A Virtual Walk around the Village

Not the village I live in now (although I might write about that sometime, too), but one I used to live in, a long time ago. My mother grew up there. Her parents lived in the same house all their married lives.

They seem so long ago now, those weekend afternoons when we visited. The Saturday lunch of fish and chips, picked up from the chippy next to the bus station in town, or a Sunday roast (with chilled Tizer as a treat, although the grown-up men preferred a glass of Mackeson stout). Then we might 'stretch our legs, get some fresh air and walk it off'.

It's one of those fine days, with blue sky and sun playing hide and seek with fluffy clouds and only a breeze. Come on, put on your coat and boots and let's take a walk.

Down the front drive with its chalky banks and garden full of weeds, although the gardens on either side are well-kept, with a bee-hive near the adjoining hedge on one side.

Watch for cars as we cross the road to see the horses in their meadow. Marina and Atlanta, manes and tails flowing like water as they canter away. As we walk towards the school, the vicar comes out of the vicarage drive, taking his Dalmatian for a walk, but he is going the other way, towards the common. At the staggered cross, there's a tree with a seat which circles its trunk. The lucky tree, to overhear the conversations of passers by, and watch little girls run around its seat, arms outstretched, face turned to the patterns of the leaves against the sky.

One road leads to the church and the main street, another heads up alongside the school to a housing estate. Look, that was my first classroom, and my mother's too. But today, we'll go straight on.

At Cuckoo Bridge, the old canal is overgrown with trees and nettles, but there is still water in the bottom, and probably deep mud. Silted up over time, the cutting was much deeper. For 120 years they had trouble with water levels and enough traffic to make it worthwhile, until it fell out of use and was lost, the last few miles forever dammed by motorway and ring-road, and housing developments. 

Shall we turn up the track to the railway footbridge, where we could check the signals for an imminent train, wave to the driver and count the carriages as it passes under us? Then walk down to the rec to play on the swings and watch the archers practising? Or run down the road as it dips to go under the embankment, into the darkness of the tunnel, pausing to shout 'Hello! Cuckoo! Echo!' and hear our voices rebound off the walls. Then perhaps a train would pass over us, turning the world to thunder as we run to the other side, our hands over our ears against the noise.

I remember a ditch running with water and culvert pipes to carry it under house entrances. Where was that? I learned the names of the wildflowers on those verges and watched for frogs and toads.

Soon we are at the corner with the old village well and quaint brick and half-timbered cottages with thatched roofs, and the topiary peacock,  A few steps on, and we join the main street through the village.

Back past the chapel and Goodall's Garage, where we'll Put a Tiger in our Tank on the way home? No, on to the river, past the lane which leads beside the recreation ground to the railway footbridge. Hard to believe there was a clay pit and the lane led to a brickyard, well before my time. Past the big house opposite the green expanse of the rec. There used to be a huge horse chestnut tree, great for conkers, on top of the bank opposite the big house, until the owner had it chopped down.

There was an old motte and bailey here, though there's nothing to see except a rise in the land. Then we are at the sparkling river, with swans and mallard ducks awaiting some crumbs of bread, and an old Muscovy duck who comes from the mill up the lane to the right, Stand on the bank here and look into the water, near the clumps of weeds, see the shadows move? There are trout in these crystal waters, camouflaged against the gravelly bottom.

Let's cross the bridge to go up the hill. Further along, the banks near the copse are a bed of primroses in spring. We'll take this lane which skirts the marshy ground where the young river is finding its way. It's a stroll to the next mill,where we can cross the river again and walk beside it, watching damselflies and dragonflies dart over the watercress which has spread from the beds upstream. Pause, feeling small under the tall arches of the viaduct, then carry on to join the lane near the bridge. Here's the Grange Farm, with its red brick walls and massive barns, Around the corner, past the drive, the wall continues. There used to be a haystack here, and so many sparrows, investigating every nook and cranny for spiders, insects and seeds!

On the other side of the road, the gateway to the site of a Tudor palace built on the site of an even older castle, destroyed in the Civil War. Centuries ago, there were people who also thought this village the ideal place to live. I've never seen the gates open when I've walked past, although it must be open to visitors sometimes.

We could carry on to the church along the main street and cut through along the lane to the seat around the tree. No, we'll turn up the lane by the pub here, it's not so far. The canal came under the road, but it was filled in and those houses are on top of it. I wonder if the owners know, or even care?

Here we come to the junction with the brick bus shelter where we could wait for a bus into town. There's the path to the common, but we'll go left, just a few yards and then we're home. Time for tea!

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There has been so much development in and around the little village. The main street is a conservation area, so it's still beautiful, but the average price of those little cottages and village houses is now half a million pounds. There's a Mercedes on the drive where my grandfather's Ford once stood. The house has been extended. There were only two bedrooms, so my brother and I slept on camp beds in the front parlour. There was a fireplace, but I don't remember it being lit. A paraffin heater was used to 'take the chill off', the flame put out before we went to bed. 

I remember snuggling under the blankets in the darkness, listening to the muted voices of the grown-ups going up to bed. Once all was quiet, I listened to the wind in the trees and the distant rushing rhythm of trains passing in the night.

Two-of-everything ratatouille recipe

My first experience of ratatouille was not a happy one. While I was living in Paris, I treated myself to lunch at a little cheap and cheerful café in the Latin Quarter. Served with fresh bread, it was a bowl of acidic, over-salted mush in which the individual vegetables were unidentifiable. Not nice. It completely put me off even the idea of trying it again.

Some years later, when I started growing my own vegetables and had a sudden glut of tomatoes, aubergines and courgettes, I had a go at making it myself, using a few different recipes, until I settled on my version, which has become one of my comfort foods.

Recipe

You will need:

2 onions (I prefer red onions, but whatever you've got)

2 fat cloves of garlic, crushed

2 sweet/bell peppers (I like to go for different colours)

2 courgettes

2 aubergines

2 cans of chopped tomatoes

2 heaped teaspoons vegetable stock (bouillon) powder

A couple of big pinches of dried mixed herbs/herbes de Provence (or a small sprig each of fresh, thyme, rosemary, oregano, sage)

A couple of good glugs of olive oil

salt and ground black pepper to taste.

I  prefer to use one of my Dutch oven pans, heavy, broad-based and deep enough to add all the veg, water to cover (and more if I want it soupier) and not spit broth all over the stove when I lift the lid to give it a stir.

Chop the onions, peppers, aubergines and courgettes into roughly 1"/2.5 cm pieces.

Start cooking the onions and peppers in the olive oil, and add the garlic as they start to colour.

Add the courgettes and aubergines so that they start to cook and soak up the oil.

When the pan looks dry and the vegetables start to catch and colour, add the canned tomatoes. Rinse out the tins with hot water, adding this to the pan so that the vegetables are covered.

Add the herbs and vegetable stock, give it all a good stir, cover and simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally if needed to stop it catching on the bottom of the pan.

It may need longer; the vegetables should be soft and melting but still retain their shape.

Serve and enjoy. Fresh baguette or crusty roll, glass of red wine ... or over a baked potato. Or on its own if you are aiming to cut the carbs.

Notes

I find it best to keep the vegetables in proportion, so all medium-sized or all large (hopefully without the aubergines and courgettes being woolly and full of seeds).

Modern aubergine varieties often do not need salting to remove bitter juices, but if you've grown your own and they've been water stressed at all, it can still be a good idea, and do the courgettes at the same time.

It freezes and reheats well, so I wouldn't bother trying to make a small portion with small-sized vegetables, as two cans of tomatoes will be too much, although two big beefsteak tomatoes could work.

I don't know how many this will feed, because I invariably have a second helping, but it usually lasts me at least two days.

If you're feeding a horde you can double the quantities of ingredients.

You can stretch the definition of ratatouille and stretch this further by adding a couple of potatoes cut into 1"/2.5 cm chunks, or stretch it even further by adding more water so that it's more like a soup. Or just go mad and use it as a basis for a big vegetable stew by adding a can of chickpeas or cannellini beans, sweetcorn, chunks of butternut or other squash, increasing and tweaking the seasoning as needed.

Yearning for the beach

The weather has turned windy and rainy after six weeks or so with hardly any rain. On the warmest days, I would have loved to go to the beach, but what with the lockdown due to the SARS-Cov-2 pandemic, it hasn't been sensible to go there. I've missed the sensory pleasure of being there (although not missed the inevitable crowds). My yearning gave rise to this ....

Au bord de la mer

Hot bright sunlight on my face

Drying salty hair and lashes

Legs wet with sandy splashes

Feet tingle with shingle scratches

Cool wavelets’ sea foam catches

My skirt hem like liquid lace

Inspiration and Perspiration

This May I have mostly been making ... a mess.

I am determined to get this back garden productive and at least two thirds of it laid out, and the patio tidied, by midsummer.

The weather has been amazing since mid-April, in that there has hardly been any rain. We usually have a dryish couple of weeks in April and May, and it starts turning rainy and changeable from midsummer. But the weather has stayed beautiful, day after day, as if to spite all of us locked down due to the SARS-Cov-2 Coronavirus pandemic, not allowed to go to beaches. We are supposed to stay local - no more than 5 miles from home, and even if I parlayed that into 'as the crow flies' instead of road distance, the car parks and toilets are shut. If you can't walk there, you can't go there. I have been out in the garden every day, if only to do a small job, or just watering. I hit a bit of a wall mid-month, where I had to have a couple of rest days, as my muscles and joints were so painful. Little by little, I have started to be able to work longer or harder, resting as soon as I need to, resuming when I feel up to it.

The brambles spread atrociously last year, when between painful joints and lots of rain, I neglected the garden. It has been cathartic to hack them back and dig them out, even though I couldn't burn them as I only like to light the incinerator when it is at least drizzly, so that no neighbours have washing out. I have been tackling the garden on all fronts: patio, herb, mint arc, both herbaceous areas; as usual, all of my balls in the air, playing the moving squares game by tackling areas of weeds and brambles, trying to create space to move plants and plant contents of pots. The big prize is to clear the areas for the veg beds, which have become full of herbaceous plants and weeds, and said herbaceous plants need somewhere to go.

The progress is almost imperceptible. Only the compost heap gives a clue, having doubled in height.

The mints arc and herbaceous bed beyond it were to occupy the area between the house utility/shower 'extension' and the lilac, which was a gravelled area in which things seeded themselves and failed to grow well, except for Sedum rupestris, which must love the dry, limey conditions, and bramble, which is just a complete thug and grows everywhere. There is some of the troublingly ubiquitous bindweed coming though too. Huge old plants of Lady's Mantle (Alchemilla mollis) and a couple of Hellebores have established themselves right at the edge of the bed, and they will need to go.

I was told by someone, possibly the sellers mentioned it in passing, that there was some concrete under the gravel, but when I had previously stuck a fork in to work some bramble or dandelions out, I didn't find it. This time, having raked off a couple of inches of gravel, I found areas of concrete and patches of fine grade, blue-grey ballast or aggregate. I stuck the pick into the concrete a few times and it broke easily, in some place only half an inch thick or less, in others perhaps a couple of inches. It looked as though there might be a void underneath.

The gravel bed, having found concrete

I suspect it was a level base for a shed, but my neighbours don't know or remember anything about it.

I carried on clearing and digging, creating a sort of terminal moraine of gravel, concrete bits, aggregate and soil under the edge of the lilac. In places the concrete I broke and removed had a layer of aggregate under it, laid on top of a permeable membrane; in some places, that aggregate had another thin layer of concrete underneath it and on the membrane, in some places, stuck to it. So this all became a rather longer job than expected, but isn't that just the way of things?

It would have been so much easier to leave the gravel and use it as an area for pots, but I want to see my plans realised.  Part of that includes recycling the paving slabs donated by my next-door neighbours a couple of years ago into paths between the veg beds, and the gravel, aggregate etc can be recycled into a sub-base for the slabs, along with the rest of the stone I keep digging out of the garden. Another neighbour commented how much concrete and stone she finds in her garden, and how shallow the topsoil is. I would have expected it to be deeper, as these houses were built on damp meadow-land, so I suspect the topsoil was taken off to level the site for building in the 1950s and not put back again. Ah well, all the more reason to make compost.

I've become fitter and able to do enough to work up a sweat. Being out in the garden, with the birds and greenery, has been very enjoyable, my exercise and inspiration, saving my sanity a little in these locked-down weeks. 

Spider observations, and a new species for me

The garden seems to be full of spiders. The compost heap and all the paving is alive with some type of wolf spiders, and possibly more than one specie of them. I tidied the garden cupboard and evicted many 'house' spiders and most of the plant pots and trays which were hanging around on the patio have had a spider or two in them. A walk through the garden disturbs nursery web spiders. The house is still full of Pholcus phalangioides. The Golden Girl Araneus diadematus on my living room window frame survived the winter, then one day, she had disappeared, hopefully out to find food.

Strenuously brushing off some moulded plastic plant trays ready for reuse yesterday evening, their undersides full of snails, I found I'd also brushed out an egg mass in a case, which had torn. Out of the case emerged a slightly agitated female spider, so large (18-20 mm) when she uncurled, she made me jump. She was quite shy, very attached to her eggs, so I gathered them up to have a closer look.

Could this be Steatoda nobilis, the Noble False Widow? (Yes, the same one the press get so hysterical about, with horror stories of infected and necrotic bites.) I asked in the British Spider Identification group and it was confirmed. After all this time, when I'd never seen one, and if the females are this big, I'm sure I would have noticed! Come to think of it, if she has eggs, there's probably a male around, unless she's eaten him (apparently they do, sometimes). They seem to be getting more common and widespread, and this wouldn't be the first Pembrokeshire record for the species.

So, a new spider for my list. Except I don't have a list, so now I want to start one. I haven't been taking much notice of the spiders in the garden, but it would be good to identify what's here. The spider ID group is full of photos of jumping and crab spiders, to the extent where I have spider envy, as I haven't seen any here. But then, I also haven't been looking.

Meanwhile, I'll have to find this big mama a new niche, as she can't go back under the plant tray. 

Within Living Memory

A chance conversation when out walking back in January, as well as some conversations at my gentle exercise class, reminded me that once people get to a certain age, they have lived through history. They may not think of it as history, because it's their everyday life, normal, mundane, nothing remarkable. History is generally thought of as rulers, politics, wars and battles, inventions, constructions and disasters. The small, everyday lives of the little people, many of whom were illiterate, were scarcely recorded.

I did some research into the small Carmarthenshire farm I bought with my former partner in 1999. It was very difficult. Some locals shared their knowledge, although most of that resided with a local historian, who was loath to share what he knew as he was writing a book about the village (which ended up with very little indeed about 'my' farm). Chatting with the archivist at Carmarthen archives, I was advised to try to get to its history through the people who lived there. But it was a small farm with tenant farmers and north-facing land used to support the livings of clergy under Queen Anne's Bounty until it was bought out. Without original deeds and with little to go on from the tithe maps, there was no way of getting to the history of the buildings and farm itself. However, I was very interested in how the lives of those poor tenant farmers might have been. There were cottages reduced to rubble at the bottom of the hill adjacent to one corner of the land, apparently still owned by the family who'd had the farm from the early 1900s until the 1970s. There was also the remains of a cottage in a little corner of the adjoining farm's land, with no track and only the merest trace on an old Ordnance Survey map, presumably a farm worker's cottage. Was it a tŷ unnos - a cottage built in one night to claim that little parcel of land and create a home? They were usually built on common land, but some landowners allowed them, or wagered that their workers couldn't build their cottage and have a fire in the hearth within a day and night. I doubt the answer could ever be known now.

Yet in personal, family and local history lie all the details and stories which we can identify with. Who married whom, lived where, their occupations and how they lived their lives and coped with adversity and change; these are the things which are important to people. Who is on the throne, which laws were passed are all context.

Having moved a lot when young, I've never felt that I have roots and am fascinated by the stories of people who have been born and brought up in one locality. They are the guardians of a local and personal history which is still largely untold, although titbits are increasingly shared through social media. Similarly, interest has increased in family history, particularly since programmes such as the BBC's 'Who Do You Think You Are?' started.

The woman I met out walking in January said 'you should meet my husband, he was born and brought up down here' and it made me wonder how I should go about talking to people about their memories, and record them. Then I came across a project relating to shared histories between Pembrokeshire and Ireland called Ancient Connections. They were running 'History Hunters' courses on collecting and sharing oral histories, and since I very much doubt I have any ancient connections here or in ROI, but it matched a growing fascination, I asked if I might be eligible to join in. I was, and went to the first two sessions in St David's at the end of February. It was very well organised and completely engrossing. I left, looking forward to working out a project and coming to the two sessions in March, which, because of this horrible virus, have, understandably, been cancelled. Visiting people in their homes isn't really possible now.

At the same time that I was connecting with Ancient Connections, the family history bug bit me and I took advantage of a free trial on MyHeritage to start building my tree. Then I missed cancelling the fortnight's trial by a day and have ended up with a year's subscription, so I may as well make the most of it. I don't expect to find anyone famous, but who knows? Will I find ancestors who shared my passions for dance, art and crafts and the natural world, and uncover the truth of family stories about French ancestors on one side and Irish on the other?

Pandemic Pandemonium

Predictably - I wonder what odds the bookies were offering? - the outbreak of the novel Coronavirus  Covid-19 has been declared a pandemic, and all hell has broken out in the UK. Not only is it a public health emergency, it is also an economic emergency, with international markets in free-fall and people already losing their jobs as firms scale back and shut down.

Even before the UK had many cases, people started panic buying, noticeably toilet roll! Not that the infection causes problems with the gut, but because apparently that's what people can't do without. Hand sanitiser gel was also a must-buy. Supermarkets were slow to impose limits, because families come in different sizes and people may be shopping for others, but surely, surely, people could be sensible, given that there aren't shortages with stock coming in all the time? But no, you can't fix stupid, and people, especially when scared, will be greedy and selfish too.

The last time I went shopping, some of the shelves of a large supermarket were looking very empty. No toilet roll, very few canned goods, no pasta, hardly anything left by way of pasta sauces. I went past one couple loading Pot Noodles into their trolley, discussing how many they should have of which ones, dithering and debating because they didn't normally eat them (although I don't blame them for that!). I saw other couples, discussing numbers and needs as they loaded their individual trolleys, although I expect only one of them normally shops for their families. But, for all I know, maybe one of them was doing the family shop and the other shopping for a parent. Short of seeing someone steering a few trolleys piled high with toilet rolls and hand sanitiser, is it really possible to spot the difference between someone panic buying/stockpiling and someone getting supplies in for their family and older neighbours? Without leaping to assumptions, no. It's a tricky one.

There was lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, and I bought a lovely piece of fish from the wet fish counter to put in the freezer, not because I'm stocking up the freezer, but because it looked so good and I already had that day's meal planned. (I'm currently addicted to ratatouille with a baked potato as comfort food.)

There weren't queues at the tills, as there were plenty of cashiers. I had a cheerful chat with the cashier as I put my things through. Apparently the limits she had were a bit higher than those shown in notices on the shelves, and the shelves were restocked regularly, but emptied almost as soon as they were filled. I shall be annoyed if I cannot find what I want as and when I want to replenish what's in my own cupboards (especially toilet roll!) and that's the thing. Even those like me who don't panic buy and hoard supplies, when threatened with the possibility of not finding what we want and feel we need, we're more likely to buy the items, in multiples, when we do see them. Also, when you think that maybe we will all be under movement restrictions soon, and you and yours may be self-isolating for protection because someone in the household is in the high-risk group, or you may go into isolation because you or someone in the household show symptoms, then it makes sense to have some supplies in and a regular online order so you can top up if you can't go out. It becomes both cause and effect.

Elsewhere, fights have broken out, and cashiers are subjected to insults and threats if they challenge the numbers of items people are taking. A friend who was on a course (only the first day of the planned three; it was cut short) reported that the tutor had stopped off at a supermarket for hand sanitiser (makes sense to have it if you're giving a course and you don't know what the facilities are like). She found the last bottle at the back of a bottom shelf, and an older woman saw her and knocked her over. The other woman's husband remonstrated with her and she grumbled that the tutor had beaten her to the last bottle (like that's an excuse for her bad behaviour).
In the USA, there are queues at gun stores, as people buy weapons and ammunition. It seems that they are preparing for a breakdown in law and order (whether they will be causing it or defending themselves from it) and possibly also a zombie apocalypse. I'm glad, once again, not to live in the USA.

Not that living in the UK is much less worrying. The government position last week was 'carry on as normal, no-one is immune, wash your hands, catch your coughs, best we just let the virus go through the community and build herd immunity that way. Some of you will die, especially the oldies, but most will be okay.' Cue outrage at the idea of having the Coronavirus version of a Chicken Pox party for UK citizens, the apparent disposability of our at-risk citizens and that this could potentially be a great saving in terms of benefits and a load off the NHS. We are used to the idea that herd immunity is created after a programme of vaccinations, not, as used to be, just leaving a disease to spread through the population and rely on people recovering and becoming immune. Diphtheria, smallpox, polio, whooping cough, measles, German measles (rubella) - all used to be like this. Perhaps the British are less fatalistic, stoical and stiff-upper-lip than we used to be, but some things are just not acceptable now.

Then there was something of a U turn; people were advised to work from home if they can and avoid going out unless necessary, especially to pubs, clubs, cinemas, theatres etc. A raft of financial support measures were announced, but there were still obvious holes. You might take a mortgage holiday, but still no help for renters. Your employer should pay you statutory sick pay (SSP, which is less than £100 per week, not a lot) but with only an advisory for people to stay away from leisure venues, the owners and managers of said venues cannot claim for loss of income on their insurance. Many will go under unless there are government safety nets in place. The self-isolating should be paid SSP from day one, but many employers aren't being flexible enough and still want a doctor's note, at a time when most surgeries are stopping face to face appointments. There is a proposal to make new claims for universal credit easier in an attempt to provide some support for the self-employed, so that will be good, if they can work it out.

Now the schools are due to close at the end of the week, and exams have been cancelled, all adding to the general confusion and anxiety.

One of the scariest things is that, being a new virus, there are so many unknowns. You can have it but be presymptomatic (not showing symptoms yet) or asymptomatic (not have symptoms at all). The incubation period is still up for debate, from three weeks to three days. Many people apparently can have quite mild symptoms and recover, but there are no numbers on this, as only those who are hospitalised with severe symptoms are being tested (much to the annoyance of health care workers and medical professionals, who would like to know if they are positive since they are on the front line of receiving the virus and passing it on, so knowing could limit the spread, even if it takes them out of the much needed workforce for a week or two, and even if clear, they might need to be tested on a weekly or fortnightly basis). It is still not known whether someone who has had it and recovered is immune, and since you can have something like it without knowing whether you've just got some unspecific, horrible fluey cough or whether it's Covid-19, you can't be sure of anything. Except that you are still alive, which is not something to be sneezed at (sorry, couldn't resist it!).

I do worry about my (high risk group) parents, over 200 miles away, although my brother is with them. All this worry and uncertainty leads to high anxiety, and I found this from Anxiety UK very inspirational:

APPLE
Acknowledge: notice and acknowledge the uncertainty as it comes to mind

Pause: Don't react as you normally do. Don't react at all. Pause and breathe

Pull back: Tell yourself this is just the worry* talking, and this apparent need for certainty is not helpful or necessary. (* or anger, annoyance, however you are feeling). It is only a thought or feeling. Don't believe everything you think. Thoughts are not statements or facts.

Let go: let go of the thought or feeling. It will pass. You do not have to respond to them. Imagine them floating away on a cloud or in a bubble.

Explore: Explore the present moment, because right now, in this moment, all is well. Notice your breathing and the sensations of your breathing. Notice the ground beneath you. Look around and notice what you see, what you hear, what you can touch, what you can smell. Right now. Then shift your focus of attention to something else - on what you need to do, on what you were doing before you noticed the worry, or do something else - mindfully with your full attention.

I observed to a friend that, given a computer with internet connection (tick), craft supplies (tick), books (tick) and food deliveries (cross), I can hole up and entertain myself for weeks without feeling the need to be with people face to face. I'm lucky, I also have a garden to potter in, and live on my own in a house with a few rooms to choose from, so I wouldn't feel too claustrophobic.

Although I've let the people from my gentle exercise class know I can pick up shopping for them if necessary, I have no confidence that I could actually find what they need. With that in mind, I wondered what delivery slots might be available (given that you can book a slot up to three weeks in advance and amend your order until the night before delivery). My local Tesco has no delivery slots for the three weeks you can book. Click and collect slots are only available at the end of the three week period. A quick look for toilet roll showed only small packs of a couple of brands in stock. So much for regular deliveries and no shortages. I went in this morning and there was no toilet roll (apparently only people queuing up when the doors opened at 7.00 am got some!), and among other things, still no pasta, and even the fresh veg was looking a bit bare, with few potatoes left and no onions! Customers were limited to a maximum of three of any one thing.

There have been comparisons to being at war, so if I have to self-isolate I shall use it as an opportunity to make do and mend, and dig for victory.

Remember, coughs and sneezes spread diseases, so catch your coughs in a hanky and wash your hands. Don't Panic! Keep calm and carry on!


Earworms, a suggested playlist, in no particular order: Don't Stand So Close to me (The Police), Toxic (Britney Spears), Mad World (Gary Jules), Shake It Off (Taylor Swift), U Can't Touch This (MC Hammer), Stayin' Alive (The Bee Gees), Survivor (Destiny's Child), I Will Survive (Gloria Gaynor), It's the End of the World (as we know it) (REM), We've Gotta Get Out of this Place (The Animals),