LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 15 – 30th MARCH

A thoroughly miserable start to the two weeks of ‘extreme’ lockdown imposed by the Spanish Government. Presumably what we had before was a ‘Lockdown Lite’ and what we have now is a ‘Lockdown Intense!” – complete with exclamation mark. 

     This attempt to be more stringent is a belated response to the truly horrific figures of the dead and the infected that will haunt this government forever.

     The steady rain is a depressing backdrop to a growing realization that this period of two weeks is more than likely to be followed by another, and another, and another.  The Guardian reports one medical expert saying that the lockdown in some form or other could last as long as a year.  I resisted the need to put an exclamation mark at the end of that last sentence because, truly, it would not come as any sort of surprise.

     At the end of World War II in Britain, it took until 1954 for rationing to end: nine years after the end of a conflict that we ‘won’.  It seems unlikely that the number of deaths from this pandemic will come anywhere near the totals of the World War, but the dislocation is perhaps more truly worldwide than that conflict.  And if it took nine years to get back to sub-normal, how long is it going to take this time?

     This time around no infrastructure has been destroyed, the networks of transportation are running albeit in a reduced form and, most importantly, there is not the international conflict that makes communal unity impossible – apart, of course from the various populists around the world who are finding fascist rhetoric is of no use in fighting a real virus.  Countries are generally sharing vital information; people are working together to find solutions.  It will be the micro political divisions that kill us, working against the macro attempts to save us.

Toni, in his hunter/gatherer mode has been venturing out into this new world of increased restrictions to get some food.  We did not indulge in the panic buying frenzy at the start of this madness, so we do routinely need to stock up. 

     We are fortunate that in Castelldefels there is one area where there are five large supermarkets within walking distance of each other, so choice is not a problem.  The only real fear is peoples’ lax social distancing habits when in the confined spaces of shops.

     We had a fairly large list of needs and most of them have been satisfied.  We have made it policy that only one supermarket will be visited and if you can’t get what you want there then it will have to wait for another time.  Our decision to have a few ‘treats’ came to nothing, as the chosen store (Aldi) had no chocolate or ice cream (overtones of “No more mushrooms!” there) but the other items on the list were obtained, more or less.

     The only things that we had actually run out of were eggs and milk; and Toni forgot the eggs (but remembered the milk) and I suspect that he simply missed the chocolate (he lacks my professionalism when it comes to shopping) and everything else he failed to find, but we do have all the essentials. 

     Being without milk, even for a number of hours rather than days, was a pain.  On the principle that it is better to be petty minded over slight inconveniences rather than freak out over major crises: I have to say that missing a late afternoon cup of my tea (50/50 English Breakfast and Earl Grey) was a real loss.      It threw my sense of new routine into chaos and unsettled me.  How, I reasoned, is civilized life to continue without a stabilizing cup of tea? 

     In spite of the horror all around us, we live in a sort of easy stasis where the day starts with the comforting rumble of the robot hoover and a cup of tea, and ends with the computer monitor going black.  During the time in between there are the little domestic things that have taken the place of engagement in the wider physical world, or at least engagement physically in the wider world.  Any disruption there is to the Important Little Things That Keep You Sane – well, the clue is in the last capitalized phrase!

     As befits the gravity of the situation that dictates our lives, I have taken to drinking only camomile tea in the late evenings: look on it as my way of saving milk, and indulging in a gentle quasi-protestant-self-denial.  I cannot really pretend that I like the taste of camomile tea, but I have rapidly got used to it, so that I am able to kid myself that the taste is at least ‘interesting’ and a ‘dis-flavoursome contrast’ to the beverages I usually drink.

     That is the sort of ‘re-branding’ that characterizes a great deal of what we are doing when locked down: a spiritual form of ‘make do and mend’, using what you have to make the most of what you want!

And talking of Protestantism, as I sort-of was in the last but one paragraph, the ‘treats’ that we had from Toni’s shopping expedition were almost perfect examples of the faith: two tone biscuits: Marie biscuit one side and a thin layer of chocolate covering (and overhanging) the other.  Marie biscuits are surely the most uninspiring biscuits in commercial production and delicious chocolate should never be thin. 

     Incidentally, when I explained to Toni the correct way to eat these biscuits: by nibbling away the overhang of chocolate round the edges, while trying to prise it away from the biscuit base to see how much of the covered biscuit you could uncover when you had nibbled away at the four sides, he had swallowed his whole.  And there you see the consumer differences between a Lapsed Catholic and an Anglican Atheist!

     And in a most un-Catalan like way, it is still raining and we have not had our customary glimpse of the sun. 

     It’s just one damn thing after another.

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 14

The latest figures for the dead in Spain from Covid-19 in a twenty-four hour period are 832.  This is the highest figure of for a day’s deaths in Spain.  This is a catastrophe, and a catastrophe that people here are saying is partially of the government’s making.

   Last night the Prime Minister of Spain went on television and informed the country that there were going to be far more stringent restrictions from next Monday.  For a two-week period taking in Holy Week there will be a total ban on all non-essential travel and all non-essential premises will be shut down.

     It remains to be seen whether the renovators next door who have been (and are as I type) working normally and entering and leaving the workplace as if there was no crisis, will finally knuckle under and obey the restrictions.  These people are perhaps symptomatic of the problem, where some consider themselves outside the range of restrictions that are in place already. 

     The advice is simple: stay in your homes and wash your hands.  And it is frustrating when some people ignore it so openly.

Every evening at 8.00 pm there is the opportunity to show our appreciation for the Health Workers.  I open the kitchen window and clap into the darkness and hear others clapping too.  It is a moment of collective assertion of thanks and a poignant moment of community when we isolates are linked by a small but sincere gesture of thanks for the incredible job that our health workers are doing in circumstances that are less than ideal.

     I am still haunted by pictures of ill patients in Madrid hospitals laying on blankets in corridors; blankets! not even trolleys.  We have been told that many front-line health workers have not been tested; they do not have masks or the appropriate equipment to protect themselves from the virus; some are making their own protective clothing out of plastic bags; the hospitals in Madrid are overwhelmed; there are insufficient ventilators, and so on, and on.  Numbers of health workers have died and more will unless they are properly looked after.

     The government is accused of doing too little too late and is playing catch-up to the situation rather than managing it with any efficiency, and each mismanaged day brings new death, directly attributable to political mismanagement.

     I am not so naïf as to think that a crisis can be managed with anything approaching perfection, “events, dear boy, events” will always frustrate the most meticulous of plans, but some things are inexcusable.  The signalling of the future lockdown of Madrid, giving plenty of time for comfortably off Madrileños to decamp to their costal summer homes and spread the virus was unforgiveable.   And I hope that last word ‘unforgiveable’ becomes the major impetus when the inquiry into the crisis is started, when the virus has been finally vanquished.

Two weeks.  Just two weeks.

     It hardly seems credible that we have been locked in for only a fortnight.  The world where social distancing (a wonderfully evocative phrase) did not exist seems like another era of history, some exotic maelstrom of conviviality where people actually touched and kissed each other, some rumbustious Restoration frivolity, viewed with nostalgia from our Puritan isolationism!

     I suppose that I should be grateful that time, which seemed to be speeding up for me as birthday after birthday flashed by, has slowed down again.  I wonder how many weeks it will take, before this becomes the new normal and time regains its usual velocity!

The days are beginning to lose their character: weekdays are no different from weekends; what is the essential difference between a Tuesday and a Thursday when you are stuck at home? 

     If there seems a sort of stasis in one’s perception of the distinct individuality of the days of the week, there will be a ‘real’ difference in the individual hours, because today is the day when we change the clocks and get an extra hour in bed.  This, of course, is only possible if you are still indulging yourself by keeping to a mythical ‘working day’ timetable giving a façade of normality to the structure of your enclosed temporal existence.

    

I have to say that I truly regret the indisposition of Johnson as it gives an opportunity for the Grotesque Goblin Gove to speak to the nation.  The man truly makes my flesh crawl as his mendacious sincerity constantly deflects questions into a fog of verbiage that comes nowhere close to a specific answer.  I loathe his master, too, of course, naturally, but the Blond Buffoon’s shaggy, unconstructed showiness when it comes to English expression is easier to dismiss.  There is something adhesively repulsive about Gove’s loquacity that is more difficult to brush away.  It needs to be flushed.  And then disinfected.  And then bleached.

Tomorrow a theoretical lie in, but I am sure that my ‘absolute’ body clock will get me up at the usual time, for Day 15 and the start of the third week of Lockdown.

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 13

Get your recriminations in early, list them, remember them and throw them at the guilty when the crisis is over and they are brought to justice.  As if!

     The latest piece of absurdity to surface here in Spain is that 650,000 Covid-19 test kits have been ordered that are not fit for purpose, it even says as much on the side of the packs!  They were ordered from China from a supplier not approved by the Chinese authorities who had previously provided a list of recommended suppliers - ignored by the Spanish health officials.

     A plane left Barcelona airport for Malaga packed with people who were not the regulation distance apart – how was this allowed?

     Couples are walking dogs together.  People are coming and going (using the back entrance) of the house next door as if there is no crisis to limit their actions in continuing the building work.

     There is no uniformity about travel and keeping a distance.  We have death figures higher than China and many of us fear that the commitment to total lockdown as the only solution to rising numbers is not entirely accepted by the government.  We MUST remember and hold them all to account.

Listening to The Now Show on Radio 4 last night, we were left in no doubt that the participants had all followed guidelines and were broadcasting the show from their respective homes.   

     As it was radio we do not know just how they were dressed and consideration of that factor is perhaps best left to imaginations more prurient than mine, but the major difference between the normal show and the crisis show was the lack of a live audience.  With humour this can be something of a disadvantage when the listener sometimes needs to hear the audience give a more audible response to the inward chuckle.  But it was a good show, with a few wry digs and a competent set of comedians.

     Other shows are also being broadcast where the participants are not in studio but are at home and if the show is for television, that is where the Crisis (capital ‘C’) comes into play.  News broadcasts now regularly feature experts and politicians who are ostentatiously following the rules and self-isolating, but such exposure presents them with a real problem: what, in a Crisis, to have in the background.

     For most people who wish to present a professional vision (literally!) of themselves, the problem is solved by having a background of books.  Books add gravitas, they show knowledge, they are Culture.  But.

     If I had an HD television and a recorder and had a way of enlarging the background, I feel it would be very interesting to see exactly what books these people have chosen to put themselves in front of.  There is a post-crisis PhD thesis there!

     Perhaps ‘chosen’ is the wrong word to use for some of them, in so far as they are perhaps sitting at their desks in their home ‘office’ and the bookcase is the one that happens to be behind them.  Or is it?

     There is a low-ish bookcase behind me as I type and I’ve just turned around to look at it.  It is not the background that I would choose to be televised against.  There is an unsightly collection of mismatched books on the top shelf (together with a garish money box inscribed “Para mi gran viaje”) and the other shelves are filled with a variety of tatty box files with hand written titles and a sellotaped piece of paper reminding me that Palm Sunday is on the 5^th of April this year.  This last is because I write a poem-a-day during Holy Week.  Because I do.

     To my right is another bookcase, one shelf of which is filled with reference books.  Now these are far more photogenic: not only are they solid looking hardbacks, but also one of them has the word IDEAS in big capital letters along the spine.  Importantly, the word is large enough to be read by an appreciative watching television audience, or one that might be subliminally impressed!

     The problem with these books is that they are all too new looking, a little too superficial.  You need older books to make it appear that the shelves' contents have been read; that the books are old companions, not window dressing.

     I have a lot of books and, although I have tried, I have failed to get all of them into a coherent order on my shelves.  Most of my shelves are a voyage of discovery rather than a pattern for the Dewey Decimal System.  There are unexpected juxtapositions so that (and I have just reached up for a couple of books from another bookcase) The Nations of Wales 1890-1914 by M. Wynn Thomas is next to Religio Medici, Hydriotaphia and The Garden of Cyrus by Sir Thomas Browne, both of which are worth reading in their different ways and whose proximity is pleasing.  Give me time and I will work out why they deserve to be together!  But my point is that for most people with a large book collection the organizing principle is chaos not order.  Or perhaps that is only true in the Arts rather than the Sciences.  Or perhaps it’s just me.

     Now some people are chaotic in their organization and some have chaos thrust upon them and some others play at chaos: the casually strewn and oddly placed as artful indicator of the eccentric genius.

     The Book Backgrounds have ranged from the pitifully eked out shelves to the deep alcove floor to ceiling plenitude, but I just wonder how contrived it all is, and how long the ‘players’ in the television game have thought about how to present themselves.

     Now you might well say that I must have too much time on my hands to be concerned about such things, but what an individual places behind themself is a clearer indication of how they want to be perceived than anything they might have to say.  I think.

On television this evening there was a snatch of an interview with a solitary walker who was accosted and asked why he was breaking the regulations and his response was that he did not know that there were any regulations to break!  Not only have we have the Spanish Government paying for ads on the television, we have had the Generalitat in Catalonia and various advertisers who have tailored their messages to include reinforcement of the restrictions on behaviour.  How could the man have missed everything?  If, of course, he was telling the truth about his ‘ignorance’!  All it needs is a man like that who is also infected to cause another spike, and kill people.  Inconsideration is fatal, not funny.

As we come to the end of the second week of isolation, it is sobering to think that we may well have only passed one seventh of the time necessary for the sequestration to work on the virus.  One hopes that is a pessimistic forecast, but I fear it is a realistic one. 

     What are we going to be like by the end of this time?  One friend in the UK says that we are headed for civil unrest and riots; a friend in Catalonia says that the restrictions are too lenient and if they are not tightened then the situation will get much worse.  As time goes one and people who are not sick think that the restraints are too irksome, will they become freer in their actions, and will people who see others breaking the rules feel entitled to follow them?  And then . . .

     The real problem for us is that this situation is unparalleled and we are winging it, following advice from deeply flawed politicians, with failure illustrating their lack of forthrightness.

     One of the free MOOC courses that I am following at the moment is using some of the writing of Kant and I am sure that he would say that the restrictions on our behaviour and actions that are the most satisfactory are those that we would impose on ourselves if we had the freedom to do so.  Are the restrictions the sort of restrictions that we would think necessary in the circumstances?  I will stick to the rules come what may because Kant tells me to!  And I have managed to prevent myself from making a jocose comment using the name and adding an apostrophe and changing the K to a C.   

     Such restraint in the time of Corona!

    

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 12

The Covid-19 statistics in Spain make sobering reading.  We are now at the top of the league for daily deaths and our total has overtaken that of China.  With over fifty thousand reported cases of infection the fear is that the situation will get worse before we see a flattening of the curve and a distant view of a way out of this crisis.

     And yet, my life goes on in the oasis of assumed safety and normality of my home and I write this with the comfortingly ordinary sound of the new robot mop making its stately progress across the tiled floor of the living room; the dishwasher rumbling away to itself as it goes through its own cleaning cycle; and the dregs of my first cup of tea of the morning cooling at my side.  But no noise of traffic; no sound of overhead planes landing in Barcelona airport; no sound of kids playing; no sound of workmen next door.

     Catalonia is a noisy country and a large part of social life is conducted outside the house.  As an example, the dinner parties that Brits have in their own homes where friends gather are more likely to be in restaurants rather than in homes in this country.  Eating at home in Catalonia is basically for the family, not for friends.  Restaurants are the natural meeting places, together with bars, ice cream salons and tapas haunts, so the isolation in homes is unnatural for a population that is naturally gregarious. 

     That sociability could be part of the reason for the number of Covid-19 cases here as football games and demonstrations were allowed to take place at a time when more judicial counsel should probably have restricted mass gatherings of people. 

     The large demonstrations that took place on International Women’s Day on the 8th of March were an obvious mistake and it is one of the many that the government will have to explain in the investigations that are carried out after the crisis is over.  The muddled thinking which led the government of Sanchez to give advance warning of a future lockdown of Madrid while giving those Madrileanos with second homes away from the hotspot of infection the opportunity to decamp and spread the disease will also have to be considered later when guilt is apportioned.  The government recognizes that it could have done some things better, but each of its failures is directly translatable into unnecessary deaths.

     Here in Castelldefels precise numbers are difficult for me to find, though it appears that there has been one death from Covid-19 of someone who was both old and who also had pre-existing illnesses. 

     The police and authorities have reinforced their instructions that nobody should leave their homes except for the specific reasons allowed, and have followed up this instruction by revealing that there have been 171 cases of the police charging people with breaking the restrictions here in Castelldefels!

     Which brings me to the renovations next door.

     I have decided that the renovations are a good thing.  Not because of the noise: I am not Catalan, I do not need constant hubbub as an essential part of my national psyche, I embrace silence – unless it is leavened with my own choice of music or conversation – and would prefer tranquillity rather than the musique concrète of inconsiderate construction that transmits itself through the structure of our houses.  No, I have decided that, in this time of crisis (or Time of Crisis if you prefer) that it is necessary to have an external focus for the animosity that I feel about the restrictions of my present situation.  I therefore, choose to transmogrify the selfish and inconsiderate irritation of rich people trying to get richer by tarting up a house near the sea for a profit, into something which is a piece of spiritual blotting paper, soaking up my negative feelings and giving me a focus for my hatred for all things that disturb my tranquillity, up to and including Covid-19.

     I am reminded of some novel or other that I read years ago where the admiral or captain of some vast ship forced the crew to make him a yacht while the fleet was standing-to or laying-to or whatever ships do when they are not, as it were, shipping.  The sailors were forced into producing this craft for their superior officer and constructed it with much moaning and groaning and with feelings of resentment.  When taxed with his unreasonable demands on his crew by a senior officer, the captain explained that he had deliberately focused the feelings of resentment on himself so that the crew could be united in a feeling of unfairness and not starts bickering among themselves in the phoney-war before action.

     I also remember that when the admiral/captain actually sailed his new yacht around the fleet the seemingly hard-done-by sailors took inordinate pride in the fact that the yacht was something that they had made and was ‘theirs’ as well as the admiral/captain’s.

     Not an exact parallel, I know, but the principle is the same.  Possibly.  It is also a justification for exploitation as well, but then I suppose we always find way to make the intolerable prosaic and acceptable!

     So, I have, with a magnanimity of spirit that does me credit, subsumed the sonic grit in my eye, into the wholeness of my soul.  Which is made easier by the fact that the workmen next door have not yet turned up and it is so much easier to be philosophical when the disturbance is not physically present.  Let us see how I cope when hammer falls (yet again) on concrete.

In a similar way, my mother, in a never to be forgotten phrase (nor was she ever allowed to forget it!) uttered when our household spending had reached the astronomical level of £5 (!) a week, and my parents were discussing retrenchment, said, “Right!  That’s it! No more mushrooms!”   

     The stunned hilarity of her husband and son on hearing this credo, axiom or tenet of belief meant that this cri de coeur was resurrected in a variety of circumstances as a universal panacea when the way forward was unclear.  How to cope with The Cold War?  “No more mushrooms!”; Industrial unrest?  “No more mushrooms!”;  Margaret Thatcher?  “No more mushrooms!”             

     As a rallying cry, it may not have been over-effective, but it did add to the gaiety of nations; well of that section of the nation that included Dad and me, and grudgingly, my mother too!

     It would be tempting to call my mother’s emphatic statement of frugality a non sequitur, but that would not be strictly true.  Mushrooms have value, they are not distributed free in the shops, but the value saved by spurning them as an unnecessary expense is, shall we say, marginal: it is the old (dated) joke about slimming where some trivial nutritional denial on the part of the slimmer is likened to emptying the ashtrays on a 747.

     I have been trying to think of the literary technical term to describe the phrase my mum used: understatement doesn’t really cover it; litotes or melosis?  Well, my mum was being sincere, not using deliberate understatement to emphasise.  Perhaps the term I’m looking for is “woefully inadequate”!

     However you describe the phrase, at least for my mum, it gave a concrete ‘solution’ to a practical problem: too much expense: cut mushrooms.  Job done.

     We all do it, a sort of variation of the ‘thumb in the dyke’ technique where something seemingly trivial, has an out-of-proportion final effect.  We hope.  And this approach is probably more apparent during times of enforced introspection, especially when they are seasoned with personal peril! 

     We want a simple solution something that is easily graspable, something comforting and achievable.  Alas!  If only solutions to our present crisis were as simple as shunning fungi!

My pool circuits today were accompanied by the World Service of the BBC, as my preference over Woman’s Hour.  Don’t get me wrong, I listen to Woman’s Hour with the best of men, but today the lure, nay the addiction of World News from the BBC was the greater pull.  So, I was able to trudge my walking-sticked way round the water, listening with ever-growing pleasurable panic to the news.

     In one of the gardens that I pass on my peregrinations, a father and young son were running from the front garden to the gate in the back garden as part of their exercise regime (this is directly possible because our houses are hollowed out at ground floor level and rooms start on the first floor) with a sort of determined seriousness.

     On the opposite side of the pool and next to the tennis court of the flats on our left, two small boys were playing a form of tennis.  Considering the racket for one of them was about two thirds of his total height, he wielded the racket with considerable skill, if not always accuracy.   

     With earplugs firmly in place one is ‘allowed’ to ignore other human life forms with impunity: which I did.

     I continued my slow paced walk until I began to feel a little weary and, just as I had decided to call it a day, the smallest of the boys lofted the ball into our pool area.  In fact, into the pool.  As I had passed him on my circuit I could only gauge the trajectory of the ball by vague World Service blanketed mewls.  I had no wish to be mean, but I had an equal determination not to touch anything that the kids had touched and so I (seemingly oblivious to all) walked out of the pool area and into my back garden.

     I rationalised my callousness by reasoning to myself that all the boys would have to do was go back to their parents and get another ball.   

     And, anyway, I have spent my time characterising any person of a youthful disposition as a Plague Child, and it would appear that my designation is now born out by reality with Covid-19, as kids can have the virus, not suffer the consequences, but effectively spread the infection. 

     Justification!

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 11

I am, as I never tire of telling people, a Labrador person: yellow, bitch to be precise.  It therefore comes as something of a personal insult that people (even flat dwellers with limited space) can contemplate providing living area for the various species of rat dogs (goggle-eyed, spindly-legged, yappily-voiced) that abound in this area.  One such grotesquery lives near us, and its emasculated barks cut through the air with the irritation of a domesticated buzz saw.  It is the sort of sound that is intolerable at its first utterance; continuation is torture.

     When I started my solitary walk this morning on the first of many circuits of our communal pool, I was accompanied by the cringe-making sound of the damned dog-insult-creature.  And then I saw why it was making the sound.  Sitting in the lane that runs behind the creature’s house was an entirely unconcerned cat, studiously ignoring the high-pitched hysteria of the so-called dog.

     I am no lover of cats.  While I can admire the liquid beauty of the larger beasts of the category, I find the domestic variety repellent.  I think it’s the tiny teeth and the lazy contempt that I find so uncongenial.  To say the least.  
      I am not entirely negative: some cats are sleek and refined, but that is the sort of thing that you can admire in pictures, not in reality.  Anyway, this cat was obviously glorying in the commotion that it was causing and by unconcernedly licking itself and showing its undying contempt (which I share) for the noisy scrap of canine vulgarity.  However, that same attitude was extended to me when the cat noticed that I was walking about.  I changed my direction at once and made towards it.  Lazily, with that elegant lassitude that only cats can show, it moved away to its ‘home’ and the dog-scrap immediately shut up.  Mission accomplished!

     That was the only point of interest, as I wandered around and around with only the sound of BBC Radio 4’s In Our Time programme on George and Robert Stephenson and the birth of the railways filling my ears.  As usual one comes away from programmes like that with snippets of knowledge to keep one sane: did I really know that it was Robert who did the work designing The Rocket and not George? 

     I also picked up on the panel’s championing of the Stephensons as opposed to the showier grandstanding of Isambard Kingdom Brunel (surely one of the few engineers who most people know by his full name) with some withering comments on Brunel’s engineering skills being somewhat partial as opposed to the comprehensive nature of the Stephensons’ skills taking in both the civil and mechanical aspects. 

     Radio 4 and The Guardian are the mainstays of my sanity in a time of confinement. 

     God bless them both!

We have been informed that this week that the number of cases of Covid-19 may peak.  The numbers certainly give no cause for complacency as Spain has now surged past China in the number of people with the virus.   
     One town in Catalonia has been put on total lockdown with people banned from coming in and out of the place.  This is because of a spike in the numbers infected.  Catalonia seems to be taking things extremely seriously and there appears to be growing animosity between Madrid and Barcelona, as Madrid appears to be much more lax than Barcelona – with a consequent surge in numbers of infected.

     We are also hearing of incidents of absolute stupidity.  The police stopped one car with five people in it (including one person in the boot!) who were going to visit a family!  Another couple of guys were found in a bar having a drink, claiming that it was a business meeting: that did not impress the police who promptly arrested them!

     The renovations in the house next door have ramped up again.  There are now two vans on the road outside and a variety of people working inside.  The people seem to be taking no precautions at all: no masks, no separation – and nothing happens.

     Toni is very cynical about what is going on and says that the stories that we actually get to hear of people not taking the virus seriously are just the tip of the iceberg and that things are going to get much worse as our period of lockdown continues for the next couple of months.

     As I have not been outside the front gate for ten days now, it is difficult for me to gain any real perspective from a first hand point of view; everything is via the television and the Internet.

     People are becoming lazy in assuming that the only fatalities are going to be the old or those with underlying conditions, but the death of a 21 year-old with no underlying conditions should be a wake up call to those who think that they are not vulnerable.

     We are all at risk, and I am more than prepared to put up with these restrictions if it is a matter of life and death – and it is a matter of life and death!

Last night I was ‘doing’ part of my new course on paintings and watched a series of videoed lectures on Van Eyck and Van de Weyden and, as I watched I could not help feeling a certain sense of dislocation between what was happening in the wider world and my attempting to rationalise my position of normality by studying Art History: when in doubt look at a painting! 

     That hardly seems to be practical advice – but that isn’t the point is it?  At times of instability and upheaval you find whatever ‘still point’ works for you to give the equilibrium you need, and if that is found in daubs of oil on canvas, then so be it.

     It is easy to rationalize turning to Art (capital A) in any of its forms to find placidity.  You are tapping in to a version of western culture, something that has lasted, stood the test of time, something that is generally regarded as important, something which seems to stand for the achievement of humanity that is larger than a single work or a single person, it links to into a continuum, into a story of progressive achievement that welcomes your passive contemplation and encourages your active participation.  Or something.

Toni has resurrected his electric guitar from the chaos that is the third floor and with notepad, Internet and a badly tuned instrument is attempting to drive me upstairs to get away from the more than slightly-off cacophony that learners engender.  This adds a new dimension of horror to our containment!

We have had a talk about how long we really think this form of confinement is going to last and we have come to the conclusion that things are not likely to get back to anything resembling normality until June or July.  God help the US if the man-child governing the country decides that “everyone back to work by Easter and with full churches” is the way forward.  I only hope that our political leaders have a tad more responsibility than that ignorant person (and that last word was my fifth choice!) when it comes to recognizing that a situation has returned to normal. 

     I am sure that there is someone somewhere who is calculating just how many people died to fit in with a political rather than a national methodology when it came to dealing with the virus. 

     CEOs and other executives of businesses can now be accused of Corporate Manslaughter if it can be shown that people have died because of the actions of individual firms. 

     It is not enough that our political leaders can be ‘voted out’ at the next general election; they should be held judicially culpable for the mortality of their political choices.  And I look towards the Civil Service to ensure that the paper proof of decisions by the politicians survive to be considered by the inevitable commission of enquiry that will take place when we are finally out of this crisis.

The weather has been cold and blustery with some periods of sunshine – not really the weather to laze out on the third floor terrace, but each day brings us nearer to the period of unrelenting sunshine that will make the time go more pleasantly.  Please.

Meanwhile, we try and not get too upset at the seemingly deliberate idiocy on the part of those charged with our safety.  Time after time, it seems that the only real safety is in our own hands and the intelligence and patience with which we approach the demands of this situation.

And I miss ice cream!  I really do!

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 10

Hoovering, dishwashing, Guardian, tea, muesli, rant at renovations next door: all done!  What a domestic soul I am becoming.  As if.

     The sharing of homemade videos is becoming rampant and the innate lunacy contained within them is becoming more pronounced; but there is a sort of defiant dark humour that is positively uplifting in them as well.

     The dark humour connected to the virus is best exemplified by the writing of John Crace, the parliamentary sketch writer, in the Guardian. 

https://www.theguardian.com/profile/johncrace

     He was a point of sanity throughout the whole Brexit farrago and he continues to be a guide through the shameful antics of the so-called government of the United Kingdom.  If you have not read his withering condemnation of the Blond Buffoon and Dom then you should.  It might be gallows humour in these dark times, but it always manages to raise a laugh, yes, that laugh might well be rueful but it is better than allowing yourself to plumb the depths of disbelief at what the Conservatives think they can get away with!  I recommend him without hesitation, as I recommend any and all of the books that he has published.  Long may his pen show up the vicious charlatans for what they are!

     While we are on the subject of the worth of our present government, you might like to read the following:

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/mar/24/confused-dangerous-flippant-worlds-media-pans-pms-handling-of-coronavirus-boris-johnson

This is a summation of the reactions of the rest of the world to the way that the Blond Buffoon and his circus have handled the pandemic in the UK.  When this is over, we must hold our political ‘masters’ to account.  It is more than likely that the Conservatives’ policy over the virus has directly led to more deaths than if they had adopted some of the measures that other countries have put in place.  There must be an accounting with an independent report that aims at transparency when apportioning blame.

     My jaundiced view has been tempered by the fact that the renovation next door continues (illegally?) with much banging and that is the last thing that you need when you have been locked up for the last nine days – with the prospect of months to come!

     Another irritation (if that is the right word for it) is that I have not managed to dislodge the various earworms of snatches of the operas that I recommended yesterday.  The bits and pieces of “Four Saints in Three Acts” by Virgil Thomson is particularly difficult not to hear.  Stein’s libretto is nonsensical and I pity the poor singers having to learn some of the sequences that they have to sing, but it is undeniably (for me) catchy.  When Stein was taxed about the fact that nobody could understand what the opera was about, she countered with the brave assertion that if you enjoyed it you understood it!  And the opera was popular and ground-breaking.  It had a black cast of singers in its first performances and the set design used the newly invented cellophane as part of the decoration: very avant-garde!  Well, for 1927 it was!  I do urge you to go to YouTube and listen and look at the fragments of this fascinating opera!

     I do also urge you to look at the classic repertoire as well.  It is easy to cheat your way through famous operas on YouTube as they often give you the famous bits, in terms of overtures, preludes and arias, in manageable bite-sized chunks.  And you never know what you might like.  I know someone whose first operatic experience was ‘Tristan and Isolde’ by Wagner, a long and dense opera.  She loved it and become an enthusiastic operaphile on the spot!  It takes all sorts.  And it has taken me a long time to honestly admit that I enjoyed a performance – which I did with the last production of the Liceu.  Some operas, like ‘Eugene Onegin’ by Tchaikovsky I first heard in a dress rehearsal and instantly ‘knew’.  It helped that I knew the dance music from it that I had given to me as one of my first EPs (extended play discs) when I was a kid, but operas like that are almost absurdly approachable.

Enough of this escape into Culture.  Back to reality.  We have now been in lockdown for 9 (or officially 11) days, so that means that we are getting to the end of the incubation period for the virus and this week may well be one in which there is a jump in the figures of those who are infected.  It has been suggested that people should think twice about ANY journeys outside the residence (yes, I am talking to you people next door!) for any reason at all.  Even bread buying, which is an almost sacred ritual in this country, is too weak an excuse to leave the house!

     We are not entirely breadless.  We do have individually sealed, square, flat, wholemeal, calorie reduced, ‘buns’ that seem to last for ever.  Whether you can actually convince yourself that what you are eating bears any resemblance to ‘bread’ is something else, but in times of crisis it is better than nothing.  Just.

     We have enough food to get us through to next week and we can assess the situation then and decide whether it worth while for (Toni) to venture out again for supplies.

I have just come in from my morning walk around the pool.  The weather is not as clement as it has been for the past few days and it was more of a chore than usual.  As I trudged my way around (varying the direction) on my lonely circuits, during which nobody has joined me, I felt like a Rudolf Hesse figure, plodding his way around the empty exercise yard in Spandau.  Having typed that, I realize that there are too many associations with that image that have nothing to do with my present situation.  But it is interesting that I did not delete it, but rather chose to discuss its inappropriateness; or on further consideration there are elements that illuminate: the sense of isolation in an institution made to accommodate more; the artificiality of the incarceration; the politics of continuation – and I think that I am overthinking an image of an aging man in a prison exercise yard!  A bit.

The number of Covid-19 infected people in Spain has not surpassed that of China!  The largest number of cases is in Madrid, which is not locked down in the same way as Barcelona.  It seems foolish not to be truly Draconian in a situation of absolute crisis, but that is politics for you!

I have always taken a ghoulish delight in following the build up to each Olympic Games.  I am not so much interested in the sports as in the various crises: political, financial, social, architectural etc that illuminate the via dolorosa from the moment the games are awarded, to the opening ceremony.

     It used to be the almost comical corruption of the IOC members and the shocking ways in which the successful city managed to capture the games that added to the delight of nations.  The IOC has (allegedly) cleaned up its act, a little and there is more transparency about the awarding of the games, so my prurient interest has to concentrate on unrealistic timetables for delivery and the corruption in building that seems an Olympic Event in its own right.

     I well remember the tune of the BBC presentation of the Olympics in Tokio in 1964 - I am humming it in my mind as I type)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fw1mgjrXZ0c

Only surpassed as an Olympic tune by the brilliant song for the Barcelona Olympics in 1992

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgVGl5bnf8c

Tokio 2020 has had its share of scandal, but is obviously going to be overshadowed by Covid-19.  If (and it’s a big ‘if’) the games take place in 2021 they will still be called the 2020 games apparently.  I like quirky things like that!  Does this mean that the next games will be three years later, not four? 

     Such considerations keep me occupied.

CASTELLDEFELS LOCKDOWN - DAY 9

The insignificant becomes important, or at least notable.

     On my rounds of the communal swimming pool my eye is always open to a photographic opportunity.  As my area of life has become more circumscribed, so my attention focuses more on the details of my surroundings.  I have had to try and limit myself from choosing a theme like ‘abstraction’ or ‘shadow’ or ‘line’ or something equally unimaginative and wondering if I could do a photographic essay based solely on my limited vistas.  Most of the time, wondering is enough in itself: I find say, a portion of bark on the gnarled trees that are planted at the edges of the pool and think that a decent photo could be taken of that; or I look at the edges of the tiles and see tiny wisps of grass that have escaped the attention of pool maintenance and think that a decent angled shot, with raked light might be effective – and then I walk on, the hard cultural work done by possible selection rather than concrete outcome!

     Still, I did take one short of a bird on top of a column with chain and lock which I felt did have some resonance with my present condition, but again, I didn’t take it any further.

     One short I could take from my little circular walks would be of a crayon sheath or sweet tube or something like that.  It would be perfectly incomprehensible to a viewer, such a mundane object being the centre of attention – but for me it is, if not a welcome sight, at least a point of recognition.  Each time I circle the pool I notice it; but it doesn’t stay in the same place.  And its movement interests me.  Was it the feral cats which infest this part of Castelldefels (kept alive by the ministrations of ancient ladies in expensive cars who leave milk and titbits for them); the wind, my feet, insects or what?  I have yet to meet anyone else on my solitary peregrinations, or indeed to hear anyone else during the time that I am not circuiting the pool, so it is either nature or cat.  And then I begin to wonder just how the isolation from my normal haunts are changing my attitudes!  If I can overthink something so trivial, and yet regard it now as a part of my recognized ritual of the day, then there is something seriously wrong.

     So let’s turn to something more normal.  Because most people are not used to being off-work and at-home for extended periods of time the electronic community has provided essential lists of Things To Keep You Occupied, ranging from lists of books that you might like to read; the best Netflix series to binge watch; chores that you have put off until a national emergency gives the opportunity to get them done; games you have not played since you were a child; how to clean the kitchen now you have no excuse not to; getting back in touch with those people who were, apparently too much trouble to keep up with, and music.

    And I would like to contribute my five pence worth to the suggestions. 

     I have a second ticket to the Opera in the Liceu in Barcelona and the crisis has meant that first one opera and then a whole slew of them have been delayed or possibly cancelled.  However, the Liceu has informed its subscribers that performances of past opera will be available online and we have been given a timetable of what and when.  I must admit that watching an opera outside the opera house and on a small screen is not something that I really enjoy, though I am more than prepared to ‘get my homework done’ by watching a performance of a future opera that I do not know well on YouTube, so that when I see my (expensive) performance I am at least partially prepared and able to respond with some knowledge to what I see and hear.

     I have no intention of making some sort of ‘Greatest Operas You Have to Listen To’ list, but I would like to suggest two and extracts from those rather than listening to the whole thing.

     To the question of “What is your favourite Opera?” I would have to answer, if it is to be based on the number of times that I have seen a live performance in the Opera House, with The Macropolos Case by Leos Janacek.  The libretto is based on a play of the same name by Carel Kapek (a man perhaps better known as the author of the play “R.U.R” from which we get the word ‘robot’!) and concerns an opera singer who was forced to take an elixir of immortality, but must continue to take the elixir to maintain her youth.  I first saw this opera in a production by Welsh National Opera with Elizabeth Soderstrom in the role of E.M. (the initials she maintained in all the names that she used in her long life) with amazing sets and costume designs by Maria Bjornson.  I loved it!  But, my favourite opera?  I wonder.

     The opera that I click on the most if I am ‘casual listening’ is Akhnaten by Philip Glass.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSn_UAquOfw&list=PLv1nhJnfcwQJQG5vo39yDH3puJWLDiIpc

Set in ancient and modern times, the opera is concerned with the extraordinary pharaoh who dispensed with the hierarchy of gods and determined that all worship should be centred on one god, the Aten.  The course of the opera takes us through the turbulent life of the pharaoh and the eventual destruction of the city that he founded.

     I first heard this opera on a Radio 3 performance on a Sunday afternoon and I was instantly gripped by the music as I had no idea whatsoever what was going on in the libretto.  A friend called in to take me out and I had to switch on my cassette player (ah, happy days!) to record as much as the tape allowed in my absence.  When I recorded the extract of the opera there was no commercial recording available, but I listened to my ‘bit’ again and again.

Glass is a minimalist (or perhaps post-minimalist) composer and his music is recognizable by its tunefulness and by his use of repetition.  The languages of the libretto are ancient and contemporary, and I find it gripping.  If you have never heard any of it before then I suggest the opening ten minutes

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PufT63ER0uY

or the Hymn to the Sun,

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWdIzA1SuC0

which is the more usual extracted highlight, these will give you a real flavour of the musical style: if you these then you will like the full version!

     The other suggestion is less well known than Akhnaten (!) but it is an opera of which I have a great fondness.

     Like Akhnaten, this opera is by an American composer and like Akhnaten it is, in the widest sense, historical.

  The story of my liking of the opera in question started, though I didn’t know it at the time, with my reading a typically clever and witty article in the New Yorker published in a James Thurber Omnibus, “There’s an owl in my room”.  I was too young to understand exactly what was going on in the piece and the names of the characters meant nothing to me at the time.  The phrase that stood out for me was “Pigeons, on the grass, alas!”  Thurber was devastating in his demolition of what he saw as absurd pretention and something about the phrase stayed with me.

     The scene changes to Kettering Market and a second-hand record of “Four Saints in Three Acts” by Virgil Thomson (of whom I had never heard) with libretto by Gertrude Stein (of whom I had heard).  It was cheap and I bought it.  And in playing it I heard the words, set to music of, “Pigeons, on the grass, alas!”  An electrifying moment when juvenile reading and modern music came together!

     Virgil Thomson: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qa_Mg2sEyxs

The extract is something you will either find fascinating or absurd.  Either way it’s worth listening to.  And there are other extracts in YouTube that might take your fancy.

     Another reason for my liking this opera is because it created one of my most memorable moments in Opera.

     I have only heard “Four Saints in Three Acts” once live, and that was in a double bill by ENO in London.  I listened spellbound to something I never thought I would ever have the opportunity to hear in the Opera House and at the end of the performance, I turned, with shining eyes to the woman sitting on my right and said, “Wasn’t that wonderful!”  And she, looking into my eyes, said, “No!”  Ah well, each to his or her own!

     So, these two operas, Akhnaten and Four Saints in Three Acts are my suggestions for passing the time to keep fear about the virus out of your minds.  I’m not quite sure what they will fill your mind with instead, but it won’t be virus!

Pleae consider visiting my 'new' poetry blog smrnewpoems.blogspot.com