John’s UK Coronavirus Diary – No 15 – I suddenly get taken into a local hospital

… CONTINUED FROM DIARY No 14

The COVID-19 self-administered swab test pack arrived…

SUNDAY 17th MAY

The COVID-19 home test kit with explicit 12-page instructions arrived: I had to do the test around 0700 tomorrow; a courier would collect it between 0800-1600 tomorrow and I would get the result within 72 hours.

Later I had a FaceTime chat with Ariane Sherine’s 9-year-old daughter whose first question was: “Why are you talking so slowly?” I had not known I was.

The UK’s daily increase in coronavirus deaths has dropped to 170 – the lowest since the day after lockdown began.

The announcement comes a week after the first easing of restrictions in England – and, although the numbers are typically lower on Sundays, the figure is almost 100 fewer than the 268 reported a week ago.

The overall UK death toll remains the highest in Europe.

Sticking a swab into your own mouth – Easier said than done

MONDAY 18th MAY

I took the COVID-19 swab test at 0700.

I could stick the swab up both nostrils no problem. Trying to get the swab into my mouth and rubbing it over both tonsils and the back of my throat for 10 seconds was another matter. I couldn’t see the two tonsils nor the wiggly thing – whatever it’s called – at the back of the throat at all, even using a mirror or an iPhone in one hand and the swab in the other. I tried my best and hoped I got it but was gagging/almost puking up so badly I gave up after about 20 or 25 seconds. 

I then waited for the courier to arrive sometime 0800-1600. 

I slept under a duvet on the living room floor, near the door, in case I slept through the courier (They had my mobile phone number anyway.)

Still very tired.

Around 1100, the UK government added loss of smell and taste to the coronavirus symptoms; I’ve never had a problem there, but it always seemed glaringly obvious these were possible symptoms. 

At 1143, the test, duly packaged-up and boxed by me, was collected by a terrified-eyed young man wearing a baseball cap and gloves. He used the gloves to hold out a plastic bag at arm’s length into which I dropped the box containing the test. The tube containing the swab sample was now, together with a soft tissue, inside a plastic bag inside another plastic bag inside the box – and now inside another plastic bag…

In the afternoon, Health Secretary Matt Hancock announced that everyone aged five and over in the UK with symptoms could now (in theory) be tested for coronavirus.

Captain Sir Thomas Moore – a tribute to the power of walking

TUESDAY 19th MAY

Just before fully waking in bed in the morning, I was slightly gasping for air in gulps into my lungs. But only very minor.

The test result came back negative.

Captain Tom Moore is to be knighted for his fundraising efforts after a special nomination from the prime minister. The war veteran raised more than £32 million for NHS charities by completing 100 laps of his daughter’s back patio before his 100th birthday in April. Boris Johnson said the centenarian had provided the country with “a beacon of light through the fog of coronavirus.” Now, under Ministry of Defence protocol, though promoted to honorary colonel, his official title will be Captain Sir Thomas Moore.

The knighthood, which has been approved by the Queen, will be formally announced tomorrow.

WEDNESDAY 20th MAY

The email with the negative test result suggested that, in any case, I should phone either NHS 111 or my GP.

I expected them to ignore me as bureaucratic generality kicks in and I have little trust in GPs – General Practitioners – The clue is in the word General – they know a little about a lot not a lot about a little – let alone non-GPs at NHS 111. At least the GP surgery has my records.

To say the unsayable, I have a very low opinion of basic NHS bureaucracy. Only the hospital and specialist levels work. At the GP/general advice level, it’s one-size-fits-all bureaucracy. 

Obviously, in the hospital Intensive Care Units, it is (one hopes) the creme de la creme of expertise. Mostly.

My GP’s phone was working, which was a surprise as there was a “This phone number is no longer available” message on it last night.

I phoned my GP’s surgery and they told me to phone 111 because I had had the negative result to the COVID test so it was, they said, “not our responsibility”.

I tried NHS 111 online to avoid jamming the system and because I thought it would be quicker. That was a long endless mess because their tick-a-box screens could only deal with single symptoms not multiple symptoms. 

I then phoned the NHS 111 number and, after going through about 6 or so keypad multiple choices, was connected, actually, reasonably quickly.

The phone woman got all the symptoms and dates and then briefly consulted a doctor. They, like I, thought my symptoms – though not coronavirus – were something that I should follow up. They told me to re-contact my surgery and tell them NHS 111 had told me to ask for my GP to contact me within two hours – I think just before any symptoms changed, not cos it was in any way dangerous.

I phoned the surgery at 1246 and, after going through two receptionist people and telling them I had been told by NHS 111 to ask for a doctor to talk to me within 2 hours, got an appointment. I was told he would phone me from his home “within a few hours”. I expected this would be maybe 1700 or 1800 tonight or tomorrow morning.

He phoned back at 1501.

He was/is not really a listener. He was talking on speakerphone in an echoey room in his house so was barely audible. 

He said I might have had a mini-stroke. I didn’t believe this as I didn’t really have stroke symptoms except Ariane’s 9-year-old  saying once: “Why are you speaking so slow?” (Maybe I had just woken up and was sleepy.)

The GP arranged an ambulance to the A&E Dept of a local hospital.

I packed my iPhone and iPad and toothbrush/toothpaste, even though it would just be a check-up.

I was tested in the ambulance. Nothing showed up except some very mild anaemia; but nothing to worry about. They looked at my inner eyelids: fine. They didn’t think I needed to go to hospital. (Neither did I.) They phoned the GP. He insisted. The ambulance lady said my GP was “very rude”. 

I said, “Well, yes, he is always very abrupt.”

“I think just rude,” she said.

I could not really disagree.

The ambulance duo said I would probably sit waiting in A&E  for 4-6 hours, have brief tests, then be sent home.

I had some preliminary tests at the hospital and very quickly (after maybe 5 mins) a long talk with a doctor. He didn’t think I had any truly serious symptoms – certainly not a mini-stroke (zero symptoms). And I am a mildly anaemic, but nothing serious.

Then another wait.

I sat in the waiting area.

A girl in her teens or twenties was brought in to wait with two carers, I think both nurses. She looked like she was on an acid trip or something similar. She changed between staring into the middle distance or staring up very inquisitively at the ceiling or suddenly being startled by something; sometimes moving her two forefingers slowly together and watching them intently, then jiggling like a seated disco dancer, then staring blankly into the mid-distance – all without saying anything.

I had a chest x-ray.

Then another wait and I was elsewhere, having some blood taken out of my hand and some fluid put into my arm. The presumed acid girl was brought in next to me, a curtain dividing us. She was having a blood test.

I gave a urine sample. Awaited another test. Basically, everything was AOK. They were going to repeat the fluid in the arm thing and check it was the same as the last test.

I sat in the waiting area, ready to go home while they repeated the blood test results.

The doctor came back to say I had to have an x-ray. I had slight light kidney damage.

I felt fine. Over the next 45 minutes I had liquid dripped into my arm – 99% water, I think, then another doctor saw me.

They thought the sudden kidney problem was to do with dehydration. 

When I had an X-ray of my back last October (looking at some lower spinal damage I got in 1991 when I was hit by a truck while standing on the pavement) I had a kidney function of 62, which is OK for a man of my age. Now I had a kidney function of 19. So they were confused why I suddenly had kidney damage. They decided dehydration.

They took a bladder scan and decided to keep me in at least overnight for observation.

More blood tests tomorrow. 

No big problem though.

Tomorrow would be a day of tests.

I had maybe 7 or 8 tests and repeat tests end-to-end. Then maybe 5 or 6 more tests and needles and fluids and probing and finally another COVID swab test before they took me up to the ward with another urine test on the way.

Then another COVID swab test before going into the ward and a one-off chat and probe and questioning by the young evening consultant and some younger assistant I guess being trained. The main guy described himself as “a grunt dragged in for the night” and my real personal consultant would start tomorrow. Nice bloke as they all are.

I felt miles more awake since I had been in the hospital. Maybe a result of just being out and about.

They basically didn’t understand why my kidney function was down from 62 to 19. I might be in for more than a day – some possible tests might take longer to come back. They also found my calcium level was suddenly high. I think they said it should be around 2.6 and was 3.3. Might have misremembered by a digit but somewhere in there. Pretty sure that’s right.

Everyone was basically saying I didn’t have any symptoms of anything specific and that night’s consultant said they would never normally have me in on the results but now they had found these inexplicable kidney and calcium weirdnesses…

They put me on another 45-minute drip and would continue dripping liquid (saline solution?) into me through the night.

The COVID test in the ward was a swab test up each nostril and down both sides of the groin(???)

My friend Lynn told me (text messaging is a wonderful thing) that the groin swab was probably the usual one for MRSA. Lynn is the executrix of my will, my designated next-of-kin and has Medical Power of Attorney over me, if I become incapacitated. So it is always best to let her know if I go into a hospital or visit North Korea.

… TO BE CONTINUED …

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John’s UK Coronavirus Diary – No 14 – hopeless eyes in the Tuol Sleng photos

… CONTINUED FROM DIARY No 13

WEDNESDAY 13th MAY

Performer and academic Giacinto Palmieri found this online:

When I woke up or maybe when I was half-awake/semi-conscious overnight – it’s difficult to tell the difference at the moment – I had a slight but definite sore throat and sickly feeling at the bottom of my throat. The slight soreness moved down into my chest. And then into my stomach – but that was maybe connected to constipation. Perhaps too much information there. It lasted maybe an hour or 90 minutes.

I did not take paracetamol. I have always been overly-affected by a line in the movie Rosemary’s Baby when Rosemary – pregnant with the Devil’s child – is told by a friend: “Pain is a sign that something is wrong, Rosemary.”

If my body is telling my brain there is a problem somewhere, I want to know exactly where and exactly how strong that pain is, though it is unlikely I will ever be impregnated by Satan.

I reported my very slight symptoms one day earlier this week to the COVID-19 Sympton Tracer app run by King’s College London, Guy’s & St Thames’ Hospitals and others. They are sending me a home test kit. With a car I could have gone to a test centre. I was surprised they are sending me a test because my possible symptoms are very mild. Maybe they responded because, although I am not in a vital group 0r over 70, I am knocking-on a bit and count as a tad old.

I slept almost all of the day.

I went out to buy food at Aldis – a total of 16 minutes.

I was OK but, carrying two heavy bags back, I was slightly wobbly on my feet.

In the last 24 hours, coronavirus-related deaths in the UK have risen by 627, bringing the total to 32,692.

THURSDAY 14th MAY

Very tired. I just wanted to sleep in bed all day and had a totally dry mouth when there.

Romanian entertainer Dragos Mostenescu, on the other hand, was just going mad with boredom, his musical children and active animals in self-isolation…

In the evening, I had a FaceTime chat with the singular Kunt and the Gang. Always a cleansing of the mind.

FRIDAY 15th MAY

I slept most of the day and had a totally bone dry mouth when in bed. Needed to drink and wee a lot. A strange and possibly not pleasant to envisage combination.

I got a call mid-afternoon when I was stone cold fast asleep. There then followed a 14-minute monologue with me occasionally mumbling a “Yes” and a “Mmm…” of encouragement.

The next time I woke up, several hours later, for totally inexplicable reasons, I was thinking vividly about Bergen Belsen, The Killing Fields and  Rutger Hauer’s final death speech in Bladerunner.

When I was about 10 or 11, I saw on television the film taken of the liberation of Belsen which, I hope, is the worst thing I will ever see in my life.

As the camera moved along a path there was, on the right, a large pile of skeletons… Just the bones… And then one of the skeletons slowly got up and staggered to its feet; a skeleton with almost nothing between its bones, somehow still alive. The camera kept moving and the shuffling, staggering skeleton went out of view as the camera progressed to other horrors.

The killing fields at Choeung Ek – not as horrific as the hopeless eyes in the photographs at S21’s Tuol Sleng

When I went to The Killing Fields years later, outside Phnom Penh, in 1989, they were not as horrific. What was horrific in Phnom Penh itself was going to the S21 Interrogation Centre at Tuol Sleng. Before the Khmer Rouge arrived in 1975, the building had been the Girls’ High School.

The entrance room had a map of Kampuchea made of human skulls. But what was really horrifying was that (I think) three walls of one room were totally covered from ceiling to floor with B&W passport-type headshots of people who had been interrogated… and they all had that same empty look in their blankly-staring eyes. They all knew they would soon be taken on trucks to the killing fields outside Phnom Penh and there they would be slaughtered, one-by-one, with hits on the back of the skull by farming implements – a spade, a fork, whatever.

After thinking of Belsen and Rutger Hauer’s final death speech and the faces at Tuol Sleng and a bit of crying, I went back to sleep.

I woke up to read a Tweet posted by Ariane Sherine. She had given her 9-year-old daughter a fairly complicated maths question. Ariane wrote:

After a moment of confusion, she’s done it and done it correctly, though while concurrently yelling ‘I HATE MATHS!’ 🤣

I commented: I’m with the kid! 

It had just struck me that maths is a dull chore to Ariane’s daughter (and to me) because the correct result is always correct and always pre-exists. It is a chore finding the route to a pre-existent end… With writing or drawing (both of which the daughter is very, very good at), her newly-9-year-old creative imagination creates a unique end result. She is creating her own unique result.

Then I had an iMessage with my friend in Central London whose friend is in an Intensive Care Unit with serious coronavirus:


SHE: I haven’t tasted anything for 7 weeks. Yes still. No taste.

ME: I am forcing myself to get up. I have to wash clothes, bedclothes, bathe myself, shave… but all I really want to do is sleep,

The COVID-19 Symptom Study app

Do you report daily to the COVID-19 app?

The COVID-19 app bloke from Kings College was on BBC News earlier saying they had figured out 14 symptoms (not just the government’s) 3 and that included the taste/smell from their 3million+ app users

SHE: I doubt I still have active virus, John. I lost my smell and had 2 weeks of fever mid-March. My friend tested positive on April 3 when he went into hospital. But is now negative. So I would be too. I’m still shit scared of getting it again though – There’s no guarantee one can’t.

The test they are sending you for whether you have the virus doesn’t identify antibodies. Antibodies are not made fully until 28 days after infection. Roche has developed an antibody test which has been in the news the last few days and will be rolled out in the UK. But it is not the same as the test you will be sent to ascertain whether you have the active virus.

ME: When I donated blood the other week, they specifically said they tested for antibodies but not the virus itself. The blood I donated has been used but no feedback on antibodies.


In the last 24 hours, an extra 384 coronavirus-related deaths in the UK. Total now 33,998 death.

SATURDAY 16th MAY

Exhausted… dry mouth

UK deaths up 468 in last 24 hours; now 34,466.

I went to sleep around 1930 last night and woke up round 2130. When I stood up, my sense of balance was all-over-the-place.

I lay down for about 20 minutes. When I stood up again, I was fine.

No idea why. It was like watching myself in an abstract way, from a distance.

Apparently, the average heart rate is between 60-100 bpm but, according to my Apple Watch, I am normally (in resting mode) around the 51/53/53 region.

Today I am around 47 bpm. 

No idea why.

… CONTINUED HERE

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John’s UK Coronavirus Diary – No 13 – I feel dizzy and there is a comedy death

… CONTINUED FROM DIARY No 12

(Photograph by Engin Akyurt via UnSplash)

SUNDAY 10th MAY

A message from my friend in Central London, whose friend has been in a hospital’s Intensive Care Unit with severe coronavirus since 4th April:


He is now awake and nodding/shaking his head to questions. He’s comfortable. 

Doctors this morning decided that taking him off the ventilator for long periods tires him out too much – I was wondering about this too  – because, when he’s had some hours off it, it seems the next day he’s so exhausted he just sleeps. So they’ve set a regime of twice a day (morning and afternoon) for shorter periods, with just supplemental oxygen mask. His oxygen requirement a the moment is down to 35%. 

This new regime could mean that finding time for a video call from me is difficult because there’s more to sort out with him during course of the day. So I sent our love and hugs and they will pass it on. The nurse said they tell him whenever I call, which I didn’t realise, so that’s lovely to know. 

Further encouraging news is that he’s still off the kidney machine, and managing, even without diuretic medication. They’re keeping a close eye, but even if he has to go back on the machine for a bit, it’s surely a sign that his kidneys are starting to function?


MONDAY 11th MAY

My friend Lynn’s husband Frank points out to me that, last night, the Prime Minister said in his  TV address that, if possible, we should travel to places of exercise not by public transport, but “use the car”.

Not A car but THE car.

Where is this car kept? And do we need to fill in a form to get access to it? Or will Rishi, the Chancellor of the Exchequer – in a further display of generosity – buy us all a car to stimulate the economy?

Frank rightly thinks we should be told.

Frank and Lynn are taking ro risks, even at home…

…Frank and Lynn in coronavirus face masks, possibly auditioning for a future series of Narcos


My friend in Central London updated me on her friend:


I have just had my daily chat with the ICU nurse, Angela, who is looking after him. Luckily the ICU is becoming quieter as we are past the peak. 

At the end of the call, she said: “We’re telling families please don’t listen to Boris Johnson. Please stay at home and tell all your friends to stay home… R below One doesn’t mean no new cases! We on the front line don’t want to go back to where we were a month ago. Our patients are here for between 2 weeks and 3 months to date – Those that make it. We can’t risk a second spike. Please don’t listen to Boris.”


Poor old Boris! I think he was saying all that in his most recent TV speech. I thought he did OK. He’s damned if he loosens lockdown too fast. He’s damned if he loosens lockdown too slow.

He was basically saying what she says. I understand his speech meant that even when we have a useable vaccine (which could be July next year) with an R of 0.01, there will still be infections and some deaths. 

Russia, the BBC reported, now has the third-highest number of confirmed cases in the world, overtaking the UK and Italy.  (I understood the US was up there) If  Russia is admitting this, the statistics must be way way higher.

A couple of weeks ago there was a report of 9-mile queues of ambulances waiting to get into hospitals in (I think it was) St Petersburg. There was footage from a camera in a car of a seemingly endless queue of static  ambulances on the other side of the road.

Of course, deaths per population is the important statistic. The UK government is only regularly releasing total numbers, not deaths as a percentage relation to head of population.  

On one day, they did. On the first graph for total deaths, the US was way way ahead of the quoted European countries (who have lower populations).  On the next per head of population graph, the US was middling but, way WAY ahead of everyone else was Belgium! As deaths per head of population, they were spectacularly ahead.

There really are lies, damned lies and statistics.

The government has now decided to “advise” but not tell us to wear facemasks if in shops where social distance cannot be ensured.

My Eternally un-Named Friend came round unexpectedly to my home circa 1730 to deliver a facemask to me. I had suggested she posted it. Very kind indeed. I had not been out for a couple of days – too sleepy and so on.

We had a walk around Borehamwood six feet apart. During the walk, she pointed out I was leaning forward slightly, staggering forward. She was right. I had not noticed I was leaning forward while walking. In fact, I was leaning forward, almost toppling over sometimes in the street. feeling slightly swirly-headed/lightheaded/dizzy. 

I have been sitting a lot on my sink-in-the-seat sofa. which is never good. My spine – injured when I got hit by a truck in 1991 while I was standing on a pavement – has never fully recovered.

My Eternally un-Named Friend thinks (and might be right) that I am also not eating properly, because I am trying to diet. She had to steady me with her hand three times

After she left and I was back home, sitting down on the sofa, I was OK.

I will probably sleep on the floor tonight. Nothing worrisome, just a glitch.

TUESDAY 12th MAY

I have only just got up, just before noon. I suspect I will be erasing emails for hours. I didn’t erase any yesterday; only read ones from real people I know; didn’t trash any from the acres of email lists I am on.

Shortly after going to bed (the floor) last night, I was very snotty – loads of globs of snot which I had to blow out of my nose. And bits of phlegm in my mouth.

A couple of hours later, I woke up with a sharp pain in my lower throat and had to take a Tyrozet to sooth it. Pain went down into my chest, then stomach; presumably making its way down a tube.

My throat was OK this morning, though. Slightly snotty and coughy still. And a tiny bit uncertain on my feet. My balance not 100% right.

At around 1000, performer Martin Soan woke me up with the news that Dave ‘Bagpiper’ Brooks had died, aged 72. I collected some info on him, then was so tired I had to go back to sleep.

Mid afternoon, around 1515 – I woke up to write a blog about Dave Brooks’ death. I had a sharp pinprick headache in my right temple. If I touched it, the pinprick pain was worse. And it also sometimes went round the back of my neck. It lasted about 2 hours.

… CONTINUED HERE

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Dave Brooks, RIP – astonishing original

Dave Brooks with his sons and daughter (Charlie on right)

I was asleep today – about 11 in the morning-  when Martin Soan phoned to tell me Dave ‘Bagpipes’ Brooks – an early member of The Greatest Show on Legs – had died, aged 72. Dave’s son Charlie Brooks had announced on Facebook that his father died at the end of last week.

Charlie wrote: “He passed away end of last week. They broke the mould when they made him. Here’s to all of you who played music with him, loved him, got exasperated with him(!) and had fun with him over the years. With the coronavirus situation, we don’t know what will happen with the funeral at the moment.” 

(Charlie lives in Oregon; Dave lived in the UK.)

“At some point, there will be a moment to remember Dave and it will involve music and a few drinks.

Dave playing at Charlie’s wedding (bride & groom on left)

“Charismatic and occasionally cantankerous, but always quick with a joke and someone who definitely lived by his own rules, for better or worse. He was also a brilliant musician, starting as a jazz sax player in the 1960s, then becoming a piper.

“Going to miss you, Dave… everyone is unique, but they truly broke the mould when they made you. They say you can’t choose your family, but if I could, I’d choose you again. So sad I didn’t get to say goodbye. Love you.”

Martin Soan remembers: “Dave joined The Greatest Show on Legs very early on…

“I don’t know what year or indeed how we came to meet him in the first place, but he was a valued member and was a very funny man indeed.

“Going on tour with ‘The Legs’ wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea: it was a hand-to-mouth existence and a lot of anarchy to put up with, but he fitted in without any trouble and sometimes led the way in outrageousness. 

(L-R) Malcolm Hardee, Martin Soan, Jools Holland, ‘Digger Dave’, Dave Brooks (Photograph supplied by Martin Soan)

“I performed with him a few times in later years and we both slotted in where we left off. It was simply natural to perform and hang out with him.

“His temperament was sunny and always even but also he was very educational (important when spending long hours in a van), He introduced Malcolm Hardee and me to garlic, which Malcolm hated… He knew what was happening politically and, of course, musically expanded our minds… Above all, I will always remember his wicked sense of humour and infectious laugh.

“He excelled on stage and personally made sketches of ours complete and perfect and, after he went his own way, we had to drop the routines he had made his own. The Human Scottish Sword Dance and Dirty Ol Men were his sketches .”

In 1981, Dave performed The Human Scottish Sword Dance with The Legs on ITV’s ratings-topper Game For a Laugh

I myself met him, I think, only twice, maybe three times: clearly my loss. As well as having an original sense of humour, he had wide talents. 

He was wonderful on the Highland bagpipes (and saxophone) playing Irish Traditional and Scottish Traditional music and jazz with many other artists including Joan Armatrading, Graham Bond, Elkie Brooks, Phil Collins, George Harrison, Dick Hecksall-Smith, Manfred Mann, Count Dracula and The Barber of Seville. Probably also Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

He played weddings with Sikh dhal drummers

He had an 18-month run in London’s West End as a piper in the stage production of Brigadoon (where he had his bagpipes sent to sleep for 100 years) as well as appearing in the BBC TV production of People Like Us and in the movie Loch Ness.

He also performed and played bagpipes on the alternative comedy scene with Arnold Brown, The Greatest Show on Legs, John Hegley, Marcel Steiner (Smallest Theatre in the World) as well as Keith Allen (whose record company, Dave said, still owed him £60!).

In the US, he was a founder member of infamous band The Don Wannabes.

Back in the UK, he played various Scots and Irish piping at weddings, funerals and divorces and had his own Irish ceilidh band Sham-Rock, sometimes appearing playing the bagpipes with them as the Green Man, dressed in a suit of leaves. He claimed he was thinking of branching out. He is on whistle in this video…

For Asian weddings, he appeared playing bagpipes with Drummers Delight – two Sikh dhal drummers.

On 29th July 1996, the Corporation of London prosecuted him at Hampstead Magistrates’ Court under an 1890 by-law for “playing a musical instrument (his bagpipes) on Hampstead Heath on three separate counts. This was despite the fact that Dave had been playing his pipes on the Heath for an hour every morning for 15 years without any complaint from anyone.

As part of Dave’s defence, solicitor George Fairburn cited the legal precedent of Jimmy Reid, Highland Bagpiper, who, on October 2nd, 1746 – after the Battle of Culloden – was charged with playing an instrument of war and insurrection. Jimmy stated that his Highland pipes were a musical instrument not an instrument of war (which sounds reasonable). But the Lord Chief Justice of England overruled the original jury’s not-guilty verdict and dismissed their later plea for mercy by declaring that the bagpipes were indeed an instrument of insurrection. On the strength of this, Jimmy Reid was hanged, drawn and quartered.

After the Battle of Culloden, they were “an instrument of war””

Dave Brooks said that if his Highland bagpipes were an instrument of war – as stated by the court in 1746 – then now, in 1996, his Highland bagpipes remained an instrument of war and insurrection and could not possibly be a musical instrument as charged. 

The 1996 judge – Stipendiary Magistrate Michael Johnstone – said that the case of James Reid and his Highland bagpipes was a gross miscarriage of justice – a point not picked up by the press at the time – and then bizarrely threatened to have Dave Brooks and his Highland Bagpipes charged with bearing arms on Hampstead Heath. He said that, if this interpretation was accurate, Mr Brooks could be charged with carrying a dangerous weapon on the Heath and the penalty could be a prison sentence rather than a fine. He asked the bailiff of the court if he was ready to take Mr Brooks, Highland bagpiper, to the cells below the court never more for his bagpipes to be heard,.

Dave was found guilty on three counts of playing a musical instrument and fined £15 on each count plus £50 costs. 

In his summing-up, the magistrate said: “In time of war the bagpipes are an instrument of war and in peace they are a musical instrument”. He dismissed a petition of 2,500 signatures collected around Hampstead by people who liked the Highland pipes. 

Dave with his Scottish military weapon

The Corporation of London as a token gesture gave consent for Mr Brooks to play his bagpipes for one hour, three mornings a week on the bandstand at Parliament Hill Fields. He was also given permission by the management of Alexandra Palace to play his bagpipes in Alexandra Park anytime, which he then did regularly in return for playing his bagpipes at various charity functions for them.

Stipendiary Magistrate Michael Johnstone, in delivering his judgment, conceded that many might not consider the bagpipes to be a musical instrument, although he said he was not saying it was one.

When Dave’s case first came to prominence and he became a cause célèbre in piping circles, the College of Piping in Glasgow offered some words of comfort: “Well, if they hing you, dinnae you worry. We’ll compose a fine lament to your memory!’’

Tracks on subsequent albums released by Dave included the evocative Birds Eat Turds, a flute and pipe combination of Irish and Mauritanian songs like A Chailleach do mharrias me/Arts Plume and the classic Did They Come From Outer Space? No. They Came From Hendon Central.

RIP an original.


Here is Dave Bagpipes Brooks playing Auld Lang Syne…

…and playing solo bagpipes with an Indian theme…

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John’s UK Coronavirus Diary – No 12 – A Rollercoaster ride in Intensive Care

… CONTINUED FROM DIARY No 10

(Photograph by Amin Moshrefi via UnSplash)

SUNDAY 3rd MAY

In the last few blogs, I have been posting messages from my friend in Central London whose friend has been seriously ill with coronavirus in a hospital’s Intensive Care Unit since April 4th. Her latest update is:


A bit of encouraging news for Sunday lunch. 

My friend’s breathing has thankfully stabilised again so they are trying him off the vent for an hour to breathe with just an oxygen mask. Not for long because his breathing muscles tire quickly, but it means he has regained a bit of ground. 

Kidneys still needing machine. BP needing slightly less help. 

I just had a video call with him. They had raised his head in bed and he looked sleepy but comfortable. When I said his name a few times he briefly opened his eyes. I chatted to him for about 3 minutes about his daughter and the garden and the choir. At the end I said, “We are going to beat this and we are all waiting for you to come home,” and then the nurse told him to smile and his lips moved very slightly!

I felt that he is definitely in there, wanting to communicate. It took so much effort, but he did it.


UK reported deaths in the last 24 hours are up 315 to a total in hospitals, care homes and elsewhere to 28,131.

At 1730 instead of going out, I had a nap and woke up at 1930. So bang goes my daily walk and even changing out of my pyjamas. This will be the first time in lockdown that I have not gone out for a daily exercise.

It seems a short, slippery slope from this to living in a tent in my bedroom, shitting in the bedside table and eating spiders and occasional unlucky mice.

Meanwhile, Romanian showbiz star Dragos Mostenescu has posted another in his series of videos about being in lockdown in London with his family.

MONDAY 4th MAY

In the last 24 hours an additional rise of 288 coronavirus-related deaths in the UK, making the total 28,743.

Today’s message from my friend in Central London was:


On Friday, the consultant told me he didn’t expect my friend to last the weekend.

This morning, he said that he was surprised to see my sick friend has gained some ground. His breathing has stabilised again and he managed some hours off the ventilator with only the help of a mask. Oxygen requirement about 30%. 

And more positives… After my video call with my friend yesterday, the nurse said today he is more alert! This morning he squeezed her hand on command and also tracked her finger with his eyes. She thinks he even managed a slight nod in answer to a question. 

After all that, he was exhausted and went into a heavy sleep, so I probably won’t get to speak to him today. Apparently he didn’t sleep at all last night, so, rather than give him sedatives, they will try to regulate his rhythms with melatonin. 

The nurse asked me to send photos of friends and loved ones. The staff will print them out and put them round his bed so he’ll have something familiar to look at when he’s awake. I’ll also send a photo of his beloved garden. 

Slowly slowly slowly, with our love and prayers…


(Photo by James Heilman, MD, via Wikipedia)

TUESDAY 5th MAY

My friend in Central London messaged me:


He developed an infection today so that is another new bump on the road. 

In the early evening they phoned me about the fungal infection and said that, if it became invasive, it was very serious because invasive Candida is a big killer in ICUs.


WEDNESDAY 6th MAY

My friend in Central London sent me two messages today:


I didn’t sleep a wink. Then this morning spoke to the consultant.

They are still treating the fungal infection.

He had a body CT scan yesterday. Unsurprisingly, it shows extensive changes in his lungs and abnormal changes in the kidneys – both expected results as the virus affected both. They also found signs of colitis/inflammation in the bowel – again not surprising with the amount of meds he’s on. 

Now the good stuff. Christina who is looking after him, last saw him when she ceased his sedation some weeks ago. Today she was crying tears of happiness to see his progress. The other staff thought she was being too emotional! 

But he squeezed her hand this morning and is slightly nodding and shaking his head to questions. She asked him whether he’s in pain. He shook his head. 

The physios have been in and sat him on the end of the bed for a few minutes, with support. He can lift one hand, but still has no feeling in his feet so they didn’t stand him. He can’t yet keep his head upright without help but he did try. He has accumulated quite a lot of fluid from being immobile, so the physios keep him moving, even when lying down. This was the first time the physios felt he was ready to sit. 

Christina said that he is trying to mouth words and she explained to him not to try to actually speak yet because of his tracheostomy. 

She also said that, now he’s more awake, they are constantly telling him where he is, what time and what day and how long he’s been there, what the weather is like and bits from the news. 

Yesterday I had a short FaceTime with him but he was really sleepy. Christina will try again today but, after his considerable exertions this morning, he may sleep the rest of the day. 

Lastly, this was our final chat with the consultant (not Christina) as we are “past the peak” – ICU admissions have stabilised – so the consultant can now return to non-COVID-19 patients in another ICU. He wished my friend well for a continued recovery although, in his typical fashion, he warned it will be a long road. 

He said he was sorry that, in these terrible times, he could not deliver his reports to us in a more personal way rather than by phone. He added that he was grateful to be able to leave us on a day when my friend looked more stable.

(LATER)

Yay! Had a lovely FaceTime with my friend! For about 5 minutes!! He was awake the whole time. He smiled! I told him about all the messages from his friends, family and workmates. He mouthed a couple of words too. 

The speech therapist will see him to assess whether he is ready to have a speech valve fitted – maybe this week. 

And the sun is shining. A pretty darn good day!


THURSDAY 7th MAY

In the last 24 hours, UK coronavirus deaths rose by 539 to a total of 30,615 

A couple of weeks ago, “somewhere in Southern England”, my friend Lynn shot a video of what happened in her street during the weekly ‘Thursday night clap’ for the NHS.

Tonight, her husband Frank shot a second video reminding us how Brits react in total lockdown… Lynn is glimpsed at the very end (definitely not at the very start)…

FRIDAY 8th MAY

Today is the 75th anniversary of VE Day. Big celebrations had been planned country-wide but of course, with self-isolation and distancing, it was mostly a stay-at-home-and-watch-the-TV day. 

I was in bed most of the day with a swirly head and my deadened brain feeling like it was wrapped in a thick towel inside my skull. When I stood up or walked, my legs ached.

I felt a tiny bit vomity – at the bottom of my throat – but I knew I would not vomit.

I had a slight difficulty breathing in bed.

But it ain’t coronavirus; I think just an effect of inactivity, stuck at home.

South London neo-punk group The Outbursts posted a song online which gives a further insight into the effects of a (now) seven-week lockdown.

 

But, in fact, Outbursts member Ian Breslin tells me it is nothing to do with lockdown. He says:

“It’s dedicated to a chap I was fishing with in the Amazon for a month. He didn’t wash for 9 days, smelt of puke. He confessed that the longest he has gone without washing was 6 weeks. He had fungus on his balls. He rubbed banana skin all over his face in the mornings, as he was worried about cancer from suncream etc. After 3 days, his face was full of blisters…”

Meanwhile, in the last 24 hours, coronavirus deaths in the UK rose by 626 to a total of 31,241.

SATURDAY 9th MAY

In the last 24 hours, coronavirus deaths rose by 346 to a total of 31,587.

I am feeling perfectly fine again today. Of course.

I am reminded of a philosophical example of false logic.

“There is heavy snow on the tracks, so the train arrived late at the station.”

“The train arrived late at the station, therefore there must have been heavy snow on the tracks.”

(Photograph by Casey Tucker via UnSplash)

… TO BE CONTINUED …

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I watched my father die for over ninety minutes with a look of horror in his eyes

This is rather long but, if you can’t be selfish in your own blog, where can you be?

We are in coronavirus lockdown at the moment and yesterday was VE Day, so death is in the air.

A photograph taken on my parents’ Wedding Day in 1946

Yesterday I posted a photo on Facebook – of my parents on their wedding day in 1946. 

A couple of people said  I was the living image of my father. I always think I look nothing like my father but loads of people say I do.

They were very good parents. They did everything they could to be kind to me and to bring me up well with Calvinist morality. We were Church of Scotland in Aberdeen but, when we moved to Ilford in London, the nearest Church of Scotland was about 3 miles away, so we went to the local Presbyterian – very low –  church. All my character flaws and faults are mine, not theirs!

My Scottish father was bizarrely born in Liverpool. His father was a Scots merchant navy captain and was based in Liverpool. He died when my father was 3 years old, at which point the family moved back to Wigtownshire in SW Scotland, 

When my father was 15, he ran away to join the Royal Navy. I am a bit vague about his exact age but, whatever it was, it was one year before the age he could legally enlist so they rejected him. A year later, he re-applied and was accepted, just in time for the Spanish Civil War in which – allegedly – the UK was not involved. Although my father remembered his ship dropping men in civilian clothes off the Spanish coast who were then taken in small dinghies to land.

In the Second World War, he was based in Malta on the cruiser Aurora, whom the Italian press nicknamed ‘The Silver Phantom’ because it would attack then disappear.

Me (aged 1) with father near home in Campbeltown, Scotland

My father was a very calm and quiet man but, after he died, my mother told me he had once, in Clacton, where they retired, had a panic attack in the small toilet in their bungalow. They had a small self-contained toilet room next to a bigger bathroom.

He had been a radio operator during the War and, on one occasion, the Aurora was under attack. He was down in his radio room in the bowels of the ship, totally isolated, with no way out if the ship started sinking and all he could hear was the sound of explosions magnified in the metal ship and all hell breaking out unseen around him. He re-lived that terror, isolated in his tiny toilet room in Clacton.

After the War, he serviced marine radar on fishing vessels around the Scottish coast. In the mid-1950s, he had been isolated in a tuberculosis sanatorium in Aberdeen then got employed by a company called Kelvin Hughes.

We moved down to Ilford when he got employed at their main factory in Hainult.

Me, at home in May 2020, looking, I think, unlike my father…

In the early 1960s, because of the places he had to visit, he had to be ‘positively vetted’ – after the defection of Kim Philby. I remember him telling my mother they had interviewed his masters at secondary (and possible primary) school.

He died of cancer, alone, in the gloomy-lit back bedroom of a nursing home in Clacton-on-Sea. I was there and watched him die in 2001. I spoke to him, but I don’t think he knew I was there.

I posted the blog below in June 2014.


In recent weeks, I have been posting extracts from my 2001 diary about the period when my father was dying from cancer.

I previously posted a shorter version of what follows in November 2011, when Apple boss Steve Jobs died. I think this one has a better ending.

Edvard Munch’s Der Schrei der Natur (The Scream of Nature)

Der Schrei der Natur (The Scream of Nature) painted in 1893 by Edvard Munch

Saturday 23rd June

My father’s mind was on another planet. He did not recognise the nurse when she came in. He could not recognise words said to him. It was not that his ears could not hear them; it was that his brain did not recognise their meaning.

Sunday 24th June

When we visited my father this afternoon, he was unable to communicate, staring blankly into the middle distance.

Monday 25th June 

My father told the nurses he felt pain this morning. So he will now be given an extra daytime tablet with a morphine-element in addition to the one he is given in the evening. His eyes stared, as if at something faraway and long ago. As I left and put the trolley tray by his bed, he looked at me and said: “There’s something not at all right with me.”

Tuesday 26th June

I had a 2-hour medical check-up in a BUPA building near King’s Cross.

London was sweltering in extraordinarily hot weather, but inside the building it was cool and relaxing. Later, I sent an e-mail to my friend Lynn, saying:

They say I’m getting into the start of being dangerously overweight and VERY slightly too cholesterolly. I do wonder if it was really necessary for the short Chinese gent to put his finger up my bottom to test for Prostate Cancer. Surely there must be another way to do this or was he just ‘avin’ a larf?

I phoned my mother around 6.00pm and she told me that, when she had visited my father in the afternoon, there had been no response to anything she or my aunt (his sister) said. His eyes were open but staring ahead. “I think he was drugged up to the eyeballs,” she told me. “I don’t think he’s in any pain.” (Later, the matron told me the medication he was on was not that strong and that they had not given him a daytime tablet to avoid making him zombie-like.)

At around 8.30pm, I was mowing the grass on my front garden. The matron phoned me on my mobile phone to tell me my father had deteriorated very badly and I arranged to leave at 10.00pm, to get to the nursing home around 11.30pm, telling my mother I was getting to her home in Clacton at 1.00am and not to wait up for me. I was going to see how he was at 11.30pm and decide what to do.

The matron rang back at 9.30pm to tell me the doctor had just been and said my father only had four to five hours left before he died, so I went immediately, told my mother I had been phoned by the matron and asked if she wanted to go to the home to see my father.

She said (quite rightly) No, with a sad, tired, tone to her voice, and I phoned her just after 11.05pm when I had gone in and seen my father briefly. I suggested my mother take her two nightly sleeping tablets and go to bed and I would stay with my father all night and phone her at 7.00pm when she got up. She knew it was terminal because she had told me where the undertaker was. There was some surprise in her voice when I phoned her:

“Is he still here?” she asked.

When I arrived, the nursing home’s night sister warned me he had deteriorated a lot since my mother had seen him this afternoon and warned me “his eyes are open”.

The first thing that shocked me when the door was opened, though, was the sound. I had never realised the phrase “death rattle” was anything more than a colourful phrase. It is an exact description. I had also thought it was a brief final sound rather than an ongoing sound.

It was a rhythmic, rasping sound.

His face was side-lit in the darkened room by a yellow-cream glow from a bedside table lamp sitting not on a table but on the floor of the room with old-fashioned floral wallpaper. It was bit like a Hammer horror movie of the late 1950s in slightly faded Technicolor.

His bed was behind the door and when I saw him lying there on his back in bed I was shocked again because his face was like Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream.

His false teeth were out, so his mouth was abnormally small considering it was open to its fullest extent, the skin between his upper lip and nose seemed wider than normal; and there was an indented line on his nose between his nostrils which, in profile, made him look like he had two noses.

He was lying on his back staring straight up at the ceiling with wide open, unblinking eyes as if he was shocked by something he saw on the ceiling. His head was tilted back slightly from his torso as if his head had been dropped into the soft pillow from a great height.

This tilted-back head, the shocked eyes, the open mouth all combined to make it look like he was frozen in a silent scream yet the sound coming out was a death rattle from his throat, as the air mattress beneath him made discreet little isolated cracking sounds presumably caused by the slight movements as his body made the rattling rasping breathing and his distended stomach rose and fell under the bedclothes.

The rattle was like a machine breathing through a very slightly echoey plastic tube partially blocked by air bubbles in water. I wondered if he was dead already, inside. It was as if his brain or heart must be telling his throat and chest to desperately gasp for air even though they knew it was pointless.

Towards the end, the rattle became less pronounced as the sound of the breaths within the rattle became slightly more human.

Towards the very end, the rattle slowly died out and human light breathing returned, getting gentler and gentler as his life ebbed away. When the breathing ended, I pressed the buzzer for the night sister.

When she arrived, there was some slight breathing again, but only for 40 or 60 seconds. For perhaps the last 15 seconds of his life, his mouth – until now rigidly open – partially closed then reopened three times, then his eyes slowly closed, his mouth partially closed and reopened twice more and he was dead, his eyes closed and mouth open. It was 00.35am and 22 seconds on Wednesday morning. I had arrived at about 11.03pm.

After he died, I went downstairs to the nursing home office with the night sister, whose father-in-law had died in the same room – Room 11 – of the same disease. I then went back up to the room where my father lay for 15 or 20 seconds during which time there were a couple of tiny surreal flashes through the window from the outside world.

When I went outside to my car, the black sky was flashing white with lightning. Every few seconds, the whole night-time sky was silently flashing white with increasing – but still silent – violence. On the drive back to my parents’ bungalow in Great Clacton, the flashes became whiter and more frequent and the thunder sound arrived. On the drive beside their front garden, small surreal white specks were being blown across the tarmac. When I got out of the car at my parents’ – now my mother’s – house, there was a neon-like flash of vertical lightning and a sound of rustling which continued for 60 or 90 seconds.

I took my bags inside the bungalow and then the rain started. Torrential rain thundering on the streets and windows and roof. Violent and angry rain.

It all struck me as unfathomably dramatic. My father’s death… then immediately the heavens in turmoil… then strong winds… then thunder crashes and angry, violent rain… As if the heavens, in turmoil, were protesting.

It reminded me of the death of Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s play.

I looked up the quote later:

There is one within,
Besides the things that we have heard and seen,
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.
A lioness hath whelped in the streets;
And graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their dead;
Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds,
In ranks and squadrons and right form of war,
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol;
The noise of battle hurtled in the air,
Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan,
And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets.
When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

My father was a very ordinary man. Yet it was like the heavens were protesting.

Wednesday 27th June

In the morning, my father’s dead body lay on an occasionally cracking air bed in Room 11 of the nursing home.

People were talking about the dramatic overnight storm. The telephone lines had been cut at Weeley Crematorium but the fax line was working, so the funeral director could only talk to the crematorium by fax.

Thursday 28th June

The curate who will lead the service at my father’s funeral came round to chat to my mother.

“What was Harry like as a person?” he asked my mother.

“He was very placid,” she told him. “But if he was riled he would go through a brick wall. It would take an awful lot to get him riled, though.”

My mother partially broke down later in the day saying of the funeral: “It’s only his family that’s going to be there – only his family not my family.”

Almost immediately – within 15 seconds – the phone rang. It was her cousin Sybil ringing from Edinburgh to say she and husband Osmond (who is dying of cancer) would be coming down to the funeral.

Friday 29th June – Clacton

My mother partially broke down again in the evening.

“I’ve been worrying about this all day,” she cried to me. “When I said yesterday I had no family……. I’ve got you……. That was a terrible thing to say!”

Of course, when she had said there would be no members of her family at my father’s funeral, I had taken it the way she had meant it.

Her parents were dead. She was an only child. Almost.

She had had a brother. He died when (I think) he was aged 16 and she was 11.

Her parents had adored her brother. He was the perfect son.

My parents after their wedding

My parents married in 1946. My mother died in 2007, aged 86

My mother was born with no left hand – only a rounded stump. When she was a small girl, her mother told her: “Keep your left hand in your pocket. Don’t let anyone see.” She always hid her left hand from strangers.

Once, in the 1930s, she saw a man in a Glasgow street – she still remembers him clearly – leaning on the wall by an office doorway and she saw he “had exactly the same as me”. But he didn’t care if people saw it; he just behaved as if it was natural. “I wanted to talk to him but I didn’t,” she told me. “I wish I had.”

Before my mother married my father in 1946, my aunt (my father’s sister) told her: “I wish Henry could marry a whole woman.”

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John’s UK Coronavirus Diary – No 11 – 86-year-old’s Lockdown Survival Guide

“Life is a bitch these days for everyone…”

Lynn Ruth Miller is 86, a US comic currently self-isolating in North London.

She has some valuable lockdown advice to share…


Life is a bitch these days for everyone. But I have lived through so much worse. I lived through the polio epidemic, the sinking of the Titanic, the Dust Bowl… But enough about my sex life.  

Let me give you some tips I have learned through the years to help each and every one of you get through this crisis, even though we are all beginning to look like our hirsute four-legged ancestors, walking around with holes in our soles.

The first rule is TOUCH NOTHING. The trick here is to learn to use your elbows and your nose instead of your hands. Fortunately for me, I am Jewish and my nose has a great deal of dexterity. I have trained it to open the mail, turn a door knob and sniff out infections. If you are not Jewish, you will have to wear gloves and be forced to use your hands. Elbows cannot turn on lamps or open a gate. Sorry.

“Now is the time to read a hardcover book…”

Now is the time to read a hardcover book. You don’t have to tuck reading material into your backpack to read on the tube; you can now do your reading at home. So haul out those hardcovers, especially the ones with titles you don’t want others to see, like Dirty Girls Come Clean or Talk Dirty to Me. The latter is a guide to effective bedroom talk so, if you are having a bit of trouble getting the children to go to sleep, this might be just the advice you are looking for.

We all need exercise and we have been told not to leave our homes. What to do? Well, we could all learn a lesson in perseverance from Captain Tom Moore, who raised over £31 million for the NHS, toddling around his garden in his Zimmer frame. He not only got the exercise he needed, but he managed to stay fit for his 100th birthday.

Of course, the captain HAD a garden and many of us live in flats several floors above ground. It is very important that you move your arms and legs and keep your muscles working. Try running up and down the stairs in your building, waving your arms shouting “Fire!” That will get everyone else up and moving as well.

Laundry can be a bit of a challenge when you are stuck at home. It is not healthy to wear the same clothes day in and day out but, if you do not have a washer in your home, what to do? The best solution is not to wear any clothes at all. No-one is going to see you anyway. The Naturists among us will tell you that staying naked improves your sleep, strengthens your skin and bones and enhances your self-image. The idea is that everyone else looks a lot worse than you do, so why worry?  

“Living in the buff…” (Photo by Peter Klashorst)

Living in the buff does set up an extra challenge for parents stuck at home with the kids. You will need to explain why your body has a few things on it that your little ones do not have. Try hard not to frighten them when you tell them that all that hair and those funny things that stick out will happen to them one day.

If you are stuck at home, you have to create three meals a day for yourself and your family. Options to order out are very limited – Too expensive and besides who wants to open the door to a masked, cloaked stranger with gloves on after dark? Way too risky.

The answer is to make soup. You do not need a recipe for soup. You just open the fridge and grab whatever is in there, boil it up with a bay leaf and pulverize it. If you wait long enough between meals, your family won’t care what it tastes like.  

Hunger can be very non-discriminating. I once made a soup of rotten lettuce, a decaying peach, two sprouting onions and a worn-out sponge. The dog loved it.

All of us like to look our best, but – Hey! – you are at home and you can’t go out. Who is looking? Let your hair grow; wear a towel if it’s chilly; forget underwear – it just catches in crevices anyway – and (this is the trick that makes it all worthwhile) COVER ALL THE MIRRORS. You will feel beautiful. If your partner makes a smart remark, whip out a hand mirror to show that bastard what HE looks like (it is always a He). Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.

Many of us are all alone in our homes with no-one to talk to, no-one to cook for, not even a pet to worry about. That means no hugs, no kisses, no sex until the lockdown is over.

(Photograph by Daniele Levis Pelusi via UnSplash)

This need not be a problem. For soft, furry cuddles, hug a teddy bear. And be sure to give yourself lots of hot nights out. All you need is a bottle of wine, a bit of imagination and your hand. That talk about losing your eyesight is a lot of poppycock (which is exactly what you will be having anyway).

Boredom can be a real challenge when you are stuck at home. Try to spice up each day with a different activity.

One day, skip around the living room. Another, hide under the bed. Try eating with your back to the plate. Just be sure you put the dog in the other room. Do not worry about the cat. She is far too fastidious to eat from someone else’s dish.

If you are working from home, you can keep your mind occupied for at least 8 hours a day if you ignore the children throwing silverware at the wall or pooping on the rug.

It is the weekends that are the real challenge. 

My advice is to make each weekend a novelty. Wear something unusual; eat an ethnic meal; dance to music you have never heard;  whip up a soufflé; whip each other. There is nothing like a bondage mitt or an anal hook to add a bit of variety to your Saturday night.

The most important advice is to enjoy this lovely time to get to know who you really are. At last, you will understand why you weren’t invited to that posh diner party. Live with it.

And now is the time to accept that your children are real people with distinct personalities. It is useless to murder them. What would you do with the bodies? Garbage collection has been reduced to almost nothing.

Remember, it is those very children who will decide when to pull the plug when you are ill. If you chain them to the bed or tape their mouths shut, they will make you pay.

Above all else, do not share your toilet paper.

Now that the market shelves are empty, toilet paper has become the new currency. Treasure it. When I was young, diamonds were a girl’s best friend. In the early 21st century, it was Botox. Today it is a roll of Andrex.

As my mother used to say: “One good wipe is worth a thousand drips.”

… DIARY CONTINUED HERE

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