Childhood, in an age of coronavirus.

In my childhood days it wasn't uncommon for adults to tell fibs about children, to children. Here's one told to me by my maiden aunt, Kathleen:

"Birds in their little nest agree,
it is a shameful sight,
when children of one family
fall out, and chide, and fight."

Of course I didn't know that they were fibs, little moral tales for our edification; and I have since written an affectionate poem about aunt Kathleen: "A Hard Bargain", that dwells on another side of her character. She was a wheeler-and-dealer in Heaven, striking bargains with the angels and saints; Mary and Anthony come readily to mind. Under their statues she would leave promissory notes, (ten shillings in old money) to be precise, with instructions by way of prayer, that as soon as they. Mary and Anthony that is, had done whatever it was that she wanted them to do, the money would go to a good cause, or causes, that she knew the Virgin and Saint Anthony would approve of.

But  now that I am old, and wise, and regardless of anything that aunt Kathleen might have said, I can tell you for certain that the behaviour of some birds is shocking, as here, where the house-martin having done all the hard work, and is ready to move in, finds that the house-sparrow has got in ahead of her, and is claiming squatters rights. What a wonderful moral tale, (from so many angles), if only aunt Kathleen had known about it, which is why I am telling it to you, as told to me, by Gilbert White:

"About the middle of  May, if the weather be fine, the  martin begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family. The crust or shell of this nest seems to be formed of such dirt or loam as comes most readily to hand, and is tempered and wrought together with little bits of broken straws  to render it tough and tenacious. As this bird often builds against a perpendicular wall without any projecting ledge under, it requires its utmost efforts to get the first foundation firmly fixed, so that it may safely carry the superstructure. On this occasion the bird not only clings with its claws, but partly supports itself by strongly inclining its tail against the wall, making that a fulcrum; and thus steadied,  it works and plasters the materials into the face of the brick or stone. But then, that this work may not, while it is soft and green, pull itself down by its own weight, the provident architect has prudence and forbearance enough not to advance her work too fast; but by building only in the morning, and dedicating the rest of the day to food and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and harden. . . . .By this method after about ten or twelve days is formed a hemispheric nest with a small aperture towards the top, strong, compact, and warm; and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for which it was intended. But then nothing is more common than for the house-sparrow, as soon as the shell is finished, to seize on it as its own, to eject the owner, and to line it after its own manner."   *

And thinking of all of this I am reminded of another perspective on childhood that was around at the time. It was to do with Christopher Robin - a very very upper- class little boy, who, kneeling by the side of his bed, struggled with his night prayers: "When I open my fingers a little bit more, / I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door, / it's a beautiful blue but it hasn't a hood, / God bless nanny! and make her good. . . ." And what intrigues me now about this song, is just how much myself and Christopher had in common, because it was while saying my night prayers, that I suddenly had the notion to tip Saint Anthony on his side so as to see what was underneath, and that was that, for, "forgetting my prayers completely," I went looking for more statues, and then, and in my pajamas, and to aunt Kathleen's consternation,  I came leaping down the stairs to tell everyone of what I had found.

Something else that was around at the time, and that had nothing whatever to do with piety, or moral rectitude, but rather with the capacity of the child to see through the pretensions of adults, - and be downright annoying with it, was the magical poem by Lewis Carroll, "You Are Old, Father William". In the telling of this story the boy, of course, could be any boy, but whoever he is, and wherever he come from, his father is always William.

"You are old father William" the young man said
"and your hair has become very white;
and yet you incessantly stand on your head -
Do you think at your age it is right?"

At  first father William was patient in his replies, but when the boy becomes too personal and marvels at his father's ability to balance an eel on  the end of his nose, - despite his failing eyesight, it all became too much for the old man:

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!

And lastly, this, the opening words of a song that have to do with the child's capacity to wonder; and besides being a song, the construct of the words are such, that it is also an exercise in diction. As a boy soprano I sang it in a competition at which, Sir Malcolm Sargent, was present as a guest of the adjudicator. In the competition I came second, and as Sir Malcolm was there as a guest, I have no means of knowing what he thought of my singing.

"Is it I wonder a rum thing,
oe nothing to wonder upon,
that whenever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on.

He may stand for hours like a dumb thing,
but this can be counted upon,
that wherever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on."

So why am I telling you all this?

Well those who have read my previous blogs, will know that under the current COVIC-19 restrictions, of which "social distancing" is a part, I now take Amber for her morning walk at 6 am, and her evening walk at 8. Walking at these times makes it easier, in terms of the virus, to stay safe; but such is the solitude in the residential streets in the early evening, that  I couldn't help but be reminded of the story of the "Pied Piper of Hamelin"; for, not only are there no children in sight, but they are not to be heard either, in the many private gardens as we pass. They have simply disappeared.

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   ©       Cormac E.McCloskey

A Hard Bargain   here

The Natural History of Selborne   *
By Gilbert White   (1720-1793)
My edition: 1900.
Still readily available i.e. Penguin Classics, and others.

Blog: Between The Covers   here

You Old, Father William:   here

The Pied Piper of Hamelin  here

Staying home in an age of coronavirus 4

   As you would expect, with time passing and ever more urgent appeals that we respond positively to government advice, I was relieved to hear that the police, in enforcing "safe distance", or several broom-handles worth of space between people,  will not be going after those out walking their dog; as one commentator pout it, How would they know as to whether you were on your first or second walk; and that was good news for me, because I had every intention of walking Amer twice each day: in the early morning and late evening. Now that doesn't mean that I am deaf to government advice, but I do admit to selective hearing.

   Well in terms of heading government advice, I have had a few thoughts about walking the dog, and have had a change of strategy. As far as possible, and it is not that difficult at six in the morning, myself and Amber walk along the middle of the road, just in case someone on their way out to work makes an unexpected appearance from behind a hedge, and there are just inches between us. That would be bad enough, but Amber has a strong inclination to want to make friends, so getting out of the line of fire, could be difficult. And a further point; walking along the middle of the road is pleasant as compared to walking on some of the footpaths which are a mix of rough surfacing, and patchwork, a consequence of the laying down of cables. And while walking in this fashion recently I was reminded of Val Doonican, deceased, who for many Saturday evenings on television, had a big following.

Val was Irish, a singer with a mellow voice, and easy delivery, the patter that is,  to go with it, and a bevvy of pretty girls to help him with the singing, and the props, Aran sweaters and a rocking-chair. Well, one of the stories that Val told was of how when a boy and out walking with his father, his father explained that you were much safer walking up the middle of country roads, than clinging to the hedgerows.

Well the other day while working at my desk I felt a buzz about me, and sure enough, on opening up the phone, there was the first of several e-mails, sent out by the National Heals Service (NHS), the first of which advised that on account of my medical history,  I was at high risk, and must not leave the house for 12 weeks; I could though, open the windows. The e-mails that followed were giving practical advice: what to do in such and such a situation. And following hot on the heels of the e-mails, was a letter advising me of the same. And this is where it gets interesting, and my hearing  - selective.

Over dinner a week ago, were were talking about our own personal situations when I ventured the view (with which Jenny did not dissent), that she, on account of her compromised immunity, was high risk and should not be going out of the house. In my own case, I told her that I was at risk on account of my age, 78, but not otherwise, and I was confident in my assertion, as, in 2017, and never having had a heart attack, I had triple heart-bypass surgery, and as a result, have never felt better, a truth born out at the clinical level recently.

When I arrived for a routine blood test, and an injection against shingles, (you get it free age 78) the practice was impressively quiet, so the first of my appointments with the practice nurse was on time.  "Why don't I do everything while you are here," she said, "if you don't mind?" So she did, and in doing so, saved me a wait, and a walk along the corridor to my next appointment: a blood-pressure test and the taking of a sample. And she saved the practice pharmacist having to remember to call me on St. Patrick's Day, (again a routine call) to review my medications. And there was more. My cholesterol level on the previous blood test was 3.1, well within the guidelines. And I, always keen to be helpful in such situations, told her that I take my blood-pressure at home, and it is always well within the guidelines. And so as to satisfy your curiosity, here it is, an average of three readings taken this morning: Systolic 134, Diastolic 68, Pulse 55.

All this I hope helps to explain why, with regard to the letter and e-mails,  my hearing is selective; they are part of a job lot, that in all probability when it came to issuing them, worked like this; anyone who has been on the books of the cardiology department in the past ten years, gets a letter. There are no circumstances in which they could review every case, and it just wouldn't have been possible, for the Prime Minister, in the middle of his press conference, to interrupt the proceedings: -

"Oh! and by the way, Mr McCloskey,
you don't need to, to, bother about the letter.
Tell you what, Cormac (pointing)
Just, just, tear it up! - bin it!"
__________

       ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

Staying home in an age of coronavirus 3

Two women met in a supermarket, both of whom went to a slimming club on Saturdays, now on account of the coronavirus, closed: "What did you do," said one to the other,, "when you found out that the club was closed?"  "I had a chicken sandwich!" came the reply. "And what did you do?" asked the other. "Oh," she said, "I had a meat pie."
                                                                     
Now taking up from where I left off yesterday, with the life of Henry Morse, a priest who ministered in London to the destitute, the poor and those dying of the plague in the early 1600s, and who himself, in an anti-Catholic purge, was hanged at Tyburn in 1645, I thought that it might be interesting to recall from his biography, some details of how the authorities coped, or tried to cope, with what in effect was the continuation of the Bubonic Plague that was at its height in the mid fourteenth century, and that didn't burn itself out in England until after the Great Plague of London of 1665, some twenty years after the death of Henry Morse. In Chapter 8 we have this opening account of the anxiety, and the precautions put in place as the plague was relentlessly making its way across Europe, and then, as now, there were delays in putting processes in place, and not everyone thought that the rules applied to them: -

From Chapter 9
"In the early summer of 1635 the plague was reported on the Continent. In August, when it struck Dunkerque, causing great loss of life,Sir Robert Parkhurst, the Lord Mayor of London, wrote in alarm to the Council. He proposed a proclamation to prohibit all vessels from Flemish and French ports landing persons or goods without licence, and, furthermore, urged a period of quarantine for all travellers coming ashore from the infected places. But it was not until the 3rd of October that these precautions were taken. The same day an Order in Council set watchers on all incoming ships to prevent the landing of goods or persons until the lapse of twenty days. For the most part the order was enforced, but occasionally the cordon was broken by an insistent traveller like Baron de la Ferte who obtained horses at Great Yarmouth and rode with his retinue to Court within two days of landing. . ."

And this from Chapter 10
"The sealing up of houses was a tragic measure. In St. Giles-in-the-Fields the crowded tenements were occupied by four and sometimes five families, frequently strangers to one another. No exit was permitted once a case of  the plague had been reported. Barred in behind doors fastened with padlock and staple, the healthy and the infected lived side by side. The wisdom of the order had never been questioned. First enforced by Cardinal Wolsey [who held political as well as ecclesiastical office] in 1518, it now had the sanction of the College of Physicians, who considered contagion inescapable. Although there were cases to prove the contrary, it was argued that anyone who came into contact with a plague victim was certain to fall sick himself. Thus, without work or occupation, the healthy were forced to await the death of each victim in turn. No food or medicine was available except such as the parish visitors brought them, or, in the case of Catholics, the two priests assigned to this work. "I sent for Mr Morse when I was visited with the plague . . .and he many times gave alms to me, my husband and my two little children, who all died of the plague, the parish not giving us anything, we being very poor and seven persons in number shut up."

Now I have two other sources on the theme of plague:" The Diaries of Samuel Pepys", and somewhat incongruous, in the circumstance, a beautifully presented and gilded reproduction of "The Great Plague", by Walter George Bell. The focus, here too, is on London, and the plague, that of 1665; twenty years exactly after the hanging of Henry Morse. In Bell's case there are contemporary plates in support of the narrative. i.e., and electron micrograph image of a flea, Xempoylla cheopis, clinging to the fur of a rat, and adjacent to it another: a colour presentation of the plague bacterium Yersinia pestis. "Six vigorous specimens can increase to more than 7,000 in one day. two days later the total may be 100 million.

For his part Samuel Pepys besides being an MP., had an illustrious career associated with the navy, though in keeping with the precarious age in which he lived, he was twice arrested - on suspicion . . .  and later , in 1699, made Freeman of the City of London for services to Christ's Hospital. Now if you are familiar with the poetry of John Betjeman, you will know that his work has a flavour that is so uniquely his, that you can, as they say, smell it a mile off. Pepys's Diary is a bit like that:-

"Up early; and with Mr. Pickering and the child by wagon to Scheveling . . ."
"Up and all day long finishing and writing over my will twice, for my father and my wife . . .
"Lay long in bed, talking; among other things,  talking of my sister Pall, and my wife of herself is very willing that I should give her 400! to her pension - and would have her married as soon as we could . . ."

So what of the plague:-

In "The Great Plague", Bell writes of the wealthy who, fearing the plague seek refuge in the suburbs and beyond; while on the behaviour of the crowds, Pepys puts it thus: -

". . . Church being done, my Lord Brouncker, Sir J. Mennes, and I up to the Vestry at the desire of the Justices of the Peace, Sir Th. [Thomas] Bidolph and Sir W. Boreman and Ald. [Alderman] Hooker - in order to the doing something for the keeping of the plague from growing; but Lord, but to consider the madness of people of the town, who will (because they are forbid)  come in crowds along with the dead Corps to see them buried.  But we agreed on some orders for the prevention thereof. . ."
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        ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

HENRY MORSE: Priest of the Plague
Author: Philip Caraman

PEPYS'S DIARY  Vol. II. 1664-1666
The Folio Society 1996

THE GREAT PLAGUE IN LONDON
Walter George Bell
The Folio Society 2001
Editor: Belinda Hollyer

Staying home in an age of coronavirus 2

      I am very quick on the uptake in some things, and not so quick on others, so it can be a bit of a pain when you think you have cracked it, only for, she who knows, to send you frantically searching for escape routes. So here is how the conversations went recently.
     When the door-bell rang the dog started barking, and before I could get there, the hall door opened and a man, (I know it was a man even though I didn't see him), set a cardboard parcel down on the hall floor and disappeared. Now we have a procedure in place and Jenny knew what it was. "The package," she tells me, "has to be taken up to the garage to be quarantined." "Too late, I tell her," I have already carried it through to the utility room." I am confused, because she who knows, has explained that the life of the virus depends on where it lands. On cardboard it can keep going for X number of days, and on plastic for XX number of days.

Much later, towards nightfall, a different currier rings the bell and drops a cardboard box just inside the door. Now, of course, I know what to do, but having been awakened by the doorbell I am feeling grumpy, and don't really want to take the package up to the garage, and fortunately, she who knows is understanding, and suggests that I bring the contents, (not the box),  through to the  kitchen; so I collect the six bottles of prestige wine and carry them through  and as instructed, place them in the sink; and by the time I have returned from disposing of the cardboard box, it is all too apparent that, whatever about the past,  in this new dispensation a woman's place is in the kitchen: she has made up a potion of 1 part bleach to 50 of water, and is diligently washing the bottles. Later, when I saw that the jug was empty, I asked, "What have you done with the rest of the solution?" the reply was amazing, she had poured it over the bottles collectively, just in case she had missed anything when washing them separately. "We could have used it later," I told her. "No," she replied, "the water has to be hot." "But we could have heated it in the microwave!" Silence.

Now in a time of crisis, I have a way of being helpful, and catching her off guard, and as a means of combating the virus asked, "Do you think we should wipe over the light switches with whiskey? Laughter. And later, "Do you know what, I have just found a new use for chopsticks!" "What's that?" she said from the next room; "switching on and off the lights," I said.  "Well then" she said, "you'll contaminate the chopstick."

      Now I have a book in front of me that is no laughing matter, but a salutary reminder of times past. It was presented to me at the school prize giving, and I have often wondered, though not at the time, (and as it is a substantial text), if someone was trying to suggest that I might, as we say, "have a vocation" to the priesthood. But neither then, nor since, have I had such an idea. The book set in the early 1600's is about the life of Henry Morse, and subtitled, "Priest of the Plague," nd without turning a page, we can learn a lot from the dust cover.:

"About this book the author writes: "For a long time I have wanted to study the life of what I might call an "ordinary" priest in the seventeenth century. I took a risk, and settled on a man whose name was unknown. As I gathered information about him -- in London, Rome, Liege and elsewhere - I realised how fortunate my first chance choice had been. Henry Morse led me into many fascinating bypaths of seventh-century England: book-smuggling, the London underworld, ecclesiastical feuds, prisons and camp life, the plague, organised blackmail and thuggery.""

And so the narrative continues:

"After he had been twice imprisoned and twice exiled, Henry Morse returned to England in 1633 and worked  unsparingly among the plague-stricken poor of London. Again exiled and again returning, he was eventually arrested in Cumberland, shipped from Newcastle to London, and executed at Tyburn in 1645." 

In more senses than one, these were fraught time, Charles the I was on the throne, and his wife a Catholic, and Puritans were spreading the word, that the plague was an expression of God's anger at the increasing number of Catholics.

      These days, and for good reason, I don't overindulge myself in following the news, but in recent days I heard a man tell of how his wife, a nurse, phoned him from work, crying, and telling him that she couldn't take it any more. And I had the privilege of hearing a doctor, (who I am sure had no more wish to die than the rest of us) face up to, and accept, the reality, that his job might cost him his life.
__________
  ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

HENRY MORSE: Priest of the Plague
Author: Philip Caraman

Staying home in an age of coronavirus 1

I have just posted a note on the front door to the effect that we are "Self Isolating" and asking all, but the postman, to ring the bell and leave their packages by the front door. And why not the postman? Because he has a long established official status, and it might be the case that an item has to be signed for, before it can be delivered. Yes others sometimes need a signature, but the way things are working just now, and for good reason, they are taking it on themselves to signin on our behalf.

Where we grew up, by the sea, on the north Antrim coast, and not far from our house, and with its back to the view, stood a "pillarbox", (letterbox), that from my earliest years established itself in my psyche as a status symbol: none of my friends had such an important and useful symbol by their front door. And here's a truth; some "young bucks" who had more testosterone than good sense, tried to establish a reputation for themselves, by vaulting over it. And talking of the "pillarbox", memories are flooding back.

One that has to do with Christmas, is of the postman, still on his rounds, being invited, and willingly coming in for a whiskey. And another, is of the speed with which the postal service could operate. If my mother sent a currier down the steps to post a letter to me at 4 pm, I was reading it in Southampton, next morning, at eight. Now I have always attached a high importance in life to the capacity to wonder, a gift that no one should  allow to become redundant; and this speed off delivery, in those days, had me, - wondering.

Well of recent times the postal service has been privatised, and as a consequence I suspect that postmen, and women, are not as fit as they used to be. Today they park their red vans at strategic points along the way, upload their trolley with the appropriate red bags, and then, three wheel them from door to door. Not long ago, before privatization, you couldn't help but admire them, and especially when they passed you going up hill with fully laden satchels slung on either side of the bike: and always, whatever the weather, in shorts.

Now in the absence of anything else to share with you about post perssons, operatives, or whatever else you might like to call them, here is something to enjoy, and dare I say it, think about, and read slowly; and please do not turn off if you are not religious, psalms are poetry, and this, from the Jewish scriptures, (in the pre Christian era), is Psalm 107/108. I have read it many times before, but it had a greater impact yesterday, perhaps, because we are in "lockdown." It is a little on the long side, but in those days they had the time, and we, at this particular time, have more of it than we are used to.

"O give thanks to the Lord for he is good;
for His love endures forever."

Let them say this, the Lord's redeemed,
whom he redeemed from the land of the foe
and gathered from far-off lands,
from east and west, north and south.

Some wandered in the desert, in the wilderness,
finding no way to a city they could dwell in.
Hungry they were, and thirsty,;
their soul was fainting within them.

Then they cried to the Lord in their need
and he rescued them from their distress
and he led them along the right way,
to reach a city they could dwell in.

Let them thank the Lord for his love,
for the wonders he does for men.
For he satisfies the thirsty soul;
he fills the hungry with good things.

Some lay in darkness and in gloom,
prisoners in misery and chains,
having defied the words of God
and spurned the counsels of the Most High.
He crushed their spirit with toil;
they stumbled; there was no one to help.

Then they cried to the Lord in their need
and he rescued them from their distress.
He led them forth from darkness and gloom
and broke their chains to pieces.

Let them thank the Lord for his goodness,
for the wonders he does for men:
for he bursts the gates of bronze
and shatters the iron bars
                   II
Some were sick on account of their sins
and afflicted on account of their guilt.
They had a loathing for every food;
they came close to the gates of death.

Then they cried to the Lord in their need
and he rescued them from their distress.
He sent forth his word to heal them
and saved their life from the grave.

Let them thank the Lord for his love,
for the wonders he does for men.
Let them offer a sacrifice of thanks
and tell of his deeds with rejoicing.

Some sailed to the sea in ships
to trade on the mighty waters.
These men have seen the Lord's deeds,
the wonders he does in the deep.

For he spoke; he summoned the gale,
raising up the waves of the sea.
Tossed up to heaven, then into the deep;
their soul melted away in their distress.

He stilled the storm to a whisper:
all the waves of the sea were hushed.
They rejoiced because of the calm
and he led them to the haven they desired.

Let them thank the Lord for his love,
the wonders he does for men.
Let them exalt him in the gathering of the people
and praise him in the meeting of the elders.
                    III
He changes streams into a desert,
springs of water into thirsty ground,
fruitful land into a salty waste,
for the wickedness of those who live there.

But he changes deserts into streams,
thirsty ground into springs of water.
There he settles the hungry
and they build a city to dwell in.

They sow fields and plant their vines;
these yield crops for the harvest.
He blesses them, they grow in numbers.
He does not let their herds decrease.

He pours contempt on princes,
makes them wander in trackless wastes.
They diminish, are reduced to nothing
by oppression, evil and sorrow.

But he raises the needy from distress;
makes families numerous as a flock
The upright see it and rejoice
but all who do wrong are silenced.

Whoever is wise, let him heed these things
and consider the love of the Lord.
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If you have read my previous blogs, "Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus", you might recall me telling you of how, when walking Amber at the crack of dawn, I met a man coming in the opposite direction. The dog, as I told you, was not much bigger than a cat, and as it was desperately trying to get at Amber, the good man was telling it to "behave." Well we met agins this morning, with the little dog barking madly, and the good man still trying to impress upon it, the meaning of "behave." Well as we passed, (with more than the width of a broom handle between us), the gentleman looked across and said, "he thinks he's a rottweiler!"
__________

   ©   Cormac E. McCloskey

Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus 4

      When I last counted, which was yesterday, we had 21 and one half toilet rolls; not because we are hoarders or selfish, but because when purchased as part of our normal shopping, they come in bumper packs. So what are we to make of a nation, obsessed with toilet-paper, when, in the context of COVID-19, it is not a must have item?
      Well,  yesterday, over a plate of beef-stroganoff, I explained to Jenny, that should stocks not last, I have a plan,  though I did not say, nor was I encouraged to say, what it was. So I suppose you could say that the theme for today is - coping; but before we get to that, let me tell you that we have more than enough high quality kitchen-towel, (that on account of it's plastic content) you can't flush down the toilet; but there is enough of it, for Greta to make a sail for any boat that she might care to travel on. That said, on the subject of coping, let us begin at the beginning, with Amber.
      The experts tell us that routine is vital to a dog's well being, and while Amber is enthusiastic about the new regime: getting up and out at the crack of dawn, there are clear signs that her internal clock is struggling to catch up, hardly a surprise, when for a long time now, she has had her day nicely parcelled out, knowing when it is in her own best interests, to be in Jenny's line of sight, rather than in mine. But at the moment, by ten o'clock or thereabouts, she is there at my feet, curled up, patient, watching, and waiting for something to happen, forgetting of course, that she has already had her walk.  As for her capacity for planning for the future, here is how it worked under the old regime.
      I'm sitting on the sette reading, or maybe having a snooze, when she come in, jumps up, does an about turn, and settles down with her rump pressed so tightly into me, that there is no credible way in which I could claim, not to have noticed that she was there. It's 2:30. By four o'clock, or thereabouts, she is up on her front legs  looking out at the passing traffic, then back at me, and yet again, back out the window. Now on all fours, and not getting a response from me, she becomes agitated, does a little shuffle, gives a little plaintive cry, and asks with incredulity, "What the hell is going on?" At that,  my powers of resistance crumble. "Are you ready for you walk?" I ask, slowly getting up, and sure enough, before I can get my self orientated, her back legs are disappearing over the arm of the settee; a ritual, that under this new regime, is no longer played out, for the walk has been rescheduled for eight o'clock, when it is dark, and sometimes wet, and cold, but when it is safe to assume that those who had gone out to work earlier in the day, are back home.
      Now a few days ago I couldn't help laughing at Jenny on the phone, she was clearly getting frustrated, and I knew why. In rapid succession it was,  "No! No!! No!!! but, as is always the sase, the automated telephone answering service, was hard of hearing.  As for how she will cope with "lock down", only time will tell, for a rich social life has been brought to a halt. She is one in a group of friends who are never averse to going for a coffee, or better sill, out for a meal,  or getting together for a DVD evening, or meeting to talk about books they have read, or what they have gleaned in their research for the History Miscellany group. And there are whole day, and half day outings, on top of which she plays Bridge, three times a week. Well, these good ladies are all IT literate, and messages are going back and forth, but as far as I know, they haven't yet set up a global network that will allow them to do what they most enjoy, - talking!
      And then there are those things that thee pair of us enjoy doing together, and that sometimes also involve her friends: trips to the theatre, orchestral concerts, and virtuoso performance: a piano recital, that leaves you feeling  privileged to have been there. But strange as it might seem, we have a shared interest that no one else in this very diverse group of friends are interested in: the performances given by Norwich Baroque.  Roughly speaking, (for nothing in an historical sense is ever that precise), the music belongs to the period 1650-1740, and among the great exponents of the craft are: Bach, Handel, Telemann, Buxtehude, Boyce and Vivaldi. It is a particular sound, played on period instruments, and more often than not the music is vibrant, competitive, stylish and conversational. And the performances come with programmes beautifully illustrated, and rich in detail.  I have two of them to hand, "Italy before Corelli,", and here's a snippet of what they had to say:

"We are starting 2018 with an exploration of Italy in the 1600s - a little further back in time than usual. You will have become familiar with the names of Vivaldi, Corelli, Geminiani, and the like appearing in our programmes, the big hitters of the Baroque period who had huge influence on their contemporaries and on those who followed. But what was happening in Italy BEFORE Corelli?"

And the other? "Baroque Banquets", an idea that speaks for itself, which I have marked with stars, as perhaps the best Baroque performance that we have been to.
      And what about me, in all this upheaval. Well, you don't need to worry. Being a man, and solitary, (as compared to women), I only go out on my own, once a month, to talk to like-minded people about poetry, and that apart, I have enough personal projects here at home to be going on with, and that will take me well beyond this bout of coronavirus. So let me tell you very briefly about two of them, or should it be three?
      Having printed out almost all of my blogs I have begun to set out the best of them to be published, sometime in the future, in book form, to say nothing of a mound of personal notes and research material, printed out, and still in the cloud, related to people and events that have helped to shape who I am, and for better or worse, almost certainly,  you as well, material that I hope to craft into a book-length poem. But more immediately, I am working to prepare a blog, or series of blogs, on The Timelessness, or, Timeless Nature of Truth,  and to that end, I am ensconced in the writings of two of the great mystics: Catherine of Siena, and in particular her, "Dialogue", (a conversation with God), as well as the writings of Saint Faustina: a Polish nun, and chosen soul, whose task it was, and is, to present to the world, (while there is still time), devotion to the Divine Mercy.
      Whatever the topic, (sacred or secular), you can't beat a good intellectual challenge, but what it all comes down to in the end, as God told Faustina, and through her, us, is that grace comes to us through our neighbour; there is no other route, not even by way of prayer, fasting, or flagellation. If we don't have a love for our neighbour that mirrors His love for us, a love that is sincere: self-giving  and relevant, when the time comes, nothing else, of itself, will count.

THE END
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    ©  Cormac E. McCloskey

Catherine of Siena 1347-1380
   Dialogue of St. Catherine of Siena
   Aziloth Books 2012

   Saint Maria Faustina Kowalska 1905-1938
      DIARY: Divine Mercy in My Soul
      Marian Press 2019

Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus 3

      Yesterday I was mulling over possible themes for today's blog: anatomy, (the skeleton and other things), holidays, (Turkey), and memories, (salient moments from the past), all of which, one way or another could be linked to the present crisis; and then as life would have it, "events dear boy" kicked in; and chief among them was the news that our irrepressible friend Tony, has been diagnosed with lung cancer. He is a man who likes a "flutter" (a daily bet on the horses,) so his first priority, after an early morning cup of tea, is to scour the sporting pages fore races, runners and riders. It is a disciplined way of life, that as far as I know, has never got him in to trouble, and with the betting shop just around the corner, he can be present by his absence.  As for the future, little is known until they see the oncologist in a week or so. But yesterday, Margaret told us, that he was sitting up in bed with a cooked breakfast, and the Racing Post.
      Now thinking about Tony it seemed that a good theme for today would be - the reality check - and sure enough it can be linked in, with ease, to the theme of
"Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus", because for those of us in "lockdown," a term I loathe, perspective is everything.
      Well today at the crack of dawn, I didn't see yesterday's dog walker, the man with the dog not much bigger than a cat, who was anxiously steering it away from Amber, and telling it to "behave." But what I did see in the maze of quiet residential streets, were luminous satchels passing at speed: girls, and boys, whose job it was to push the morning paper through the letterbox. And the bins were out for the refuse collectors. In the "old days" we used to call them "bin men," and such was the disgusting state of the bins, that the "operatives" must have been immune to every disease known to man. As for the return leg of the journey, our walk takes us along a busy artery along which was a steady flow of traffic. And yes, (for those of you who read blog 2), the manager of the funeral home was in and at her desk. And there is work going on nearer home, in the garden of a man I know to talk to. I once had a chat with him about his battery powered lawnmower, and then went out and bought one; and I recall him telling me, that before she died, his wife had asked him to be sure and take care of the garden. But age must be taking its toll, because while keeping his borders and central shrubs in place, new classy brick surrounds have been put down, ready for the laying of artificial grass.
       Now we were not long back from our walk, when Jenny came to tell me that the Covid19 droplets can stay in the atmosphere for up to three hours, the point being, that in my early morning walk someone, (unseen), might have passed by and I, unwittingly, have picked up the virus. In reply, and sensing the anxiety in her voice, I suggested that we had to be careful not to become over anxious, and that this early morning routine for walking Amber, was the best we could do; and in response, she readily accepted that not walking Amber, was just not an option. And so, in that moment of anxiety, I didn't tell her of the woman who came past as we were walking through an alleyway; she was bright and cheerful, but oblivious to the fact that she should have stayed back until we had reached the top of the alley. Fortunately, I had my back to her as she passed, and further up the alleyway, she coughed.
      As the song says, "what will be will be" and as a consequence of being advised to stay at home, and Jenny having a compromised immune system, we will not be travelling to Yorkshire for her mother's funeral. Slowly, but surely, friends, who would have attended, have dropped out,  and now it is our turn to be there in spirit via a video link.
      Now such is the state of affairs that we have canceled and reclaimed the fee that we paid for accommodation to airbnb, and the taxi, that in April would have taken us to the airport for a holiday flight to Turkey, and I couldn't help but be mindful, that our cancellations were but a mirror image of what is going on on a grand scale. And the good news, for there is some, Saga are refunding the full cost of the holiday.
      Now as it would be remiss of me to leave you feeling depressed, so here are a few exciting themes, left over from today, that I might write about tomorrow, or whenever: Why I wear boots to Church on Sundays, whatever the weather. How it has come to pass that the colour of my eyes no longer match, to say nothing of  which bits and pieces in the body, are surplus to requirements, and how it has come about  that I am especially intrigued by this passage from the Canticle of Zechariah :

"In the tender compassion of our God
the dawn from on high shall break upon us,
to shine on those who dwell in darkness, and in the
   shadow of death,
and to guide our feet into the way of peace."

And lest I forget, why I have committed to cleaning the house - every second Thursday.
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   ©   Cormac E. McCloskey