfortable with this
coverage for some time. Always
accompanied by a sotto voce Fergal
Keane-type commentary, which pretends to be sympathetic. To film an ITU nurse in tears may be a TV
scoop, but it doesn’t serve any purpose, as Janet Daley has emphasized. There are positives. In the last four weeks over 4 million people
have been vaccinated in the UK.
Which leads me on to cogitate on the UK’s success and
pro-activeness in ordering vaccines from both Pfizer and AstraZeneca. And this is where I nail my colours to the
mast and say that I voted for Brexit (more in a moment), and various friends
have been so aggressive in their criticisms that I, like many others of the
silent majority, have been cowed into silence.
The EU vacillated over vaccine purchase.
Its cumbersome multi-state involvement mechanism meant that it was too
late to the party (if you don’t believe me, this is also the view of the editor
of Germany’s Bild newspaper). Many discussions during the summer of 2020
were not leading anywhere, and eventually, Jonathan Van Tam, the minister
charged with dealing with the business, cut loose and pre-ordered the Pfizer
and AstraZeneca (Oxford) vaccines in substantial amounts for the UK. At date of writing, the EU has still not
approved the Oxford vaccine and we are far in advance of EU members in our
immunisation programme. Germany have now
seemingly tried to order their own supplies, and in an outrageous announcement
from Brussels, an attempt is being made to block transport of vaccine (some of
which is produced in Belgium) to Britain.
Not many people younger than I participated in the first
referendum in 1975. At that time the
vote was on whether to remain part of the EEC (European Economic
Community). I certainly did not vote to
be ruled by the EU. Forty plus
years of connivance, a terrible CAP (Common Agricultural Policy), poor
harmonisation of production norms, the antithesis of free trade, bizarre rules
over fishing (nearly 90% of fish caught off Cornwall goes to the EU and is
caught by foreign boats), and many, many other bureaucratic anomalies and
inefficiencies have made me completely disenchanted with the EU as an organization. It also seems to be designed for poorer
nations to dip into the coffers of the richer ones – often with useless
projects where many millions of Euros are wasted. I think of a fishing harbour on the north
coast of Tenerife for example, that would be suitable competition for Malta’s
Grand Harbour in size. When I walked
past, what was the number of fishing boats?
About six or seven. Similarly,
when cycling Scotland’s roads, it is easy to tell the ones built with EU money
– they are the only good ones! Euro
lovers will say that it brings closer ties among nations, by which they probably
mean it’s easier to go there on holiday.
But most of the important ties, whether in trade, or in scientific
exchange of ideas have been brought about by modern transport, modern
communications, and the Internet. I’ve
been encouraged in my ‘Coming Out’ by an article by Julie Burchill in last
weekend’s papers: ‘EU pettiness reminds us every day why Brexit was worth
it.’ Julie is never a faint-hearted
dissembler. The article is too long to
quote in full and you can probably find it online. She starts well though: ‘As a youngster on
the pop press, I coined the term “non-specific epic-ness” to sum up a certain
sort of music that was all bombast and no bite, U2 being the best example. So it was a match made in heaven when their
frontman, Bono, exhibited extreme BDS (Brexit derangement syndrome) on tour a
few years ago. Previously, pop stars had
shown us fun things onstage (i.e. Jim Morrison’s genitalia) but the only thing
Bono managed to reveal was his barmy levels of virtue-signalling. There was: “Its values and aspirations make
Europe so much more than just a geography.
They go to the core of who we are as human beings, and who we want to
be.”‘ And there is much more in that
vein, much of it funny. She ends by
saying, ‘Behind all the brotherhood-of-man braggadocio, the EU were only ever a
gang of playground bullies, their impotent rage revealed in their spite as we
extricate ourselves from their moribund grasp, the end of the Big Sulk (La Grande Boude) nowhere in sight.
Wednesday February 10th
Two weeks have passed, and I haven’t seen anything to change
my mind about the EU. Vaccination seems
to be the main thing that the government have got right, and everybody is
chipping in to help. I have tried to
volunteer (What did you do in the Great War, Daddy?), but when I get to the
question about my reduced immunity, the webpage recycles to a sort of ‘Don’t
call us, we’ll call you’ section. Two
friends, one a retired GP, the other a retired dentist, have volunteered. The GMC have re-registered her without
charge, but the General Dental Council want £1000 to re-register her
husband. So it’s car park duty for him
and vaccinations for her. Some
interesting stories though, including the invasion of the car park by an
anti-Vaxxer who is shouting ‘Don’t go in, they’re killing people!’ Scary how many bonkers people the pandemic
seems to have brought out of the closet.
Just over a week ago it was my younger daughter’s 30th
birthday. She is a well-liked, nay
loved, social animal and it would be wonderful if she could have spent time
with her many friends. Fortunately, her
partner is a good guy and they both took the day off and went to Richmond Park,
followed by Zoom sessions with friends.
An illustration of her network and continuing friendships is an Instagram
post wishing her a happy birthday from the ‘Seasonnaires’, the other friends
who worked with her in Val d’Isère a few years ago. For some reason, I think 30 is a major
milestone, much more so than 18 or 21, and I write her a letter, detailing
some, but not all, details of my 30th birthday celebrations. There was the end of a dreadful affair with a
girlfriend who told lies, an on-off relationship with a neurotic woman who took
industrial doses of Valium and amitriptyline, and so a relatively gentle evening
at a dinner party in Clapham with some friends came as some relief. Following which I spent a night on the floor,
sensibly, for once, not driving home afterwards. 21 was a time when the celebrations were
rather juvenile, even though we thought we were adults. I wonder how it was for the previous
generation? My father-in-law had already
finished his war by the time he was 21.
His 20th saw him on operations in the RAF. How they must have partied, with the
ever-present fear of not being there for the next birthday. Occasional sentences slipped out at reunions
illustrating their rumbustious and fancy-free sessions. I wonder how many Spitfire pilots were in the
cockpit with alcohol levels which would see them taken off the road for a year
or so these days?
The last few days have seen the death (seemingly with Covid)
of Captain Tom, the 100-year old who raised millions for NHS charities. Suitable tributes all round. After an enormous spike in deaths, the peak
being reached on 18th January with around 1300 deaths, there is at
last a substantial fall. There is much
anxiety about the efficacy of the vaccines against the new variants of the
virus, now known as the UK variant and the South African variant. Genetic analysis reveals multiple changes in
the protein structure (usually the substitution of one aminoacid for another in
the spike or other proteins), and there is in fact, a substantial number of
virus variations. As of today there are
over 12 million vaccinated persons in the UK; only Israel achieving a higher
proportion of population. The EU lags
far behind. It is truly an unwieldy
bureaucracy.
Our book club had an easy choice this last time around. ‘The murder of Roger Ackroyd’, by Agatha
Christie. Although her second murder
mystery, it is the first to feature Hercule Poirot. Opinions are mixed. I am a sucker for a plot, and despite the
cardboard characters, all sounding like something from Cluedo, I enjoy it. In the meantime, a friend who shall be
nameless has lent me one of the Flashman books, which I feel I ought to return
to him in a brown paper cover. It could
not be published nowadays. It is called
‘Flash for Freedom’, the third in the series, and it deals with slavery. The n word is used perhaps a thousand
times… I feel reluctant to admit to
reading it.
So I’ve turned to a book recommended by a Scottish friend. ‘I am Charlotte Simmons’, by Tom Wolfe. My first introduction to Tom Wolfe was when I
lived in North Carolina, and somebody loaned me ‘From Bauhaus to Our House’. This is a witty, well-researched, critique of
modern architecture, particularly in the United States, though of course it
starts with Walter Gropius and the Modernists.
I enjoyed it so much that when Wolfe published his first novel, ‘The
Bonfire of the Vanities’, I bought it immediately. I found it overlong and tedious. I tried twice but never finished it.
My Scottish friend said to me; ‘You were at Duke, weren’t
you?’ Have you read ‘I am Charlotte
Simmons? It’s about Duke…’.
The University in the book is an amalgam, of several Ivy
League-type universities. University of
Michigan, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Stanford, are among
those mentioned by name in the acknowledgements (even though these are not in
the original Ivy League). The fictional
university in the novel is called Dupont, and the emphasis on basketball as a
religion probably means that Duke is at least a strong candidate for the true
location. Wolfe sites his university in
rural Pennsylvania and his main character comes from a backwater in the
Appalachians in North Carolina.
But it’s tedious. 659
pages tedious. The immersive nature of
Wolfe’s research into college speak of the 00’s is endlessly reproduced in the
so-called ‘Fuck Patois’, and occasionally ‘Shit Patois.’ One of the few enjoyable scenes in the novel
is the confrontation between the President of the University, Frederick Cutler
III; a disaffected highbrow lecturer, Jerome Quat, and the redneck basketball
coach, Buster Roth. There are some
telling Wolfe phrases. Of Cutler and
Quat: ‘Both regarded Israel as the most important nation on earth, although
neither was tempted to live there’.
There is an amusing anecdote about the coach, who has criticised, then
belatedly praised his star player for wanting to take a course in Greek
philosophy – ‘As Socrates would say, “mens
sana in corpore sano”’; said the coach.
An interesting aside is that Wolfe (originally a journalist), has
noticed that many older academic Jews use the phrase ‘Jesus Christ’ as an
exclamation. But perhaps Wolfe should
have followed the example of another North Carolinian, coincidentally named Thomas
Wolfe, whose turgid bildungsroman,
‘Look homeward, angel’ was reduced to a mere 800 or 900 pages by an editor,
Maxwell Perkins, who cut at least 60,000 words.
One is left with the feeling that Tom Wolfe was a great journalist and critic
but a poor novelist. I was recommended
to read ‘Look homeward, Angel’ by a friend when living in North Carolina. Somehow I finished it. My friend’s grandparents had rented a house
in Chapel Hill to Wolfe when he was studying at UNC.
January weather was unpleasant, with the occasional sunny
day thrown in. Rain left puddles where
the diggers and dumper trucks moved endlessly around trying to build a patio
and then re-landscape. Early February
began the same, but with a twist. The
‘Beast from the East’ returned with a vengeance. The jetstream has curled south of us and cold
air is being sucked in from Russia. It
is now dry but chilly, with temperatures failing to rise much above freezing
most of the day.
 |
| What might be a lawn one day, but is currently just mud |
 |
| Pre-dawn, looking towards the Isle of Wight |
 |
| A nice jigsaw of Varenna, Lake Como, 'lockdown life' |
 |
| Whitley Bay, Poole Harbour, very early morning walk |
Various sports have continued. A slight sense of envy – why should Premier
League footballers be sacrosanct?
Cuddling and backslapping for goal celebrations. The same applies to virtually every
sport. Periodically a few positive tests
means that fixtures are cancelled. The
England cricket team had to move on from South Africa for this reason. Our very early mornings have now been
enlivened by broadcasts of their series win in Sri Lanka, and in the last few
days a superb victory over India in the first Test in Chennai. Joe Root has been head and shoulders above the
rest, now with two double hundreds during this tour. A stirring victory for Scotland in the
Calcutta Cup over England last weekend.
A variety of humorous texts and posts has of course followed.
Over 13 million first vaccine doses have been administered
in the U.K. as of today. I had mine
(AstraZeneca) two weeks ago. Unfortunately,
I seem to have been one of the three in a thousand who have had a major
reaction. 10 hours post dose I had
rigors, muscle aches, and a fever of 39.7 deg C. It took two days for the fever to come down
and four days before I really felt back to normal. Subsequent testing for Covid and for Covid
antibodies has been negative. Apart from
filling in the MHRA yellow card, I have kept relatively quiet about this, not
wishing to give the anti-vaxxers any ammunition. Subsequent analysis of safety data by MHRA
and the research trials themselves indicate a significant reaction to this
degree in about 3 per 1000 people.
Monday February 15th
The cold snap (much worse in Scotland – temperatures of -22
C in Altnaharra) has gone and mild weather has returned. The easterly gale has subsided. It rained a lot yesterday, but today is a
balmy 13 C and merely misty. Having lost
the toss in the second test match, England are now very likely to lose the
match. A second exciting weekend in the
rugby six nations tournament sees England win easily against Italy, Scotland
narrowly losing to Wales, and another tight game in which France beat
Ireland. On Saturday I had a chilly walk
along the beach with the gale blowing, large rollers crashing in, and fitful
sun shining through the colours of a kite as its rider skimmed across the
waves. Turnstones, oystercatchers, and
an occasional curlew sifted the mud as the tide went out in the harbour. One unlucky turnstone picked out some
delectable worm and was immediately ambushed by several black-headed
gulls. I think it managed to swallow its
prey before the highwaymen gulls purloined it but I’m not sure.
More ‘woke’ nonsense is going on. At Brighton NHS trust, some PC person has
dictated that midwives refer to ‘chest feeding’ and not ‘breastfeeding’. Indignant and often funny letters have
followed. One man said that he would
‘need to make a clean chest of it’ but he liked wearing ‘double chested
suits’. Meanwhile, the future of Rhodes’
statue in Oxford looks ever more uncertain as Oriel College, who own it, have
made it known that black and minority ethnic applications to their college have
dropped dramatically. Someone informs me
that a black actress has been chosen to play Anne Boleyn. A case of ‘black swyves matter’ I
suppose. This seems to run
counterintuitive to the current approved luvvie tenet that roles should be
played by those appropriate to them, e.g. gay men playing gay parts. So, to be completely accurate, the actress
chosen should be someone whose sister has been having an affair with the King
or the heir to the throne. This sounds
familiar and the House of Windsor may well be able to oblige here.
 |
| Some images from Studland; first naturist (not shown) spotted February 21st! |
 |
| Studland Walks |
A little while ago, much was made of a first ascent
including a British ex-Gurka, of Mount K2 in winter. Many years ago, while working in Nottingham,
a gifted and charismatic neurologist there, Richard Godwin Austen, informed us
that the correct name for this peak was Mount Godwin-Austen. This was because the first person to survey
it and to accurately assess it as the second highest mountain in the world, was
his 19th Century ancestor.
Local names for it, Chogori and Dapsang seem less likely to intrude into
the public consciousness. K2 seems the
most likely to stick, sadly. Perhaps
Richard’s forebear should have had a snappier surname, like Everest?
Tuesday February 16th
Mild and rainy first thing, clearing for the time
being. 3.3 mile walk, limited to the
beach, around Canford Cliffs, wittily described by a friend as ‘Can’t Afford
Cliffs’, and back. Our lockdown
continues, with jigsaws, books, newspapers, sport on TV (disastrous loss in 2nd
Test in India), quiz shows, and occasional news. Cases of Covid and hospitalisations are
falling sharply but we are told that easing of restrictions is some weeks
away. Turned on ITV news for a while
this morning and was astonished by the vehemence of the anti-Government stance,
or more particularly the anti-Boris stance.
The editor of the Daily Mirror uses words such as ‘incompetent’ and
‘liar’. He trots out the statistic of
over 100,000 deaths, with what in medicine we used to call the
‘retrospectoscope’. Vacillation has cost
lives (my words), but I suspect his ire is largely anti-Tory, anti-Etonian, and
anti-establishment. It would have been
interesting to speculate on what would have happened with Jeremy Corbyn in
power…
Trivial I know, but controversy continues to court VAR, the
Video Assistant Referee, now used in football.
A witty letter from Malcolm Tibble in Norfolk suggests alternative
interpretations for the acronym:
Verdicts Aren’t Rational
Visibly Aggrieved Ralph (possible a reference to the
Southampton manager)
Variably Applied Rulings
Vigorous Arguments Rage
Victims Are Relegated
And more trivia – the
Duchess of Sussex (Meghan Markle), has just won a court action over privacy
against a daily newspaper. Somewhat
contradictory, she and Harry are to appear in a ‘tell-all’ date with American
talk show hostess Oprah Winfrey. And she
is expecting another baby. Well; you
didn’t hear it here first. A newspaper
letter points out that this woman who is requesting privacy has just announced
to 7 billion people that she is expecting another baby.
Read ‘The Thursday Murder Club’, the new book which is
selling like hot cakes from Richard Osman, quiz show host. Very good, in an Agatha Christie-like way. Slightly cardboard characters, and the plot
stretches credulity. And indeed, it
would be incorrect to say of one character who was lethally injected with
fentanyl, ‘He was dead before he hit the ground’. Death with fentanyl is due to extreme
sedation and respiratory depression and would not be instantaneous.
Everybody is becoming very tired of the current
situation. But when one thinks of how it
must have been for those enduring two world wars in the last century, our
experience seems minor by comparison.
Given the degree of low-level anarchy present on the streets, one
wonders what our life would now be like if this virus killed, say, 30% of us rather
than 1%. The dystopian scenarios of a
number of books and films would probably come true, with vigilantes, no law and
order, corpses in the streets, and a complete collapse of the economy. We need to keep those bats at bay!
A final thought on those enduring four years and six years
of war in WWI and WWII – although searingly hard, poor food or no food, loss of
loved ones, restrictions on entertainment and movements; at least people could
touch one another, hug one another, and maintain human contact. This is denied to us at the moment.
Friday February 19th
There are times when even the most determined and
conscientious diarist loses, if not the will to live, at least the will to
write. I have felt this in the last few
weeks. So many things move on their
unchanging and tedious way. Unable to
see and hear loved ones; dark mornings and evenings; wintry weather. A certain torpor hangs heavy. For the blogger ‘their currents turn awry
and lose the name of action.’ But this
morning for some reason, I have awoken from this slumber. Waking early I decided to go out for a walk,
aware that heavy rain would come later in the morning. As I came down Evening Hill, shortly before
7a.m. the harbour was a dull grey in the half light, with a strong westerly
blowing. It was still dark enough to see
the winking red and green lights of the channel buoys, but light enough to make
out their position. A few cars raced
towards Sandbanks, no doubt intending to get the first chain ferry of the day
which starts at 7. Turning along the
promenade from shore road past the beach huts, the wind built to near gale
force and I was bowled easily along (‘Wafted by a favouring gale, as one
sometimes is in trances…’). The lights
on the mothballed cruise ships still glimmered, and a few hardy souls, the year
round swimmers, were breasting the waves, tugging their fluorescent tracer
buoys along behind them. I thought that
the one disappointment of such an urban and beachside walk was the absence of
flowers – some snowdrops would have been nice – but on shore road as I mooched
along I was suddenly struck by a hellebore which was almost in bloom in a niche
in the pavement. Looking up I discovered
there was a hilly slope of a garden above, with many of these plants, obviously
a favourite of the owner. ‘I lifted up
mine eyes unto the hills, from whence came my hellebore.’ On the beach, it being first light, there was
much activity from gulls and oystercatchers, all ravenous for breakfast after a
long windy night, and taking advantage of a receding tide from about 5.30 a.m.
‘Wokeness’ continues to perplex, and to amuse. Michael Deacon yesterday drew attention to an
announcement by an Australian University which, in addition to endorsing the
notion of ‘chest feeding’ and ‘human milk’ for ‘breast milk’, recommends that
‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ be reclassified as ‘gestational parent’ and ‘non-birthing
parent’. You couldn’t make it up, to use
a cliché.
Some friends have recommended a TV series entitled ‘Call my
Agent’. This is a French made series
about ASK, a company of film and TV agents, and in the original it is called
‘Dix Pour Cent’. This may be something
of an oxymoron, but it is Good-French-TV.
It’s witty and hilarious. Note to
self: all French women are slim. There
is an article this week hailing the new breed of French TV (previously French
TV soaps have been universally poor).
The language is very fast, extremely colloquial, and the subtitles,
while accurate, are not always the literal translation from the French. My scatological French is therefore coming
along very well, and in addition to the usual ‘D’accord’ and ‘Desolée
Monsieur’, I am now able to tell another Frenchman to do something anatomically
impossible, and to lament to my lesbian lover that the batteries on my sex toy
have run down and I will have to ‘do it the old-fashioned way’.
Finally, and at last I can say this, because Wilfried Zaha, the
black Ivorian striker who plays for Crystal Palace F.C. has endorsed it; we
need no longer pay lip service to the ‘Black Lives Matter’ movement by ‘Taking
the Knee’. As Zaha himself has said, it
has lost its impetus and meaning.
Wearing a ‘Black Lives Matter’ badge makes him a target. He finds taking the knee ‘degrading’. Well said.
Some of the racist hate abuse is probably from people who are fed up
with having the message pushed down their craw, though most of us have been too
polite to say so.
A reflection of medicine as it is currently practised. It is impossible to ring up and ask for even
a GP telephone consultation. An online
form is needed (eConsult), which includes every time a question about your
family history. They have my records,
and do not need to do this, but yes, my father still died of a stroke following
Alzheimer’s and my Grandparents are still dead and suffered from TB, vascular
disease, and diabetes. Following some
symptoms which I suspect are not serious, I went through this whole rigmarole
once again yesterday (being careful not to answer yes to any question which
might allow them to say ‘This could be Covid’ and throw you out of the system
with an adjuration to phone 111), and this morning have been greeted by a ‘Do
not reply’ e mail which says that my eConsult will be passed to the ‘Care
Navigation Team’ for further evaluation.
What has medicine come to? ‘O
Tempora, O Mores’? As Flanders and Swann
posed it, ‘Oh Times, Oh Daily Mirror’!
Mild weather prevails, and sunshine. It is nice to see that in sunny weather our
house draws nothing from the external electricity supply. Deaths and cases of Covid continue to fall
and we have had a timetable for exit from lockdown issued by the P.M. From a selfish point of view, the excitement
is that golf will resume from late March.
Final exit day is Midsummer Day – June 21st. The last 24 hours show 548 deaths within 28
days of a positive Covid test – down nearly 30% in the last week. Nearly 18 million people have had at least
one vaccine dose. Both Pfizer and AZ
vaccines have now been shown to work in the elderly and to reduce
transmission. So ‘Fromage à pâte dure’ to
Emmanuel Macron who has been loth to order the AstraZeneca jab, claiming it did
not work in the elderly. Lockdown exit arrangements
as ever are slightly different in Wales and Scotland. In Scotland the pandemic is currently
overshadowed by the internecine struggle between Alex Salmond and Nicola
Sturgeon. I speak at length this morning
to an old medical school friend in Edinburgh, whose artistic and needlework
talents are burgeoning during the pandemic.
Recent walks have disclosed swathes of crocuses and
snowdrops. The year marches on.
 |
| Links Road, Parkstone, Poole |
