Let’s start again

Day 2

The weather outside may be frightful but in the house it is more delightful.

Not really that frightful, I must admit, more a bit dull, damp and cold, but definitely more delightful inside.

This morning I was reading a tweet Michael Rosen sent out last night.

Last year he was one of the earliest victims of Covid19 and spent weeks, possibly months in hospital, sometimes at death’s door, but he pulled through and rejoined us on Twitter (@MichaelRosenYes had been kept going by his family through the worst of times).

Over the past few months Michael has made many of us realise that no matter how bad things are we can get through to the other side.

He still gets people telling him there is no pandemic but he shrugs most of them off with his wry sense of humour. If they get too persistent he will block them but he doesn’t do it in a nasty way.

We should all be Michael Rosen and use humour to deal with the “Covid experts” and other sundry annoying little keyboard warriors.

If that doesn’t work then just switch off that annoying little tick. There are millions of decent people out there who will help to make your life better.

Mind you I find it hard not to respond to them. I grew up in a family where we “discussed” our different points of view and I still try to do that.

The point is a “victory” over the bots and trolls and their ilk is a hollow victory. There is no glory in it.

This year I will try harder to be more like Michael and Jeremy.

A soft answer may not turn away wrath but it makes you feel better.

So this is 2021

I woke feeling quite bright and cheerful this morning – after all it was not just a new day, it was also a New Year. This was 2021 – goodbye 2020.

I wished my darling wife Marion and my dear son David “Blwyddyn Newydd Dda” (Happy New Year to those who don’t speak Welsh) and anticipated a bright shiny day with just a slight nip in the air to remind us it was still winter.

That first cup of tea at 7.30am was like sheer ambrosia. Loose leaf breakfast tea, made in a properly warmed teapot and allowed to brew for six minutes.

Then I switched on the Breakfast news, except there was no news – it was all olds.

We are still battling Covid19 with one hand tied behind our collective back and standing on one leg with a blindfold over our eyes as our wonderful government leads us into a victory march out of Europe and into misery cut off from our friends.

The only bright light at the end of the tunnel is the fact that we now have two vaccines ready for use but even we septuagenarians will have to wait probably until February before we get even our first jab.

At least this time last year we still had 12 months of trading with our European allies ahead of us while we discussed some friendly new deal with them to start today.

I had forgotten at the time that the discussions involved Boris Johnson which meant there was as much chance of us getting a reasonable deal as there was of me beating Mo Farah at the 10-yard-dash with him wearing a deep sea diver’s outfit including the lead boots.

A healthy breakfast, a shave and a wash didn’t help as much as it usually does.

The only thing that did help was to ignore the news channels and watch some tv from the 90s when the only thing to worry about was Tony Blair.

It was Trial & Retribution actually and was quite pleasing to see David Hayman (Det. Supt. Mike Walker) tackle all the problems of leading a murder investigation while going through hell in his personal life.

Come to think of it we might have been better off with Mike Walker running the country instead of Johnson.

I’m going to settle down to a pleasant evening with a 90s box set of something to take my mind off Covid and Brexit and Johnson et al . . .

Oh damn where’s that TV remote gone?

PS: 2020 did have one bright moment – Donald Trump lost the election.

To the New Year

by Dr Tulsi Hamumanthu
If Life be a Sea and you are a Wave,
O kind New Year, will you not save
Us from sinking, by letting us ride
Atop your apex, taming the tide?

If Life be a Book and a Page you are,
O neat New Year, let us not mar
With blots and botches, your fresh fair face,
Nor waste, with blanks, your scanty space.

If Life be a Play and you are a Scene,
Help us enact some roles that are clean,
O noble New Year, during your term,
Be fair sans favour, forgiving but firm.

If Life be a Travel and a train you be,
O New Year dear, please hear my plea:
Carry us not, through rancid routes,
To stalls that sell forbidden fronts.

If Life be a Game and you are a Ball,
O smart New Year, fail not to fall
In goals like Health, courage, compassion;
Avoid such goals as pelf or passion.

If Life be a Prayer and you are His proxy
Bringing us alms, O New Year, mercy!
Place some crumbs of Peace in our bowl
To feed our hungry hearts and soul.

I’ll be back

December has not been the best of months but I intend to return to action in the New Year (tomorrow).

It has been a difficult time for us all and many have found it harder because they have been separated from family and loved ones who would normally be there to offer support.

Our son is at home with us but our oldest daughter has had to cope with isolation with our two wonderful grandchildren.

We love the three of them but find it hard not to be able to be there to help and support them at this time.

Our other daughter has been our support when we needed urgent supplies over the past two weeks but next week she will also have to stay clear as she returns to work (she’s an assistant head at a state secondary school) and until vaccines are given we will have to continue our three bubbles.

I know many out there are worse off and I hope we will soon all be able to enjoy our free and full lives once more.

Bright Star

by John Keats (1795-1821)
Bright star, were I as stedfast as though art -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart
Like nature's patient, sleepless Emerite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No - yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel forever its soft fall and swell,
Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.

The Sound Collector

by Roger McGough (b 1937)
A stranger called this morning
Dressed all in black and grey
Put every sound into a bag
And carried them away

The whistling of the kettle
The turning of the lock
The purring of the kitten
The ticking of the clock

The popping of the toaster
The crunching of the flakes
When you spread the marmalade
The scraping noise it makes

The hissing of the frying pan
The ticking of the grill
The bubbling of the bathtub
As it starts to fill

The drumming of the raindrops
On the windowpane
When you do the washing-up
The gurgle of the drain

The crying of the baby
The squeaking of the chair
The swishing of the curtain
The creaking of the stair

A stranger called this morning
He didn't leave his name
Left us only silence
Life will never be the same

A Mind’s Journey to Diss

by John Betjamin (1906-1984)
Dear Mary,
Yes, it will be bliss
To go with you by train to Diss,
Your walking shoes upon your feet,
We'll meet, my sweet, at Liverpool Street.
That levellers we may be reckoned
Perhaps we'd better travel second;
Or, lest reporters on us burst,
Perhaps we'd better travel first.
Above the chimney pots we'll go,
Through Stepney, Stratford-atte-Bow
And out to where the Essex marsh
Is filled with houses new and harsh
Till, Witham pass'd, the landscape yields
On left and right to widening fields,
Flint church-towers sparkling in the light,
Black beams and weather-boarding white,
Cricket bat willows silvery-green
And elmy hills with brooks between,
Maltings and saltings, stack and quay
And somewhere near, the grey North Sea;
Then further gentle undulations
With lonelier and less frequent stations,
Till in the dimmest place of all
The train slows down into a crawl
And stops in silence .... where is this?
Dear Mary Wilson, this is Diss.

A Shropshire Lad

by John Betjeman (1906-1984)
The gas was on in the institute,
The flare was up in the gym,
A man was running a mineral line,
A lass was singing a hymn,
When Captain Webb the Dawley man,
Captain Webb from Dawley,
Came swimming along the old canal
That carried the bricks to Lawley.
Swimming along -
Swimming along -
Swimming along from Severn,
And paying a call at Dawley bank while swimming along to Heaven.

The sun shone low on the railway line
And over the bricks and stacks
And in at the upstairs windows
Of the Dawley houses' backs
When we saw the ghost of Captain Webb,
Webb in a water sheeting,
Come dripping along in a bathing dress
To the Saturday evening meeting.
Dripping along -
Dripping along -
To the Congregational Hall;
Dripping and still he rose over the sill and faded away in a wall.

There wasn't a man in Oakengates
That hadn't got hold of the tale,
And over the valley in Ironbridge,
And round by Coalbrookdale,
How Captain Webb the Dawley man,
Captain Webb from Dawley,
Rose rigid and dead from the old canal
That carries the bricks to Lawley.
Rigid and dead -
Rigid and dead -
To the Saturday congregation,
Paying a call at the Dawley Bank on the way to his destination.

A Bay in Anglesey

by John Betjeman (1906-1984)
The sleepy sound of a tea-time tide
Slaps at the rocks that the sun has dried,
Too lazy, almost, to sink and lift
Round low peninsulas pink with thrift.
The water, enlarging shells and sands,
Glows greener emerald out from land
And brown over shadowy shelves below
The waving forests of seaweed show.
Here at my feet in the short cliff grass
Are shells, dried bladderwrack, and broken glass,
Pale blue squills and yellow rock roses.
The next low ridge that we climb discloses
One more field for the sheep to graze
While, scarcely seen on this hottest of days,
Far to the eastward, over there,
Snowdon rises in pearl-grey air.
Multiple lark-song, whispering bents,
The thymy, turfy and salty scents
And filling in, brimming in, sparkling and free
The sweet sussuration of incoming sea.

A Memory of June

Claude McKay (1889-1948)
When June comes dancing o'er the death of May,
With scarlet roses tinting her green breast,
And mating thrushes ushering in her day,
And Earth on tiptoe for her golden guest,

I always see the evening when we met -
The first of June baptized in tender rain -
And walked home through the wide streets, gleaming wet,
Arms locked, our warm flesh pulsing with love's pain.

I always see the cheerful little room,
And in the corner, fresh and white, the bed,
Sweet scented with a delicate perfume,
Wherein, for one night only, we were wed;

Where in the starless stillness we lay mute,
And heard the whispering showers all night long,
And your brown body was a lute
Whereon my passion played his fevered song.

When June comes dancing o'er the death of May,
With scarlet roses staining her fair feet,
My soul takes leave of me to sing all day
A love so fugitive and so complete.