Post hoc ergo propter hoc?

 A few days after our trip to London, Martyn developed pain and a rash.  By Bank Holiday Thursday it was really starting to trouble him, and attempts to contact NHS 111 were getting nowhere.  Rather than face our local A&E, I marched him down to a nearby minor injuries clinic in the next county.  OK, it wasn’t an injury, but my thinking was that a medic presented with the symptoms could hardly refuse to diagnose.  He was in and out again in 25 minutes.  Shingles confirmed, we spent another hour waiting for 111 to answer, and longer waiting for a call from a 111 GP to prescribe.  On Friday I collected a course of antivirals which, six days later, have done nothing to help.  After a chat with the pharmacist, who said ‘speak to the doctor’, I went and planted myself at the reception desk of our local practice until the receptionist agreed, without too much aggro, to speak to the GP.  The latter, bless her cotton socks, called in the early afternoon, and asked for photographs.  On receipt of same, she called again, saying ‘oh, you poor thing!’ and prescribed something to ease the pain and help him sleep.  

I don’t think we can blame the shingles on exposure to the Great Unwashed last Saturday, since it’s a virus that lies dormant, I think, following chickenpox - but something must have jolted it into action.  Martyn isn’t old enough yet to qualify for a shingles jab, but once he’s recovered, I think we’ll be agitating for one, since a couple of people we know who have had shingles have had it multiple times.  I had my jab last year, and hope it’s more effective than the anti-virals.

Meanwhile, the bathroom refit continues apace.  The tiler did a mediocre job, and had to be brought back to put some plastic beading over the jagged edge he had left by the door.  It looks better, but amateurish.  The prime contractor is not happy, and neither are we.  The new wash basin was delivered with a socking great chip out of one corner, and will be replaced in due course.  The taps have not been delivered, so the temporarily fitted basin has a temporary tap.  The bidet continues to ornament the garage until a suitable tap arrives.  But we have a functioning WC and shower.  It’s the turn of the sparky tomorrow, and, we think, the painter and maybe the chippy on Saturday.  So by some time in week 4, we may see an end to the fun and games.

The garden remains a comfort.  Though the irises are coming to the end of their all too short flowering season, the roses and penstemons are coming into flower.  The indoor tomatoes are starting to deliver ripe fruit, and the numerous cuttings are potted up and coming along nicely out on the terrace.  I’ve done some weeding in the front garden (which probably accounts for the protest from the knees).  Out at the bird feeders it seems to be the turn of the corvids.  We have magpie chicks in the trees in next door’s garden, and jays and jackdaws are demolishing the seed and fat balls in the feeders.  We’re seeing less of the blue tits, so guess their chicks must have fledged.  We’re hearing a chiffchaff somewhere nearby, and our local blackbird is in fine voice too.  From an indecent hour.

Out again at last [updated]

Yesterday we had our first ‘proper’ outing since the first lockdown.  We made a trip to London to see  Historia Theatre Company’s current production, Kate Glover’s Mayflower: They Knew They Were Pilgrims.  It is being performed until 11 June at the Hen and Chickens at Highbury Corner.  A well-constructed and moving piece, acted with the usual spark and eloquence of a Historia cast made up of some familiar and some impressive new members.  It traces the progress of the Leiden non-conformist congregation from their decision to set up in Virginia to their unplanned arrival in Massachusetts.  As well as the underlying theme of religious persecution, the plot addresses the exploitation of refugees from persecution by ruthless venture capitalists who fund the journey in exchange for years of slave labour from the pilgrims, and send them to sea in overcrowded, barely seaworthy vessels.  The play was written to mark the 400th anniversary of the 1620 voyage, but of course could not be performed live in the anniversary year.  Four hundred years on, the parallels with the present day could scarcely be more chilling.  As pub theatres go, the H&C is pretty good, if bum-numbing.  The traffic noise can be a distraction - but it can’t outdo Michael Murray’s exuberant sound effects.  

It was a matinee performance, so we took the chance to have lunch nearby beforehand, at the Trevi restaurant at the foot of Holloway Road.  Friendly place with decent food and pretty reasonable prices: two courses and two glasses of wine each: £60 including tip - cash only.  We took a crowded train up from our nearby country station (where parking is now charged, but only on weekdays in the daytime) and used the 43 bus between London Bridge and Highbury Corner.  What one notices on a first trip to the Smoke after a longish interval is the crowding and the noise.  London was thronging on the fine Saturday afternoon, so the people-watching was good sport.  We missed our train home by a few minutes, so sat on the concourse for best part of an hour with tea and a sandwich.  It was a relief to get away from the noise to the relative peace of our train when it pulled in.  Unfortunately, we shared a carriage with a young couple who felt able to spend the journey winding up their screeching sprogs.  We like public transport, but….  

Oh, and why, according to announcements, do trains arrive ‘into’ particular stations rather than ‘at’?  And why are we enjoined to ‘ensure and make sure’ that we haven’t forgotten to pick up our belongings?  It’s a bit like the ‘last and final’ calls made at airports (when they are seldom either).  

A hive of industry

We’re on Day 5 of the bathroom refit, and are starting to get a little weary of the crashing and banging overhead.  We’re using a small local firm, and on the first day the two twin brother directors were both here.  Yesterday the ceiling was plastered by the chap who did the hall ceiling for us: a father and son business with identical names.  Today’s work seems to be the installation of the new equipment: the new shower tray went in first thing this morning.

We went and collected the tiles during the week: since we’re having tiles from floor to ceiling, we needed both cars!  Fortunately, the chap at the shop did most of the loading, since the boxes are bloody heavy.  The tiler is starting on Monday, and the tiles will just stay in the cars until then.  We are neither of us keen on wrecking our backs.  Had we had the tiles delivered, we’d still have had to schlepp them from the kerbside to the garage, so storing them in the cars is probably the best solution.  

We’ve had some heavy rain in recent days, and the garden has profited.  The potatoes have grown about a foot, the sage is flowering beautifully and the roses are starting to flower. We’re rather over-endowed with woodland geranium and iris sibirica, but they provide some colour and ground cover while we slowly populate the new flower bed.  Of the tagetes seedlings I planted out a few weeks ago there is no trace.  I guess the drought or snails will have done for them.  Last year’s rudbeckias, on the other hand, are starting into strong growth, so we may not bother to plant this year’s seedlings.  We have decided to bite the bullet and get gardeners Ben and Duncan in for a couple of hours once a fortnight.  The place already shows the benefit of their first visit.  In addition, we’ve briefed them to come and dig out the box stumps in the front garden and replant with something less vulnerable in the autumn.

The four viable tomato seeds out of the six in the packet have yielded good strong plants that are now fruiting heavily.  In addition we have rooted a couple of dozen plants from side shoots, so ought to have a succession of fruiting - at least if, unlike last year, they don’t succumb to the blight.  The four originals and the first three cuttings are growing in the conservatory alongside a tray of small plants of the next generation.  Another nine from the mini-greenhouse are potted up outdoors.  Our success with growbags last year was limited, so I’m trying chrysanthemum pots this year instead.  And I’ll try to remember to feed and water them this time.

Slash & burn

Since I last posted, the box tree moth caterpillars have devastated the hedge and bushes, so we’ve cut the lot down and burned it in an incinerator (known hereabouts as the insinuator, in homage to my first boss, who was given to such malapropisms).  Along the top path there’s still a row of box that seems unaffected, but we have few illusions, given the dozens of caterpillars we find every time we step outside - a few even get inside the house.  Martyn has chopped down a lot of the herbage at the foot of the fence on the street side.  Meanwhile, I was sawing down the trunks of what used to be the box ball at the foot of the drive, and was taking the strimmer to the weeds that had grown at the foot of the box hedge.  Oh well: it’s a chance to try something new, and I've opened the dialogue with our garden guru Ben: we could just manage the slash and burn, but the grubbing up and preparation for replanting is beyond us these days.  Always looking on the bright side of life, the absence of hedge shows off the viburnum, which is currently at its best.

We have a first rose in bloom at the side of the house, a first flower on the cistus purpureus and a lot of new flowers on the rockery, notably a Wisley Pink helianthemum.  In the veggie department, the spuds are growing vigorously, and we’ve planted a few beans out and sown some more.  A few leeks seem to have succumbed to the drought, but the onions look happy enough.  The tomatoes in the sitooterie are fruiting, and we’ve rooted a lot of side shoots - probably more than we can grow.  

Can you imagine a place like Disgustedville with a Council under other than true-blue Tory control?   This has been the case, if marginally, for a year now, and last week's elections administered a further kick in the teeth.  This time there wasn't a major local issue like the extravagant and quite properly dismissed plan to build a new theatre, so it looks as if the vote turned on national rather than local issues.  The gutter press, meanwhile, has turned on the Rt Hon and Learned Leader of HM Opposition for ordering a takeaway meal in the middle of a work session, and he has undertaken to resign if the local Busies find that he broke lockdown rules.  This is pretty clearly rhetorical, and aimed at accelerating the long-overdue departure of the current Rt Hon First Lord of the Treasury.  The latter's main talent of winning, however dishonestly, the popular vote has utterly disappeared, and the Brexit chickens are coming home to roost.  The damage this joker has done defies belief: not only to the country's economy but also to its political processes.

Anniversaries

Twenty-one years ago today, Martyn and I met for the first time.  It was three years and two days since my mother had died, and twenty-eight days since I’d retired from salaried work.  Earlier this month my old friend Claire would have hit 100: as well she didn’t, since her last years of reduced mobility and COVID-dictated isolation were a torment for her: she died a few days short of her 99th.  Today’s email brought a reminder that the Swiss communications regulator celebrated its 30th anniversary on 1 April.  That day they had a drinks reception in the evening, and they started work next day.  At 07:00 on 2 April I took a party of senior BT people in to meet them, and went on to enjoy a robust relationship over the following seven years until I reluctantly severed my professional links with a country for which I have such respect.

Claire and I first met in Switzerland back in 1974.  Martyn already knew the country well, and we have since been back a few times to play, as we put it, with the Federal train set.  My mother, alas, was not well enough to visit me when I was living in Switzerland, and it’s a sadness that she didn’t live to see Martyn and me get together.  

The light on the garden a couple of mornings ago was perfect - so perfect, I suppose, that it was pointless to try to capture it on camera - so I didn’t!  Spring bulbs and geraniums in the pots on the steps, the sun on the garnet acer, the young greens on the trees.  My time of year.  Less welcome in the garden is a fresh infestation of box tree moth caterpillars.  I sprayed on a supposed 25 million microscopic nematodes yesterday, and shall repeat the process next week: I couldn’t see any caterpillars today, but time will tell.  And of course we’ll need rain before we can hope the box hedge will recover.  The viburnum is just about at its best, though.

Today we have moved a stage further towards the end of the water leak episode.  Plasterers Paul and son Paul have done what looks like a good piece of work, and have kindly left us a roll of plastic to protect the long-suffering carpet when we paint the ceiling.  They left the place very clean and tidy, even washing the plastery footprints off the path from the chantier to the outside tap.  Highly recommended: details on application.  

So, we have a few weeks’ respite, give or take ceiling painting, before the next upheaval: the bathroom refit.  We think that’s on schedule: watch this space.

Garden developments, SW1 and TN3

The Rt Hon and criminal First Lord of the Treasury continues to cling shamelessly to power, having presumably persuaded his similarly fined real Treasury man to stay put for fear that the latter’s resignation would accelerate his own departure.  Meanwhile, he is trying to distract the public by gestures towards Ukraine and the utterly batshit crazy idea of flying asylum seekers to some sort of oubliette in Rwanda for ‘processing’.  We are becoming little better than an international laughing stock.  I’ll be interested to see how the electorate treats the party of ‘government’ in the forthcoming locals.

We now have a watertight hot water system (and a much depleted housekeeping account), but still await plastering and decorating of the hall ceiling.  The next upheaval approaches: the bathroom refit.  We just hope the first job is finished before the next one begins.

The weather is good enough once again for the occasional lunch out on the terrace, and the garden is both rewarding and demanding.  We’re making some inroads into the seriously weedy bits, but it’s slow going: the arthritic joints put a limit on operations.  The magnolia Susan is flowering well, but approaching the end of its season: the stellata out the front has also just about finished, and the flowers on the white camellia are looking sad and brown.  The ornamental cherry up at the top is in good blossom, but of course that’s ephemeral.  (I may have mentioned before that we didn’t realise what it was for years: its  blossom must have come and gone during our Easter holiday trips to Lagrasse.)  The long drive was made more pleasant by the masses of cowslips on the motorway verges.  We have precisely one stalwart plant: it’s always a pleasure to see its return each year.

It’s also the time of year when, with the sitooterie windows open, we’re never done rescuing bumble bees and putting them out.  Sometimes they fly straight back in again.  But out in the garden they are having a fine time in the daffodils, pulmonarias and the rest.  I saw one the other day with its furry abdomen completely coated in brilliant yellow pollen.  Hope they’re as keen when the apple blossom begins.

The British environment

One week we’re having most meals outside on the terrace, the next we have sharp frosts and heavy showers of hail, and today winds strong enough to blow over the mini-greenhouse.  Much unscheduled re-potting and some weighing down with bricks later, we’ll hope for the best.  The leeks and most of the onions are in the ground, and the Charlotte potatoes in their bags on the terrace (although by the time I look next, they may have been blown into the next county).  Our four tomato seedlings appear to be growing OK, and we’ll be starting the beans ere long.

As I write, the plumber is clattering away in the kitchen, having replaced a three-way valve in the central heating system.  Fortunately, the sun is shining, so the doors to the sitooterie are open, and the rooms adjacent are benefiting from the solar gain.  Not often you get owt for nowt these days.  

Unless you happen to be the billionaire tax-dodging non-domiciled wife of a finance minister whose idea of charity is to give a generous sub to his old school (doubtless declared as gift aid, with consequent benefit to his tax bill).  Like most of the front bench, his head is either in the clouds or up his own arse.  Those of low income have already to choose daily between heating and eating, even before this month’s 54% increase in energy bills.  Government is intent on impoverishing them still further with tax increases: the national insurance increase is one thing, but more serious is the freezing of personal allowances at a time of record inflation.  Our comms bill has just gone up by 10%.  Fortunately we can absorb much of the increase this time by eating into savings, and with interest rates standing at best at one tenth the rate of inflation.  It’s just as well we don’t drive much, give the rocketing price of fuel, which of course will contribute to retail price inflation: the token reduction in fuel duty would be laughable if it didn’t make me so bloody angry.  But Winchester School will just about manage.

As I find myself saying more and more often, I’m almost grateful to be old and childless.  It’s some comfort to have the spring garden to look out on.