When you don't know it's Sunday, its time to think!

 New Lockdown, thrid week, Sunday.

 

 

 

 

In theory this morning, I should have been surrounded solely by my fellow citizens of Castelldefels as I went on my accustomed bike ride.  During the weekends we are legally bound to keep within our municipalities.  Yesterday there was a police control on one of the roads coming off the motorway checking, well, asking people where they were from.  When we were asked and replied, “Castelldefels” w were further asked where in the city we lived.  Having given the answer, we were waved on without further ado or any checking.  To be fair, my car windscreen does have a Castelldefels parking permit, which could have been an indication that we were telling the truth.  Policing of the lockdown restrictions where we live has, you might say, been somewhat unobtrusive.

     Today is a bright, sunny morning – just the sort of day when you might feel like visiting the seashore and walking along our extensive paso.  There were no police in evidence anywhere along my ride at the key points where access roads from ‘outside’ allow entry to the beach area of the town.  And if we are relying on trust for these restrictions to work, then information and graphic videos from around the country and the world show just how ineffective relying on people to do the right thing can be.

     I did note today that although a majority of people passing me were not wearing masks (and I include those with the mask under the nose and one the elbow!) the minority who do wear their masks is slowly getting nearer to parity.  Perhaps by the time the first vaccines hit, we might actually have made 50%!

 

 

 

Cummings fall from grace echoes other ‘over mighty’ counsellors like Cromwell, More and Wolsey, with somewhat less fatal results.  Which some might bewail.  And I think that I will leave the last sentence there with its nice ambiguity!

     Cummings’ influence has been truly poisonous and it is difficult to feel any sympathy from a person who has shown so little in the execution of his duties.  The fiasco of the illegal lockdown trips for ‘child care’ and ‘eyesight testing’ had a direct influence on the way that the restrictions were perceived, and emphasised the ‘one law for them, another for us’ syndrome that is so clearly in evidence here in Spain too with the kid glove treatment of the criminal activities of the so-called king emeritus and his corrupt financial dealings.  At a time where unity of purpose is essential, establishment figures seem to go out of their way to undercut acceptance.

     Cummings should not be the story; Covid and its management in the UK is the essential narrative that we should be concerned with, though Johnson must be terrified that he is going to become the intense focus of attention, and he will have to step up and take some sort of responsibility for the chaos that characterises his method of ‘government’.

     To be fair to Johnson, I do not for a moment believe that he has any ethical rock or ideological motivation.  It is, of course, unreasonable to expect a narcissist to be anything other than self-regarding and as, by definition, he cannot be wrong, he will continue to find others to take the blame for his own deadly incompetence. 

     All Johnson has to do is look over the Atlantic to see a master class in the survival game that he wants to play.  Trump’s reasoning is, “If I am losing an election then it must be rigged.”  Simple, elegant and criminally deranged. 

     This is the game plan that means that the population of the UK has to be blamed for the increase in Covid infection and not the people elected to manage its containment: the greater the numbers the more at fault those being infected are!  There is a sort of evil elegance to such reasoning.  And, of course the PBI not only get to suffer but also get to pay for their suffering! 

     Modern Conservatism to a ‘T’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Daddy, what did you do during lockdown?”

     Yet another re-working of the First World War recruitment poster is an accusation to those of us with time on our hands to think about what we have made of the extra ‘space’ imposed on us.

     I should be writing.  I know that I am merely by keeping this blog up to date, but the writing that I am thinking about is what starts in my notebook and is sometimes worked up into poems.  As I have explained before, my routine has been shot by my not being able to go for a swim and then to have my reward of a cup of tea in the pool café, where I then write in my notebook.

     I know that it should be perfectly easy for me to write in it at any other time – but it just doesn’t work out like that.  So, my writing has been a little desultory.

     I have therefore decided to do something different and (for me) interesting.

     I am going to compile a Catalogue Raisonné of the art works that I own.

 

 

 

 

     Not only is a Catalogue Raisonné something which is necessary for insurance purposes [that sounds a bit forced, but at the same time there is an element of truth to it] but also it will, I am sure, bring to the surface some ‘art works’ that have been unduly neglected over the past few years. 

     What, for example, am I going to class as artworks?  The small penguin figure made by a youthful Pat Giles in Rumney Pottery and bought by me as a present for my grandmother, will certainly count.  But what about the Coty bunny (without the bottle of Coty L’aimant in its little paws) bought as the final present my mother recognized getting from me?  Surely, that counts?  If Duchamp can have ‘readymades’ then I should be entitled to ‘bought objects with emotional charge’ as part of the catalogue!

     From where I am sitting typing this I can see four, framed ‘works’.  The first (and largest) is an ink drawing that I bought when I was a student in Swansea; the second is a page from an artist’s sketchbook; the third an elegant ‘joke’ birthday card where a penguin (a recurrent visual theme in my life) is treated in the style of various modern artists; the fourth is four framed medals of my paternal grandfather from his time in the British Army in The First World War.

     The great thing about a Catalogue Raisonné is that it has nothing to do with monetary worth (the ‘insurance thing’ was just a ploy to get me started and give a facile ‘purpose’ to the enterprise) but the written description that accompanies the objects can hint at the true non-monetary value.

     Then there is the question of my watches – not one of which is truly (or in some cases even remotely) valuable – but they do have a sort of worth and many have excellent design and they are worthy of consideration.

     So, far from being something which is static and visual art fixated, my Catalogue Raisonné will be dynamic, its scope changing with its development and how I look at what I possess.

     I’ve just thought, what about my (pitifully) small number of first edition books?  (Peake, Coward, Huxley) and my older tomes, like Swift – and when I say like Swift, I mean just Swift.  They too have a place.  And it will be fun finding out exactly how the condition of these books is described and replicating the language in my personal catalogue!

     The first thing to do is begin to take photos of what I have and then put them in the inevitable booklet that is my default position when confronted with a visual and writing project.

     I will start at once!

Enough!

 New Lockdown, into the third week, Saturday

 

Anywhere else in the world what Trump is doing at the moment would be called out for what it is, a coup attempt.   

     What international reputation has survived the last four years of arrogant contempt for the rest of humanity as expressed by the holder of the office of President of the United States of America, is finally being shredded as the callous egoist drives slowly past unmasked supporters who are wilfully ignoring the overwhelming evidence of a Biden win and are continuing to give voice to baseless accusations of fraud.

     Trump has managed, in his usual ungracious way, to demean and sully the institutions of the country he is supposed to lead and the photo opportunities that he affords are worthy of a tin pot dictator from one of the ‘shithole’ countries that he has racially denigrated.

     His determined denial of reality does no one any good.  At a time of catastrophic numbers of Covid infections and deaths, the story is not one of united federally-led attempts to get to grips with the pandemic, but rather the nurturing of the battered ego of a proven loser; a one term president; a failure in the Electoral College; a massive loser in the popular vote.   

     Trump is a petty criminal turned leader in something of the same way as Brecht’s Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui showed an ironic picture of a 1930s Chicago gangster taking control of the cauliflower market. 

     Trump of course was funded to the tune of millions by his KKK supporting father, he never had to claw his way up – he was born up, and after a string of business failures he is still there.

     I have not known many millionaires, but one vouchsafed his financial wisdom to me saying, “You’ve got to keep your money working.  You’ve got to keep your financial balls in the air, keep them moving.  And the great, the really great trick, is knowing when to run!” 

     Trump doesn’t run.  He offloads his failures onto other people, his smaller creditors; or he manages to finagle finance so that the banks and lenders find themselves unable to let him fail without courting disaster themselves.  What sort of financial genius is able to go bankrupt owning a casino?  Trump did, and still managed to preserve a reputation as a financial wizard as people were taken in by the razmataz rather than a healthy balance sheet.   

     Trump has ruthlessly used his position as president to augment his personal finances and those of his family, he has behaved like an autocrat, a Russian oligarch – but without their style and sophistication.  The vulgarian believes, still, that he is untouchable, that his word creates reality.

     His fairy tale (more Brothers Grimm than Anderson) has gone on long enough, it is time to wake up from the fantasy world that the Orange Outrage lives in.  He has lost the presidency.   

     The New Year is going to be very cold for him as the financial realities that he has managed to deny become an everyday part of his beleaguered existence.

     But, one thing we should never forget, is a list of those Republican enablers who have fed and continue to feed Trump’s delusions.  Their lust for power has swept away their decency and they should never be allowed to forget just how far they fell.

 

On a much more creative note, I have taken delivery of two framed pictures of drawing in ink and pencil by Ceri Auckland Davies – a generous birthday present and I will post pictures of them tomorrow.

We are all in this together. Really!

 New Lockdown, Day 15?, Friday

 

I thought of entitling this piece ‘Selfish Disaster’ because we have been told in Catalonia that the closure of bars, restaurants, gyms, theatres, opera houses and SWIMMING POOLS etc is to be extended for at least another ten days.  Another ten days without my early morning swim!

     And then I thought that, in the scheme of things, going without a swim for a couple of weeks more is hardly to be compared with the ravages of Covid 19 and the people who are in hospital or are recovering from so-called ‘long Covid’.

     And then I thought again and realized that another ten days could well be the tipping point in the survival of some businesses and, as businesses fail so they set off a sort of chain reaction, dragging in both direct suppliers and those suppliers who are indirectly connected with the enterprises.  In an inter-connected world when one suffers, we all suffer – though I do of course recognize that not taking part in a particular activity (swimming, eating out, watching opera, shopping) is not the same as not keeping your business going.  I don’t swim, I am repaid my monthly membership fee or fraction thereof – the club has something like 2,000 members: it’s a lot of money to pay out and get nothing back, while keeping the buildings and installations in good condition.  The Club is well run and seems to be financially stable, even with the financial blows that Covid gives, but for how long can this continue?  And what is happening to the employees?  And the suppliers?

     Just as Covid respects no boundaries, the financial, social, educational, structural damage being done is not discrete: everything joins to everything else.  My missed swim is inconvenience to me, is a livelihood threatened to others.

     On the other hand, avoiding death is worth a little inconvenience, indeed it is worth a great deal of inconvenience – and one only hopes that we have governments considerate enough to understand that interdependence means generous finance.

 

 

 

My greatest worry (after the destructive effects of Covid) is about the condition of the Heath Service.

     In Catalonia, as I can personally attest from hospitalized personal experience, our Health Service is excellent.  I was lucky enough to have my condition diagnosed and my superb treatment given at a time when the health services were not being overstretched by a pandemic.  I am sure that if I went through what I did a couple of years ago, now – would I be treated in the same way?

     I was taken to hospital in an ambulance that arrived before my consultation with the doctor had actually ended.  I was seen immediately in hospital.  I was treated and given a place on a ward where my treatment continued.  I spent eight days (and longer nights) in hospital.  My aftercare has been exemplary.  Even then I spent some time on a bed in what was a corridor in emergency before I got a bed in a ward.

     Since the Covid pandemic has been in Catalonia, I have had a scheduled appointment for blood extraction and a consultation with the doctor that I have seen throughout my treatment – and my next one is in six months’ time.  I have no complaints.

     But my extraction and consultation were over in minutes, there were no complications, no expensive treatments that needed medical intervention.  What, I ask myself, is happening to those who need more intrusive medical assistance?  For those who need minor operations or who need continuing cancer treatment?

     The answer is perhaps illustrated on television, by the number of adverts that we are now subjected to which urge us to take out private medical insurance.  Even the threat of delay is enough to frighten some into paying now in the hope that they will be able to queue jump some time in the future.

    

In the UK the Conservative ‘government’ has underfunded the NHS and privatized those parts of the organization that it thinks it can get away with.  The Tories disgraceful outsourcing of the Test and Trace shows their dedication to the private sector and their hope that Brexit will merely accelerate the transition from the lie of “The NHS is safe in our hands” to “The NHS is mostly there for those who can’t pay” - and they will get what they do not pay for.  Covid has a fair chance of destroying a meaningful health service free at the point of need with the bunch of self-seeking incompetents that we have in charge.

 

 

What Covid has shown is how weak our public services are after years of Conservative ‘austerity’ and the post-Covid new-normal must be one where those public services are brought up to pre-Covid levels and more autonomy must return to local councils, so people can live.

     There is, of course, an element of hypocrisy in all this: my swimming pool is private, a private club run for profit.  The municipal pool is at the other end of town and up a steep hill which, even with an electric bike, I am not enthusiastic to climb.  I made a choice because I can afford to make that choice and I have gone for the pool nearest my home (leaving aside for the moment the sea which is at the end of the road) and the most convenient.  I have disposable income that I choose to spend on a well-appointed pool and in a cheerful café, I can even say that it is good value: I go there every day to swim and I end up paying about 50p for the privilege.  Money well spent I say!

     The US of A shows us that private medical health care is a nightmare and where a broken leg could be ruinous. 

     I am a fit and well chronically ill person!  I enjoy life but have to take pills every day and periodically go for consultations to check my progress.  It is no hardship; more mild inconvenience, and I know that I am being looked after well and I have no worries about the quality of my care.

     The New Normal is going to be different.  We have a duty to remind the government where its priorities should lie.

Jabs and jinks

 NEW LOCKDOWN Day 13? 14? Thursday

 

 

 

 

I am now fully flu-jabbed.

     After a little confusion about where to get into the place, I was ushered to one of two nurses who in a matter of seconds ticked off my name and gave me my injection.  By the time I got home, I was still within a minute of my original appointment time, having been seen to as soon as I arrived.

     Although this date is a little later than usual for my jab, I am glad that it is now out of the way and presumably my body will be in the right state to accept the Covid vaccine when it is available.  And I would like to make one thing abundantly clear, whenever it is available I am ready and willing to have it pumped into my arm.  All those conspiracy theorist idiots merely make it earlier in its availability for me!

     Though, I am acutely aware that the idea of raising up some sort of metaphorical inoculation drawbridge is false because, we are all in this together and until we are all inoculated none of us is safe.  Still, I will feel much more secure when I have some antibodies coursing around my veins!

 

As my appointment was for 6.16pm (yes, I too wondered if we were all separated by minute intervals to be done) and as parking in the centre of town is problematic at the best of times, I decided to go on my bike.

      I set off fairly early because I needed to call in to the pharmacist to get restocked with the pills that I take each day.  I was also acutely aware that the last time that I went to the pharmacist I overbalanced dismounting from my bike and I still have the pale new skin on my left knee, together with what I can only describe as a stubborn scab on the fleshy front part of the knee, so I was a damn sight more circumspect getting off the bike this time around.  And no accidents.

     At around 5.15pm when I set off we were just about in the period of our quick twilight.  The lingering gradations of encroaching darkness, much beloved of poets, in Britain is much more transient in Catalonia.  And as bikes seem to be generally invisible to pedestrians and to motorists it is always advisable to use lights whenever you suspect that they might be necessary.

     Now that I (finally) have my replacement front light for the bike it is easy to get a bright forward-facing light to warn people of my immanent arrival.  I also get to the centre of town using the safest, bike-friendly route via the paseo, then a cycle lane, through the university (which is generally sparsely populated), via another cycle lane and finally a main road.  As I was cycling during the rush hour as well, it added a sense of impending threat as the darkness grew.

     I know, as a motorist, I hate cyclists.  Generally speaking, they are inconsiderate, don’t indicate, ignore traffic flow and signs, and court death.  They do not attempt to endear themselves to other road users, and other road users know it.

     I am different.  I indicate – I even have a little light attached to the rear basket holder which acts as a flashing indicator.  The back light lights up when I apply the brakes.  I use hand signals; I respect other traffic users.  But motorists rarely make exceptions for riders who do not fulfil their lowest expectations, and merely assume that we are using some sort of low cunning to frustrate them.

     The one (low) life form that unites drivers and cyclists in a sacred bond of hatred is, of course, the scooter driver – both in the electric scooter type vehicle and the Vesponic versions.  These drivers are the true homicidal-suicidal-expletives based on body parts maniacs, who weave, jink, brake, speed and do just what the hell they like, and are the true spawn of Satan.

     However, even though there were one- or two-characters tempting fate on crowded, traffic light stopped road, they were not the objects of my loathing during my journey back.

     The worst (by a long chalk) road users are, and always have been, pedestrians: walking, jogging, running or simply standing, they are the ones who always leave me breathless – usually literally as I have had to execute some desperate manoeuvre to extricate myself from incipient pedestrionic disaster.

     I cycle, as far as I am able, in cycle lanes.  Cycle lanes are for cycles, there are even painted stencils of bicycles on the cycle lanes for those who find the concept difficult to understand.

     On the paseo I never ‘beep’ walkers out of my way.  We are equal users and I try and keep to the right (it’s foreign remember) and if there are groups of people I slowly make my way through, often helped by people who recognize a bike and make way when they see one.  If not, not.  I am not in a rush; I have better things to get upset about.

     Like pedestrians who walk or run in a bike lane.  Evil personified!  My horn is a piercing electronic sort of thing and has a peremptory sort of sound and usually does the trick.  Cycle lanes are for my kind, not the two footed.

     There is a supremely irritating sort of pedestrian who walks the border line, literally, between bike lane and pedestrian space: I make no effort to move away and usually am able to intimidate such impertinent walkers back to their domain.

     At night it is worse.

     I truly and sincerely fail to understand why cycle riders do not have lights on their bikes at night.  Let us be fair, some do, but the majority seem to think that lights are unnecessary.  This evening, for example, I passed one cyclist who was in darkness and he had a light on his handlebar.  He simply did not turn it on. 

     I suppose that we have now become inured to the appropriation of aspects of male life from the lifesaving to the superficially political.  One thinks (though one would like not to) of Trump and his absurd macho dismissal of mask wearing as not being his thing.  In the same way the majority of bike riders seem to think that having a light is some form of absurd frippery.

     On my way back from my flu jab (perhaps having that jab just shows how effeminate I am, rather than bullishly scorning flu as something that will 'just go away') I had to contend, in my bike lane, with dog walkers who allowed their animals to wander onto the lane on those absurdly long leads on plastic ratchets; runners appropriating the on-coming lane; pedestrians wandering about; cyclists without lights on the wrong side of the lanes; people not getting out of the way and ignoring repeated beeps, and so on.

     I had a strong front light and people still appeared to be surprised that a bike was using a lane specifically constructed for bikes.  Eventually I put on a second light (my trust in the quality of equipment sold by MATE is not so high that I do not have a backup) and still a runner almost ran into me!  Two lights!  At least the brightness allowed me to savour the look of panic on his face as a collision was narrowly averted!

     As the first MATE light on my bike lasted just over a week before it gave up the ghost, I was waiting for a reasonable period to elapse before I took off the extra light from my overcrowded handlebars.  I now have no intention whatsoever of relying on one light to keep me safe.

     The one good thing about the eventful ride home is that the excitement and raised adrenaline levels and heart beats, the quick intakes of breath and the exasperated exhalations will have caused the antibodies in the vaccine to go around my blood stream all the more quickly.

     There is always something positive, if you look hard enough!