Day Fifteen:

Thou shalt not lie - but I do

Every few days, a caring support lady rings to ask if I have developed symptoms of Covid-19.  This is a necessary precaution as I’m locked down and my family, right across the city, are similarly isolated.   No one to keep an eye on the old codger then - except my young support lady.

I am normally a truthful person and she’s doing a magnificent job so it pains me to have to lie to her.  But there’s a good reason.

I hear the echo of my mother’s voice saying, ‘There is NEVER a good reason to lie.’

This, as she glibly told numerous  ‘white lies’ whenever she deemed them necessary.

So after the normal greetings, I gird up my loins to tell white lies and

our conversation goes like this:

‘Have you been coughing?’

‘No.’ 

I’m lying.

According to Australian Ear, Nose & Throat surgeon,  Dr John Rubin, the lack of lubrication as we age, irritates the throat, causing us to cough and clear our throats more often.  I do that all the time.

‘Have you been sneezing?’

‘No.‘ 

Again the untruth.

I  sneeze  a lot.  About 5 or 6 times every morning, as did my mother when she got to her 70’s. 

It’s thought our nasal passages cannot cope with allergens as they did when we were younger and this is the body’s way of expelling them.

‘Do you have a runny nose, itchy or streaming eyes?’

‘No.’ 

 Like many people over 60,  I’ve been suffering from allergic rhinitis for over a decade.  When it first began I consulted my doctor.

 She told me little  can be done.

 Allergy specialist Stephen Foster at Kent and Medway National Health Trust would agree.  He believes  the immune system of older people can be compromised by stress and illness, leaving us less capable of dealing with allergens.

At this stage in our conversation I am inwardly squirming, hating the deception and longing to tell the truth. 

‘Do you have a temperature?’

‘No.’

Finally, this is true and makes me feel marginally better.

‘What about watery eyes?’

‘No.’

Epiphora, or watery eyes has plagued me for well over 12 years. 

For the first 30 minutes of the day, a constant stream of tears are being dabbed away.  Gradually, after 2 or 3 tissues, it slows down and I revert to being my normal,  partially sighted self.

 Rob Hogan, an optometrist at iCare Consulting says it’s caused by age-related narrowing of the tear duct.  Since ducts act as drainage, if they contract, eyes overflow.

‘Have you lost your sense of smell and taste?’

‘No.’

The correct answer to this is, ‘sometimes’. 

Quite often in the early morning, my nose runs so much  it’s impossible to smell anything.  It also runs if I drink hot tea or coffee, or eat a hot meal.  

This has an effect on my taste buds but once the meal is over,  my sense of smell is so acute, I can smell next door’s shower gel as it runs down her drain.

At this point,  I wish I could tell my nice support lady an old but cute joke but ours is a serious conversation with a serious purpose, so I refrain from sharing.

And the reason why I am lying through my teeth?

If I answered a truthful 'Yes' to her questions, her next action has to be a call for an ambulance which, equipped with nice people in white haz-mat suits, would take me away to hospital isolation and tests which I know would be negative.

 

All the symptoms from which I am suffering, pre-date Covid-19 by many years and quite frankly, I’d be wasting precious reserves and time and the energies of already exhausted health workers.  

So I lie.  In a good cause. I’m quite well, I’m just old.

And the cute joke?

‘If your nose runs and your feet smell, you’re built upside down.’

Day Fourteen:

Whoever decided upon  ‘Happy Birthday’ as the ideal length for hand  washing against possible C-19 germs, has in one dark stroke, turned it from one of the best loved refrains,  into the most hated.  

It will be forever linked with the virus and the appalling death toll as ‘Ring-a-ring of Roses’  is, correctly or not,  associated with the Black Death.

How many bereaved families are going to want to sing that at the next family birthday?

How much better it would have been to ask people to count slowly to 100.

Day Thirteen:

Day Thirteen:

I’ve been reading about Covid Conspiracy Theories (well, you have to do something during lockdown).

Some are a little bizarre, to say the least.  

Are we really part of an experiment by aliens?

Douglas Adams first made this point in H2G2, The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy (1978).

Some believe we’re in the power of multi-nationals whose evil geniuses have planned to take every penny from our pockets and bank accounts. 

If so, they seem to be succeeding beyond their wildest dreams.

One report has it that we’re being ‘softened up’ by enemy powers prior to invasion.

That’s scary but rather more Star Trek than fact....a bit like Trumps' new space logo.

Do the ‘enemy’ intend  invading every country of the world simultaneously whilst we’re still highly infectious?

The Duke of Wellington famously said, "Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted," and normally one would look for a build-up of military and hardware, to indicate an  intention to invade.  

In this case, we’d need to look at a huge increase in the sale of sewing machines as civilians and support staff are pressed into service making billions of face masks for potential invaders.

In the main, cons- piracy  theorist  both expose and allay their own fears as they seek to prove themselves astute and perceptive.  

They aim their peculiar claims at any group they dislike, decry or despise. 

Well, I may as well join the barmy army.  As Corona sweeps the world,  I'll choose something I don't particularly like and blame them for the outbreak.

It's all the fault of fresh coriander leaves.

Day Twelve:

Day Twelve:

And now - the good news.

Yes, in amongst all the bad stuff, there are a few sparkles of joy and hope.
 

• The Oxford Centre for Evidence Based Medicine (CEBM) revised their estimate of Covid-related deaths to 0.1–0.26%. 

They also say that due to an acute lack of testing equipment, it is likely many death currently attributed to C-19, in a ‘better safe than sorry’ statistic, are not related to the virus at all but from pre-existing health issues.  They state that even if the patient has tested positive, it is still not certain the virus itself was the fatal factor.

•  Across the world, researchers have raced to find a vaccine and the University of Queensland Centre for Clinical Research,  say they have already identified two already registered mediations which have completely wiped out the virus in test situations.

•  World-wide, people have flocked to give help and support. 

  People have given time, expertise, experience and money. Biologists, statisticians, engineers, civil servants, medics, supermarket staff, logistics managers, manufacturers and the ordinary, good-neighbour have given tirelessly.
The level of unselfishness and altruism has been unsurpassed.

There are still many, many good people out there. 

•  Proving that necessity is still the mother and father of Invention, new ways of working, new research and new pathways for all walks of life will make it much easier to cope with future disasters, as well as normal life.  
• Ordering goods online has increased which in itself will be more convenient for the consumer,  lead to more jobs delivering,  revive the failing postal services and lead to less travel and pollution.

 

•  Young engineers have cobbled together cheap and  effective ventilators from all manner of equipment, including scuba gear.  These designs have been made available free to medical facilities across the globe.

•    Sewing machine in every corner of the world have whirred night and day, turning out millions of masks for at-risk workers and others.  Most of the masks, as well as the time and materials,  have been given free.

In my own area, Haven Falls Community Trust's workers made and distributed, free of charge, 2,300 masks.

Newspapers who have known for decades that humans are more attracted to bad news than good, have nevertheless, featured a Good News Page.

This includes news of the many cities where pollution has dropped due to the stay-at-home policies  keeping vehicles off the streets and canals. 

In Venice the water is clear for the first time in decades.

•  Pollution, which in itself leads to thousands of death each year,  has meant fewer health problems

•  China has now lifted restrictions on movement after ten weeks. Fourteen temporary hospitals in Wuhan have been closed as people recovered and returned home.  Let’s hope this pattern can be repeated  in other countries to.

•  Uber Eats in the USA decided to waive all delivery charges as a way of supporting local restaurants and cafés. 

 Please don’t flock to New Zealand’s UberEats as we are  on complete lockdown in order to prevent the spread of Covid-19.  The service as well as all restaurants and cafes are  closed.

• Several celebrities, Elton John included, have given concerts and readings from their homes in place of the live entertainments their fans would normally enjoy.

Many people have compared the Covid Crisis to war-time.

 We are under seige and the enemy is at the gates but the best of humanity comes out in adversity and what is happening around the world is a wonderful defiance and determination not to be beaten.  

 

Day Eleven:

Day Eleven:

I awoke this morning to a sound I hadn’t heard for a long time: the hum of traffic on the distant motorway.  

The main road near my home is also buzzing with vehicles. 

When I say ‘buzzing’, I mean one every couple of seconds, not the nose to tail convoys usually experienced on the busy West Coast Road.

 Residents and visitors to our small road often sit at the junction, unable to get out and sighing with impatience at the constant stream of cars, trucks, buses and bikes.

The more forceful ones, usually courier drivers in their brightly coloured vans,  edge out inch by inch until an oncoming motorist gets the hint and lets them into the stream.  Otherwise they’d spend precious time-is-money, waiting for what seems like hours.  

So obviously, despite the fact we’re still at Level 4 Lockdown here, many people are on the move.   

Perhaps they’re volunteer workers, stepping in to relieve exhausted medical and support staff?    

Perhaps they’re shoppers, still feeding their addiction for yet more beans, spaghetti and cleaning fluid?

Or maybe just stir-crazy rebels, desperate for pastures new.

Who knows?

I’m still stuck here, a non-driver and dependent upon people who, at the moment, are not allowed to have any contact with me.

This includes my normal home-support workers who, in better times, would be here on Mondays and Fridays to help me buy essential food.

The agency who employs them has decided,  despite the fact I am in the 'elderly and vulnerable' category,  to withold this care, including buying vegetables and essential supplies.  

They know I cannot do this for myself.    I phoned them; they didn't seem to care.

It's fortunate then that for a number of years, I've been a member of a Maori social group and in the Maori world, elders (Kaumatua and Kuia) are regarded with respect - and their wellbeing prioritised.

So while my world,  the world of the Pakeha (non Maori) has decided I am not worth helping,  I will be supported by a Maori organisation who will bring me a box of vegetables, groceries and hygiene products (gloves, anti-bacterial wipes, toilet rolls etc).

God bless them.

Day Ten:

The Problem of Exercise

Having fallen off my stool (in Yorkshire we call it a ‘buffett’) in my attempt to simulate   swimming, I must devise another form of exercise.

No floor-based exercise such as press-ups or Yoga appeals. It’s not that I can’t get down but that it’d take me the rest of the week to get up again.

 I live in a small and generally quiet cul de sac but because everyone is home right now, each time I decide on a short walk, one of the residents pops out with the same idea, so I leap back until they’re past.

No sooner is the street clear and I venture again when the next person decides on their constitutional.    Or the lawn contractor arrives, or children from neighbouring streets come to ride their bikes.

 

I contemplated waiting until dark but with my eyesight, I’m sure to fall over one of the  cats who live here.   So after the first week, I gave up.

I don’t have an exercise bike and if I walked up and down the room for half an hour a day, I’d l wear out the carpet and I don’t think the landlord would be too pleased.

 I could juggle a few tins of beans but I’m not very proficient and I’m sure to break a toe if I drop one.

There is a theory that the brain can be fooled into thinking you’re exercising.  All you have to do is concentrate on, say, running or leaping over hurdles and you expend as much energy as if you were actually  doing it. 

So from my armchair, with tea and biscuits to hand, I’m now going to run a marathon.

Day Nine:

Being confined 24 hours a day is difficult enough but if you’re also isolated with someone who brings out the worst in you, it can seriously impact on your emotional well-being.

My neighbour Mabel, a pleasant enough woman with a great deal to put up with from her boozy, bad-tempered husband,  had a visitor a few days ago.  Her nephew, Bruce.  

He leaned against her fence, some 8 metres away from her door and they had a shouted conversation, which of course, I heard.

I don’t usually eavesdrop on other people’s conversations but being confined to the house and away from the interesting minutiae of life has made me nosy.  
Besides, distance didn’t just lend enchantment, it forced them to bellow.

‘How are you, Auntie?’

‘All right I suppose. Apart from being stuck in here with Him all the time.’

I’m fairly sure she didn’t mean Jesus. 
Mabel has an awkward husband, who, at the best of times, doesn’t like visitors.

He once threw a cat at the postman. 

He's home all day now but for the odd sortie to the grog shop.

‘Is there anything you need?’  

Mabel listed a few essentials and I saw Bruce taking notes.  Then she added, ‘And some rat poison.’

‘Oh my god, don’t tell me you have rats.’

‘Just the one.’

She nodded backwards to the house where Himself was shouting at her to get back inside and stop gossiping.

She wasn’t serious about the poison of course, at leasat I hope not.  They’ve been married for over 50 years and despite, or perhaps because of their constant arguments, still occupy the same small unit.
They seem to thrive on being embattled, as many couples do.

He is normally at the RSA, the local social/drinking club during most of their opening hours;  Mabel is normally a volunteer, working in the local Thrift Shop. 
But these are not normal times.

‘Is Uncle playing up again?’ asked Bruce, trying to keep his voice down to a whispered yell.

‘He wet the bed last night.’

I tried to stop listening at this point, there's such a thing as too much information. However,  even though I was sitting in my own kitchen, all the doors and windows were open on this warm, sunny day, so it was inevitable I’d hear.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was incontinent.’

‘He’s not incontinent,  he’s  incompetent.   He’d came back from the liquor shop with a crate of beer,'  (Alcohol it seems, is an essential item).    'and by the time he came to bed last night he was so sozzled, he spilled  a whole can of Lion Red on the duvet.'

Lion Red beer is brewed in the North Island of New Zealand and has its avid devotees.  Mabel’s husband is one of them.  She often says they brewery will never go bankrupt as long as he’s around.

I spent many years in the South Island and though not much of a beer drinker (a cold glass on a very hot day is my limit)  I prefer Speight’s,  brewed in the beautiful, South Island city of Dunedin.

There’s a sort of rivalry between the two beer camps and this has given rise to a ditty, no doubt penned by the Lion Red adherents.  It uses the initial letters of Speight’s delicious brew.

Southern 

Pee

Everyone

Including

God

Hates 

The

Stuff 

Which is quite wrong.

I happen to know God is very partial to a sparkling glass of Speight's Gold.

Day Eight

Day Eight:

How lucky I am to be totally alone and locked up-down in my little home.

 Here I am with no one to please but my own dozy self;  no arguments, no irritations,  no expectations or obligations to be anywhere or do anything.  
It’s quite liberating - but for the fact I’m not at liberty. 

 It’s also a sort of allowable selfishness which doesn’t impact on anyone else, or put anyone at risk. 

 Many stories are emerging about the tensions, particularly for families and couples thrown together in unaccustomed  isolation and on the verge of insanity, divorce or worse.

Were I locked down with the sort of persons I’m reading about: women who secretly have friends round for ‘drinkies and bikkies’ at night; men who won’t wash or change underwear because they have no need to leave the house,  I'd very quickly be grinding soporifics  into their Muesli. 

 Then, of course,  the local Constabulary and I would be having Very Serious Words.

And a new word has been coined.

 ‘Covidiots’ are the people who feel they are immune to the disease and all the rules which aim to keep people safe.

It’s possible to be asymptomatic with Covid-19, although being a total imbecile is less easy to  hide.

The Backpackers who phoned a radio stationin New Zealand and declared they had no intentions of restricting  their plans to tour the country,  are, like Typhoid Mary, potentially infecting thousands.

The 3,000 people who thronged to Brockwell Park in South London yesterday, not only compromised their own health but that of everyone with whom they subsequently socialised.

If just one person in that gathering of 3,000 was infectious and asymptomatic, everyone they talk to and breathe on; everything they touched, had the potential to infect and even kill.   

They could be responsible for the sickness and death of  babies, young children, pregnant women, essential workers and more, not to mention themselves and their own families.

That’s the unacceptable side of selfishness but I suppose if you are a moron, you don’t see it as such.

When I was at school, we used to chant a silly rhyme.

Happy little moron, he doesn’t give a damn.

I wish I were a moron

Oh no, perhaps I am!

Day Seven

 Day Seven:

I feel myself becoming morose.

I’m a cheerful person usually, weathering life’s many storms and fighting on.

In fact our family motto is:  Numquam desistas, numquam dare in -  Never give up; Never give in and it has stood me in good stead during 73 years of a less than peaceful (but extremely interesting) life. 

I’m also by nature an optimist , so I don’t expect to feel glum for long but today has been just a bit scratchy.

‘It won’t be long before this is all over,’ said my cheerful friend during her weekly phone call, “to check up on you elderly and housebound”. 

She  continued,  ‘and you’ll be able to kick up your heels and celebrate.’

It's been many a long year since I could kick up anything other than a fuss and  at the moment, with the death toll still rising and people not allowed to attend the tangihanga and funerals of their loved ones,  I’m not sure I’m up for a celebration.

The only thing I want to kick right now is my cheerful friend.

We are still at Level 4 and the statistics world-wide show that New Zealand is doing better at containment than any other developed country due to the stringent rules brought in early and enforced by our Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern. 

 These restrictions were so much resented at the time and there were many who felt they could be flouted but that was probably because they simply didn’t realise the implication and the virulence of C-19.    Or the mixed and very confusing messages of 'stay at home but it's fine to crowd en masse into supermarkets.'

Now everyone is aware and we are far more cautious and obedient. Most of the time.

It will pass and we’ll attend the kawe mate/memorials for those whom we’ve lost. 

The supermarkets will once more have a few hundred, rather than a few thousand crazy panic-stricken chooks crowding the aisles;  I will be able to see my darling grandson again.

There will be bluebirds over New Zealand's clover... 

 But not yet.

Day Six

Day Six:

Email from a friend tells me her recalcitrant husband refuses to wash his hands, even when he’s been out shopping, so she follows him around, wiping  every touched surface  with disinfectant and a damp cloth.

If he were my spouse, I’d be following him round with a blunt instrument.

Her only revenge, being confined with him to small quarters,  is to eat a combination of broccoli , Brussels sprouts and cauliflower,  then and stand as close as possible to him when she breaks wind. 

Brussels sprouts contain cyanide (which is why they're bitter) I won't tell her this, it may give her ideas.

The gossip in my neck of the woods is that cauliflower is only to be had at 5 times its normal price.    I’m assuming it’s gold plated not brass-ica. 

It will lack cheese sauce as there’s not even mousetrap (my usual purchase) in our supermarket, which has rather saddened the mice who are now considering coming in from the fields during these cold mornings.

The matter of wind (well, it IS March) has highlighted one small compensation of being locked up, or down.

 I can eat as much garlic, onions and cabbage as I please, with no fear of exterminating anyone with the gaseous results.  Except the mice of course.

On that subject, I used the last of the bathroom deodorising spray yesterday but a dear neighbour agreed to get some and a pack of toilet rolls from her local corner shop which, being fairly remote, hasn’t yet been pillaged by the ravening hoards.

It is only a matter of time before raiding parties try further afield in their insatiable lust for consumer goods.

My friend, for whom English is not a first language came back not with an aerosol to dispel odours, but one of those Spray n' Wipe bottles and a Chux cloth instead of toilet rolls.

She passed them to me with such happiness and satisfaction, 'No need for paper, all in one cleaner, spray and wipe bottom.'

I have a feeling someone’s garage may be full of toilet tissue and if only I knew where they lived I could effect a midnight sortie to liberate some.

I’ve got to the stage where I'm eyeing Christmas wrapping paper.

 I still have no deodorising spray to keep the wharepaku sweet but I read online that striking a match can eliminate smells but is it safe when methane is inflammable?  

Were I 40 years younger and in a slightly different context,  the idea of igniting Mr Muscle  might appeal but I do not wish to be rushed to hospital with a barbecued fundament, so perhaps I’ll just turn on the extractor fan.

Day Five

Day Five:

The fresh vegetables bought before Lockdown are now mostly consumed. 

An old, dry carrot languishes in the fridge and with half an onion, could, were I desperate, make soup.

I don’t live within reach of any shops and all the people I could call on are also staying safe at home.

Except for one old rebel who never does as he’s asked and for once, I’m glad of it.

The gentleman (and he’d hotly dispute that if he ever read this blog) and I have been friends for many years.

‘Hello darlin’, ' he said when I picked up the phone, 'anything you need?’

 I would normally give him a cheeky answer to a question like that but I requested instead a bottle of milk and a pumpkin.

‘You shall go the ball Cinders.’   

Two hours later I heard a bellow,  ‘Merry Christmas!’ outside my door and there stood the most unlikely elf with two bags of vegetables. 

‘I got extra because it’s almost Easter and you won’t be able to get into the shops soon.’ 

‘You mean you can at the moment?’  

It seemed security guards were stationed at the entrances and exits to the largest supermarkets and as soon as 10 people exited, another 10 were allowed in.  

The only way, apparently, to prevent battles over items on the shelves.  

It hasn’t prevented drivers fighting in the car parks for the last space as they queue for hours to get in.

My rebel stood well back as I threw a roll of notes at him.  

After he’d gone, I unpacked the vegetables and at the very bottom of the bag  found a little chocolate Easter Egg.    

 God love ya Martin!

  

Day Four:

Day Four:

I’ve decided to carry out an experiment on my bananas.  

But first the experiment on the stool to see if I could 'dry' swim. 

I couldn't.  

 I fell off the stool and it took me 20 minutes to get up from the floor.  Beleive me, you don't want the details. 

That's more exercises than an actual swim so I'm not complaining.  

But to fruitier things.

I was able to get 4 large bananas, slightly under-ripe,  as I went into Lockdown.

 I ate one yesterday at its peak of perfection but the others are showing signs of bruising.  Have  they been fighting in the night?

Anyway, I’ve separated them and wrapped two very tightly in kitchen film and left one unwrapped. 

I shall monitor them closely, not just for further signs of fisticuffs but to see if the wrapped ones deteriorate more slowly than the unwrapped singleton. 

Perhaps it will be the other way round?  Gosh, what exciting times we live in.

Despite my best efforts, I’ve been unable to locate any Paleo bread and the factory which makes them is now closed. 

I have a mild wheat intolerance: symptoms include bloating and gas but as I am now living with no prospect of company dropping by, an odourous wind hardy matters.

So I shall make some bread.

Kneading bread not only provides you with The Staff of Life but exercise as well ! Yipee.