In No 112, I mentioned “elevenses” (with a flippant aside) thinking that everyone would know what elevenses are. Wrong. My twelve year old daughter came into the kitchen at 10.30 this morning saying she would make herself some porridge for a late breakfast. “But you’ve already had breakfast” says I. “I know but that was a bowl of cereal in bed much earlier”. “Right, well at least wait for half an hour and you can have it for elevenses”. “What are they?” At which point I felt we had failed our daughter.
A significant side effect of Lockdown is the dramatically increased household food expenditure. A number of parents have been commenting on anti-social media about this. It seems three hearty meals a day are no longer enough. Our two monsters are constantly grazing, in and out of the fridge, the larder and anywhere else they think some food might be lurking. Combined with reduced levels of exercise, the impact is clear for all to see.
I find my frustration, even anger levels rising every day. It’s the most beautiful time of year. The countryside is looking stunning. The hedgerows are a cascade of white hawthorn and buckthorn blossom, interspersed with the vivid yellow of gorse. The bursting beech woods are carpeted with bluebells. The hillsides of The Sussex Downs are alive with the bleating of thousands of newborn lambs, their mothers scattered across the rolling green pastures like a multitude of gulls bobbing on the ocean. With it’s major makeover our garden is equally beautiful. But College Field opposite our house is deserted, looking unloved and unkempt with all the groundstaff furloughed. What should be reverberating to the sound of leather on willow is eerily silent. The fresh-faced youths, just starting out on life’s big adventure are absent, housebound and probably moribund in some cases. It’s them I feel so sorry for. These should be the most exciting of times, the fabulously memorable years of their lives.
I can’t help feeling that we’ve got this all wrong. In 1968, at the end of the Lent Term, I got a really nasty bout of Hong Kong Flu, along with lots of other boys at School. They converted one of the Boarding Houses into a Sanatorium, which had to keep going beyond the end of term. I had a temperature of 105 degrees for three days, with constant bed changes, I was sweating so much. It was hideous, but we survived and the nation didn’t come to a grinding halt. I accept that COVID 19 is not flu, but nonetheless it’s a relatively small percentage of those affected who suffer badly and a very small percentage who die. The treatment is going to be dramatically worse than the cure for so many, particularly the younger generations.
With almost miraculous speed Nightingale hospitals have been created with vast Intensive Care facilities, which are apparently now sitting largely unused. Why can’t we have dedicated centres like these around the country as specific COVID treatment centres, leaving other hospitals to do the work which they normally do, without fear of coronavirus infection? Work that is now backing up so badly that the unintended consequences will be felt for years to come.
The elderly and vulnerable can continue to properly self-isolate and we should do everything to help them, but let the rest of the world get back to work.
Time for elevenses and a couple of cookies.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 