Here we go again

 

Image from Sciencenews 

Mark Drakeford, our First Minister, last week announced that here in Wales we’re having a Fire-break to halt the spread of Covid. It means that for two weeks we have to keep away from each other and not light any fires (something like that). We can’t even buy candles, apparently, as they aren’t essential goods. Let’s hope we don’t get any power cuts, then, as the remains of hurricane Epsilon (what a name!) howl around us. Menstruation is banned too, I gather, as sanitary goods are considered in one Tesco Store to be non-essential.

As for whether the halt to events like Halloween and Guy Fawkes that through the dark nights would keep us going (the children anyway), it remains to be seen whether a firebreak will have the desired result. Compliance remains an issue. We’re too ready to keep a welcome in our hillsides and vales, so we’re our own worst enemy when it comes to a pandemic.

Wales has reverted to previous ‘form’ too. In the ancient days of little princedoms across the country, princes were always bickering and sulking if another princedom got one over on them. Because Pembrokeshire doesn’t have as many infections as South East Wales they don’t see why they have to be locked down too. We’ll see how they feel when those of them that do need hospital care find the hospitals they’d be flown to, overflowing with Covid (unless I’m mistaken about there being a pandemic of course).

It’s all a funny, not very ha-ha, business. It’s the only thing to talk about most of the time and now that the clocks have gone back, the nights are long and the weather is sh** there’s not much to get up for. “Strictly” is back and how nice is it actually to watch people having a glorious, glamorous time of it while the rest of us slouch in our pj’s? It simply reminds me of how very unglamorous I am these days and how unlikely it is that I would ever be waltzed around a glittering dance floor. Tbh, even if, in the hugely unlikely event, that Gareth would suggest doing so, my arthritic limbs wouldn’t cope with it anyway.

Here I am, grumbling again. It’s what I’m good at. I’m looking at the clouds in the hopes of seeing a silver lining but all I see is the birds buffeted in their flocks trying to make their way south to sun and warmth.  We’ve packed the moho off to storage and it gave us such a look as we left it, as if to say “Hey, what happened to winter travel? You’re just gonna leave me here?” 

But seriously......(yes, there are some serious things to talk about - US elections I’ll avoid for the moment, though)  I recently listened to a radio discussion about whether it’s the younger generation taking the brunt of all this; economically and sociologically. How does their future look? There may historically have been worse times but it’s not our young people’s fault in this day and age if they’re not prepared or equipped for this.

The pandemic (if it’s real - there are those who think it a conspiracy) is also making us think about what ‘freedom’ means. Are we free to do as we choose; sovereign in our decisions about what is good for us? Or, is our freedom limited by the needs of those around us, and indeed by those who are not close to us? Through modern times we’ve come to think of ourselves as individuals with divine and unassailable rights. ‘Responsibilities’ are of a lower order, unless it’s the responsibility of someone other than ourselves and then we can get quite vocal about it. There’s also the big question about ‘truth’, but I won’t go there.

I’m glad of my little blog-reading community here. You give me the opportunity to blurt my silly thinking. Knowing that you’re out there keeps me sane.......well it keeps me writing anyway.

Nothing to blog about

The other day my friend Gill asked me what had happened to my blog. Well, dear readers, what can I write about.......? In my last blog I expressed the hope that the flow of the still-with-us pandemic doesn’t become a torrent. But it seems that things are starting to pick up speed again; the infection rate rising and nightly news reports of a rising death rate. Sigh. We’re into a phase of local lockdowns this time where rules are different depending on where you live. The rules keep changing too so no-one really knows what they can or cannot do. Confusion and frustration reigns.

Things are also starting to fracture. We’re all starting to blame each other now. Old are blaming the young, The North (wherever that is) is feeling picked on by the London Government (ref Andy Burnham, mayor of Manchester, for example), the devolved government leaders each think that their solutions are better than Boris’s and here in Wales, Mark Drakeford is planning on rebuilding Offa’s Dyke to keep the English out...... something like that; police stopping people coming in from highly infected areas, anyway. I’m Welsh and proud, but I don’t want my friends and family barred from entry; not that my Midland-abiding brood can visit in any case - they’re having to self-isolate after contact with a Covid victim.

I didn’t intend for Covid19 to be the focus of this blog even though it becomes a central topic in most of our social exchanges these days. And now that Donald Trump has shown that Covid19 is nothing to worry about, why indeed should we worry? He’s now immune, apparently, and has promised to freely provide the drugs that cured him. How generous! How very democratic; socialist even! His miraculous recovery seems to suggest that all that death was of no real consequence. Silly us to be so concerned! How is Melania, by the way? Anybody heard whether she’s recovered too? What the heck is going on?

So what else is there to talk about? I’m not inclined here to add my four penneth to the ferment about ‘what should be done’ (I’ve just realised that any younger readers, if any younger readers follow this blog of mine, might not know what ‘four penneth’ means. It’s old currency, old English and an old saying, folks. That shows my vintage, doesn’t it?)

What is worthy of comment, I’m wondering. One great piece of news is that David Attenborough and Prince William are offering a big money prize to anyone coming up with good solutions for our Climate Emergency. Bravo! That cheers me up! (not that I’m likely to come up with any clever, prize-winning solutions myself, of course) And new technologies will surely provide lots of new employment opportunities for the future and help us to recover from the effects of the pandemic on our economies (Uh-oh, I mentioned that flippin word again!) In the meantime, HS2 works are chomping through some of the best of what remains of Middle Britain’s woodlands and pastures. It’s a train line that’s intended to connect ‘The North’ and ‘The South’ (aka London). I won’t say “Let’s see how that goes” because I’d rather the project was stopped in its tracks (pardon the pun). My feeling from the outset of the thing-I-said-I-wouldn’t-mention-again is that a brake on our modus operandi was an opportunity to do things differently, and rethink our treatment of Nature and each other. 

So what am I doing differently, you may well ask. Well, apart from mask wearing and social distancing (see, how do you avoid alluding to ‘it’?) life hasn’t changed a great deal for us. We’re still at the caravan, waiting for our tenant to give us our house back. We walk, we bicker, we toss a coin to see who’ll make dinner or wash up. I experiment with making things like tofu and sour dough; mixed success there, I have to say. Luckily Gareth enjoys the breads I make even though he needs his axe and band saw to get through the crust. 

My reading is like my comfort eating - a grazing approach of alighting on whatever is lying around and taking a few nibbles. Unlike my figure my attention span is much reduced and my memory even more so. I couldn’t tell you whether I’ve learned anything much and the best way to describe my daily routine is not to call it a routine at all; it’s very random.

So what haven’t I done? I haven’t learned to play the guitar or another language. I haven’t used the opportunity to Pilates myself to full flexibility. I haven’t got further than a few pages into writing a novel. I haven’t caught up with the box sets people rave about. I haven’t delved into my family history. I haven’t built up a stash of beautifully crafted items to sell on Etsy. I haven’t taken Gareth’s ‘advice’ to clean up my phone and iPad. I haven’t sorted my cupboards or painted anything with Frenchic paint (a new thing, I’m told). I haven’t achieved recognition for any mastery of mouthwatering meals, nor have I cleverly utilised ingredients that I (haven’t) foraged from the wonderful outdoors.

I haven’t completed any jigsaws (I don’t have any jigsaws). I haven’t got past level 68 on my Languinis game ap. (For the past three years I’ve been stuck there because I refuse to pay for the coins I apparently need to move forward. Yeah, ok, I’ll just get a new game). I haven’t initiated any on-line interest groups and I keep forgetting the Zoom meetings I am enrolled on. I haven’t sorted my photos, I haven’t given the caravan a deep clean and I haven’t found a Pinterest-perfect use for the stash of tiny bottles I’ve collected. I haven’t done anything worthy of a televised Big Thank You on the One Show and I haven’t even had a hair-cut since October 2019 (I’m wondering whether, by doing nothing, I can achieve the beautiful long white locks that my great grandmother wore tied up in a knot and which awed my sisters and me when she let them down). So far I don’t have luscious lockdown locks and I look more like a witch from one of Roald Dahl’s story books. Gareth is sporting a very amateurishly achieved hair-style (guess who the amateur barber is) and neither of us have made much effort with our personal grooming since, oooo, I can’t remember.

So, in sum, I haven’t done much of anything at all.

If you’re interested I could go on and on about my under-achievements, and I’m sure I will have many more not to brag or blog about as we creep into winter trying to hide from the virus.  Given that another lockdown is much on the cards I should have plenty of opportunity to do nothing very much again. I’ll let you know how I get on.

Image from: unlvfree press.com