Summer in the city

Colchester is officially a city now but as I had to head into London today, I mean the Smoke.

It was approaching the mid 20s as I lumbered off to the station carting a rucksack containing my ancient, breezeblock laptop, in the off chance I would do some work at the conference I was attending.

(Reader, I did!)

I'm even less great in the morning than I used to be. Not a morning person. Not an afternoon or evening person either.

And definitely not a heat person. Therefore I opted for comfort over style with my normcore outfit of chinos (with in built elastic adjusters 👌), check shirt, and trainers. Can't work out whether the look is more Woody Allen or the Only Me dad.

Despite the heat, I returned to the house to pick up a fleece 'just in case'.

Once on the train, it was a bit more relaxed. AC was on max which helped. Because the past few days have been pretty, pretty hot.

Heading into London reminded me of the difference a mini heatwave makes. Britain goes into a kind of weird fever dream. It feels like a different place - one that offers up the chance of a different way of being. People smile more, there's a sense that there's more to life than work, and everything looks a bit more exotic. The shittiest street corner can be transformed into a bit of the Med or the Caribbean with a coupla chairs to sit and take in the passing tapestry of life.

We can never get it quite right though. A few days is usually enough before the fever breaks, and usually some shop windows and bus shelters too. It's the heat. And the booze. 

Those few days are priceless though. I remember one hot summer in my teens when my football team played some early evening games in the fading heat of the day. 

We usually played on battered, muddy pitches on wet and cold Sundays. For these games we were upgraded to the flatter, less battered pitches, baked to a dusty hardness by a few weeks of good weather.

Some of the local girls came to see us and cheer us on - I felt like a legend even though we were notoriously crap. It's one of my abiding memories of that age.

Did we win? I can't remember, but I felt like a winner.

Everything feels different in the sun.

Mush alert!

It's nice to have a day where the focus is on you as a dad but for me every day is a father's day.

I've always loved being a dad and it doesn't seem to diminish as the kids get older. Sure, they were a lot more obviously cute when they were little as opposed to the hulking great teenage eating machines they are now. However, they continue to delight in different ways.

They're smart, funny, annoying, intriguing, and endlessly fascinating to me. Now they've reached a certain age, I'm sure that I'm about as interesting to them as an ancient tortoise, so I'm grateful for their forbearance.

Anyway, thanks for the gifts lads. They are appreciated but entirely unnecessary. Just keep being you.

Savour every sandwich

I never really notice memorial benches but this one stood out. It was a rather lovely crafted example made of naturalistic blonde planks of wood that retained a suggestion of the shape of the tree they came from. It was also situated beautifully on a village green overlooking a lovely stretch of river.

The name was quite an old one, 'Sidney', so I initially assumed an elderly person. But as I stared, the dates didn't seem right. Sidney had lived for only nine days.

Later that day I encountered a very different memorial. It was an old tractor wheel propped up on the edge of a slightly bleak field opposite an area of concrete hard standing. A piece of wood had been shaped into the silhouette of a pig and carried the name of a nearby farm. A second plaque gave the names of a 'dad and lad' that it called 'two country boys'.

It was the morning that news broke of the discovery of Michael Moseley's body. The TV doctor, famous for encouraging a slightly pick and mix approach to healthy living, was found on a Greek island where he was holidaying. His disappearance, and death, has caught the public imagination in a big way.

Partly this is because we are now so health aware and proactive on this front. In a way, it is rather like the modern approach to spirituality favoured by some - selecting what they like and creating a bespoke set of rituals and beliefs that can feel like a modern form of superstition.

Health is like this too. We all have ideas about what and when we eat, how to lose weight, how our mental health affects the physical, how we can live longer and better...

At the extreme it manifests in tech bros changing their blood, taking hundreds of daily supplements, and exercising more than they sleep, in the hope of living until... forever maybe?

For the rest of us, there is a smorgasbord of tricks and hacks we hope can game us a bit more time, or a better quality of life. For us, people like Michael Moseley are the high priests of healthfulness. His death has hit hard because it underlines the ultimate futility of trying to cheat the grim reaper.

I'm no different. Yesterday, I was on a bike ride - part of my latest stop-start journey to better health. I have my own set of health superstitions based on nothing more than trial and error, observation, and supposition. I don't know if they work, but sometimes I think they do. It's a work in progress and one that we're encouraged to do given modern expectations of health and wellbeing. I can't even explain to my doctor what ails me. They treat me at the edges and will hopefully be there if anything critical happens, to cure or alleviate.

The rest is slightly up to me it seems.

It may sound like yesterday's ride was a morbid affair but it was anything but - it was lovely to get out and experience our lovely countryside. One point of memento mori is to remind the living to live and to enjoy life.

Hence the Warren Zevon quote in the title. He was on the Letterman show with only a little time left as he had terminal cancer. What should have been a terrible, sombre occasion is actually very funny and uplifting as he wisecracks through his last appearance. He sums up his thoughts on life with those pithy three words.

Enjoy every sandwich, and enjoy every ride. For glass half empty types like me, it's perfect bumper sticker philosophy.

How the Tories broke Britain

I was actually still living in Hackney when the Tories came to power in 2010. 

Our second son had been born a month previously so we had our hands full. I remember being relatively resigned to the Tories coming to power albeit sad. The air was going out of the New Labour project, the government had been holed below the waterline by the global financial crisis, and despite being a titan as chancellor, Gordon Brown was struggling to project himself as PM.

It seemed like time for a change, and under the youthful Cameron, the Tories did seem to have changed. 

That didn't last long.

First they started to break our services with the vicious assault on spending that was austerity and the results of which are still playing out. George Osborne remains unrepentant that there was any alternative but there was - less savage cuts that didn't demonise the poor and cast them adrift.

As new parents, one of the greatest policies of New Labour was Sure Start which provided us and all parents with a great support at a time when you don't know your arse from your baby's elbow. There's an argument that it was too middle class but from experience I'd say there is little class distinction when you're trying to deal with a meltdown after a sleepless night. Sure Start was great and we definitely benefitted from it but those who followed didn't as it was cut to the bone.

Then, having heartily pissed off half of Scotland with his peevish IndiRef Day After rallying cry to English Nationalists, Cameron gambled on the EU referendum to placate the wingnuts in his own party.

Never forget what a non-issue it was for the majority of people. This was Tory party over country and it backfired spectacularly breaking our links with the EU that will unfold for years with none of the supposed benefits.

Cameron walked followed by his successor May who was succeeded by lying incompetent Boris Johnson who claimed to have delivered Brexit which crumbled in his hands.

He then mishandled the pandemic response, lining the pockets of rich cronies, reacting too late to circumstances, and breaking rules he imposed on others. 

Without Liz Truss who broke the economy, he'd be regarded as the worst PM ever.

I have no animosity for Rishi Sunak - thanks for furlough support, although it is our money and we will have to pay it back - and he's done a job of sorts in stabilising a ship that was in danger of over turning. But it's time for change.

The Tories have done enough damage. Let's start rebuilding.

Farewell Moonpig

We weren't really a pets family when I was younger.

My mum didn't like dogs (especially) or cats, the two animals that most youngsters want.

We did have goldfish, and you can guess how long they lasted. Ditto the tortoises that my sister and I had. Suffice to say that even a Blue Peter sanctioned hibernation box was not enough to stave off a Scottish winter 

Our youngest loves animals and always wanted some of his own, so a few years ago we got him a couple of guinea pigs. I have to say that those two furry potatoes - Twix and Moonpig - probably got us through the various lockdowns. When there wasn't really much to smile about, their uncomprehending little faces and endless demands for food brought a lot of delight to our family. I guess you had to be there.

We had been told that Moonpig probably had kidney issues and a couple of days ago I found her curled up in a footmuff and unresponsive to offers of her favourite nibbles. I thought she was dead but she was  obviously only stunned 🙂

It wasn't good though as a trip to the vet confirmed. He recommended putting her to sleep which we agreed to.

My son was really upset, but so was I. Partly at his distress, but also at the little animal going. They're so innocent looking. It's heartbreaking.

Anyway, I have dug a plot in the veg patch and we'll commit her there later when son gets home from school.

All very sad but I think she had a good life. I just hope the other one hangs on for a bit 

Crocked again

I'm starting to feel like an old banger at the end of its useful life.

The latest impairment is back trouble that seems to have arrived from nowhere. Well, perhaps not nowhere, but from some fairly mild cycling. I've had a couple of instances of lower back pain after rides. However, the latest came after driving.

We'd been up the coast for a pleasant Sunday in Thorpeness and Aldeburgh - a drive of just over an hour. I was fine on the way up but when we got home I could barely walk from the car - my lower back feels like it's been belted with a hammer.

I'm hoping a few days of taking it easy (all I seem capable of these days) will help, but it's pretty dispiriting when getting up from a chair needs forward planning.

Hope this passes soon.

On Brand

It has been a grimly fascinating few days following the stories about Russell Brand, which prompted this brain dump.

Supposedly, his behaviour was an open secret but it was news to me. With Savile, I can't remember when I didn't know of various horrible rumours about him. But that was all they were. I didn't really know what, if anything, he had been up to.

Nor did I know about the cheeky radio phone conversation between the two, who are now bonded forever in the public's mind. It does seem rather apt as they now represent a queasy attitude towards women that was prevalent in Sir Jim's Sixties and Seventies heyday, and came roaring back revamped in the Nineties and Noughties.

Maybe we can blame it all on the Loaded era but a lot of us were complicit. I remember buying the first issue of that mag - the Liz Hurley cover. It felt like a breath of fresh air at the time - witty, irreverent, immature, and sexy... or should that be sexist? No-one was quite sure even then. Things got a lot clearer with the pornification of magazines for morons like Nuts and Zoo - single entendres all round.

But the Nineties did feel a bit more relaxed than the previous decade. After the long slog of the Eighties, things did look like they could only get better. The economy was on the up, the Tories were on their way out, the music was fun, and everyone (of my age) wanted to party.

Meanwhile, the new Ladette culture was touted as letting women be more open about their sexuality. Inevitably that ended up benefitting men more than women. 

There is some great observation of this and the Britpop scene in Miki Berenyi's book Fingers Crossed. She writes about a fair bit of shitty behaviour by men at the time, and it's apparent that the breath of fresh air went stale fairly quickly.

The likes of Brand arrived and thrived in that confused not quite post-Lad culture where bad behaviour was still seen as colourful rather than a pain in the arse. 

It's ironic given his ranty takes on the evils of MSM and the establishment, they are what made his career. The Sun made him its regular Shagger of the Year. Saggy old Jonathan Ross clung to this damaged individual for relevance on his awful Radio 2 show. His big break was mouthing off on a glorified gameshow. His battalions of keyboard cranks would have not a clue who he was without the mainstream stamp of approval that he now disavows.

Brand's own heyday now looks terribly dated and his attempt at reinvention seems both calculated and desperate - like a creepy Hoxton David Icke.

Whatever he did - at the very least he has a creepy (that word again) attitude to women - he was enabled and celebrated by the prevailing culture at the time, which saw his Seventies throwback act as the new entertainment. A bit of a laugh.

That culture has shifted now and while the playing field is still not level, there is a recognition that certain behaviours don't pass the sniff test. 

The BBC and Channel 4 are currently scouring him from their archives. Coming a day after the Metropolitan Police announced it had received a report of an assault by Brand, and on the day when it says it has 1,000 officers suspended or on restricted duties, it looks like it won't be so easy to erase the mark of sexism in our society.

Don't catastrophise

I bumped into my neighbour yesterday. We've become sort of brothers in sufferance, swapping details of our latest ailments. This seems increasingly common at my age. Conversations with some male friends are like a Muppets Waldorf and Statler sketch.

Our latest meeting revealed he definitely has the more exotic conditions (Ectopic Beats? Loved their first album) which he bears very philosophically and with evident humour. As a patient he's my role model - I definitely need to be more like that guy.

A recent phone conversation with my cardiologist sort of reset my expectations. I had me usual 'something's not right' spiel which he gently worked through and left me feeling like this is how it is now. Not in an uncaring way but I guess he sees a lot of people in a worse condition than me so when I relate my tale of woe it just doesn't sound that woeful.

I still feel things going on that make me slightly nervous but I'm trying to be better at handling that - recognising what might be a biggie and dealing with those things that can be dealt with.

You have to work out some of this yourself. What makes you feel bad? What alleviates it? What to avoid? What to cut down on?

Some of this is personal JuJu I'm sure but if it works...

Anyway, that's where I am this week. Next, who knows?

Stronger, but slower

After my recent incident I'm happy to say that the past couple of months have been more 'normal'. 

Despite the setback, when I consider how I felt last summer I count myself lucky. I was getting weaker and weaker, more depressed, and without much spark. That's hopefully behind me now although it has been quite a slow process.

The next stage is getting back on the bike and it's what I've been looking forward to. My expectations have been higher than my abilities at the moment. Foolishly I thought I'd get on the bike and be not far off where I was prior to stopping riding. Oh no!

My legs are like lead especially when I hit a slope. I've got no top end at the minute. Hopefully I'll get a bit faster but at the minute it's a bit of a grind. Quite depressing when I compare my Stravas with last year, or with those of cycling friends. But if the choice is between being slower and still doing something I love then it's no choice.

But I'd like to get faster....

Not again

I was due to have a meeting with my cardiologist on Tuesday. This seemed superfluous as I was feeling great. I'd just finished my cardio rehab with a flourish - running and pushing it the hardest I'd done until then. Everything was good.

The day beforehand I started getting some chest pain. It didn't worry me unduly as I often get some mild irritation. However, it persisted after I went to bed and started getting worse. The pain became so worrying that I felt I had to call for an ambulance. It was the first time I'd done this since my first chest incident more than a year ago.

An ambulance came and took me to hospital for a check up - ECG, blood tests, chest x-ray. They're very thorough, and also very busy. I was there for nearly 12 hours.

The good news is that they didn't find anything. The worrying thing is that something happened and nobody seems to know what it might be.

One guess is that it could be the stents settling in but that's all it seems to be - a guess. It could possibly just be anxiety as there doesn't seem to be underlying weakness in my heart. The tests were all great.

Today I'm back home and it feels like nothing has happened, like it was a dream. I feel fine.

Hopefully it was just a blip brought on by something - feeling a bit under par, alcohol (not v much your honour but could it be a factor), something I ate or when I ate (I'm clutching here), the ever present anxiety? Who knows?

I had been all set to restart cycling this weekend. Maybe I still will do but there's now a slight hesitation. Should I just push through it? 

One other observation, and this can't be said enough. The care at my hospital was exemplary. Yes, I had to wait a while but they were exceptionally busy - they'd already diverted to another hospital that evening so I was lucky to get in. 

Despite this the people who dealt with me - paramedics, nurses, junior doctors, x-ray staff - were upbeat, patient and professional. I counted about a dozen people who crossed my path and no one dropped the ball. They are under huge pressure but stay on top of their game. 

Could it be better? Of course, but we should never take it for granted how good the service is.

One step forward

I'm nearing the end of my gym rehab period. This week was the fifth of six.

It hasn't been too taxing for me. I have reasonable underlying fitness and am relatively young compared to some in the class.

The sessions focus on cardio exercise - bike, treadmill, cross trainer - with some standing exercises and resistance work with weights and bands.

Perhaps I pushed it a bit harder this week but it left me slightly sore in the chest, which has upped my anxiety again. I feel like I've over exerted something despite not working at anything near what I would once have considered full gas.

The physio is keen for me to exercise outside of the class, as am I, but this has left me concerned about where I am. I mentioned intermittent chest soreness to the cardiac nurse but she seemed unconcerned as I've had three stents and seemed to think this was normal.

I've got a meeting with the cardiologist in a couple of weeks after being referred by my doctor the last time I saw him over this. I had been thinking that I'd be wasting his time but now, hooray, I have a genuine issue.

I'm being facetious, but I do swing from being wildly optimistic about my physical capabilities, to being convinced I can do very little.

The truth, as ever, is probably in the middle somewhere, but I don't know how close I am to finding out where, or what it means for me. 

In the gym

I've been nervous about exercising since 'the procedure'. Actually, since well before then as various medical people scared the bejeezus out of me. Then afterwards, things didn't seem to settle down for a bit and I was newly frit.

Chatting with a cardio nurse afterwards it is as mentioned that a cardio rehab programme might help rebuild my confidence. After a walking test - which is exactly it sounds - I was booked on to a six-week course. Today was the second one.

In some ways, I feel a bit of a fraud as the others in the group seem to have undergone more major ops, are older, or in worse shape than me (or all three).

I was chatting to one guy, who looked like an old Essex biker, early 60s, who had a double bypass and was telling me how he started 'leaking' from his chest wound on a post-op holiday flight. 

He actually looked in decent nick considering what he'd had done, and said he had been pumping weights before coming to the class, and wanted to get back to work as he was bored.

The others in the group are quite a nice bunch too. They all seem a lot less anxious about things than I am and there's an element of gallows humour about the situation.

During last week's session I took it pretty easy. Maybe a bit too much. This week the physio had me on my own and said he wanted me to work a bit harder.

We were doing a circuit of bike, walking machine, steps, and one of those ski machines, with some resistance and squats in between.

I was by no means flat out but it was the hardest I've worked for a while, and thankfully nothing went pop.

This is what made me feel slightly fraudulent. The class is quite hard to get on I'm told as there are lots of people (mainly men) with heart conditions. As I was powering away on the machines, I was wondering if the others thought I was taking the piss. Especially as I had running leggings on - honestly, they were all I could find clean. Most of my workout gear is for cycling. I haven't been to a gym in years. 

However, it has been really helpful to be in a situation where I can restart exercise and feel safe. That's definitely been worthwhile for me. Is it an appropriate use of NHS resources? I hope so. I'd quite like to have decent cardio health going forwards and exercise is an important part of that.

Having said that, I may not do all 6 weeks as I don't think I'll need them. I'm champing at the bit to get back on my bike, but sod's law I've picked up another injury.

I slipped on ice about three weeks ago and have injured my wrist. It was getting better but an exploratory gravel ride on Sunday seems to have rattled it again making it a bit painful at the moment. Maybe a road ride this weekend would be okay - not as much vibration through the wrist?

At any rate, I'm feeling good today.

Ups and downs

The past week hasn't been great. I experienced some stabbing chest pains last week, which morphed into more general soreness - like a bruise - and then became a third sort of pain that I might describe as like cramp.

That's a very inexact description and illustrates one of the problems of illness - getting across what's going on. It doesn't help that often by the time you see a clinician - as I did in Tuesday - the symptoms may have gone for a bit and you struggle to explain them. At times like this I end up being semi-apologetic, as if I'm wasting Doc's time.

It has been a bit depressing though as until a week ago I really thought I was back on the road to 'normal'. I guess it's not the most direct route.

On Monday I had been talking to an NHS trainer who left me feeling as if I was practically ready to do le Tour but by the following day I was in more despairing mode. Something doesn't feel right but is it just in my head? 

Having treatment hasn't been the panacea I thought it would be. I don't feel well but maybe this is as good as it gets going forward. 

The doc has put me forward for another cardio appointment which is hopeful. The aftercare hasn't been brilliant if I'm honest - maybe I'm expecting too much for what is quite a commonplace day procedure. 

It has really heightened my awareness of my body in a not very healthy way. Every creak or spasm or ache is a sign of imminent doom. Sometimes I wonder if I'll wake in the morning - I am aware how overdramatic that sounds.

It must be literally all over my face. I was out for a walk yesterday and encountered a couple of slightly oiled chaps wending their way down St John's Street from the 'Spoons.

As they passed I heard one call after me "Geezer! Geezer!" This came two or three times and despite the urge to ignore it and walk on I turned expecting to hear some nonsense.

He had what looked like genuine concern on his face. 

"Geezer. You alright mate?"

I nodded in the affirmative and gave him the thumbs up.

"You sure?"

Blimey! You tell me.

Better, not best

I've passed the four week anniversary since  my stent. Actually, it turns out I had three balloons in me during my stent procedure. That's what the cardio nurse told me during a call about a week ago during which she decoded some of the discharge notes. That was really useful as I wasn't entirely sure what had happened to me. She also gave me some guidance on dos and don'ts and answered some questions I had on certain issues (sex - if you manage two flights of stairs you're okay. Booze - stick to the 14 units limit. Exercise - listen to your body).

The last one is the most vague. I feel a lot better than I did pre-stent when I was getting tired walking to the local shop, and did turn back once. Now, there is a literal spring in my step, but I haven't done anything more strenuous and have not been on my bike for months. The nurse insisted that I shouldn't be doing nothing, which I feel I have been for a while.

The cardiologist told me that after four weeks I could return to normal activities, so that's next on the card. There is the possibility that I could do some cardio rehab courses, although I think I'll be on a waiting list for them. In all probability I'll be cycling before then but I would like the reassurance of  somebody giving me the once over to see what I can safely manage.

On one side I'm nervous, but on the other I'm champing at the bit to get on with life again. The past year has been one of missed, or untaken opportunities because I haven't felt up to doing things or convinced myself I shouldn't be doing them. Now I want to catch up.

Our fragility was brought home to me this week when I heard some awful news about a friend - one of those terrible things that brings your own experience into perspective. Relatively speaking, what has happened to me has been small potatoes. It has scared me but it has also made me think I shouldn't waste the chance it has given me. 

I've been very lucky.

A week later

I had my appointment at the Heart Centre last Thursday and was pretty anxious. Cut to the chase - it actually turned out pretty well.

The big question was how my arteries looked. One was pretty definitely furred up but after testing another two with a pressure wire (no, me neither) the cardiologist decided they weren't too bad. The good news was that meant I wouldn't need a bypass and could proceed straight to stenting.

I was also anxious about this. The procedure happens while you're awake and the mere thought of somebody poking away in there was quite triggering.

As it happened, it was relatively untraumatic. I didn't feel much at all, which for a physical coward like me was a great relief. It was completed in just over an hour.

The result was almost instantaneously noticeable. I felt less tight chested and close to euphoric in some ways. It was such a weight off my shoulders that I was getting a bit ahead of myself.

This week has been a bit of a leveller. I have felt some intermittent pressure/pain/discomfort/anxiety. I'm telling myself that's perhaps to be expected - it has only been a week and I have had a fairly major intervention. Baby steps.

I've been told that within four weeks I can get back to normal - whatever that means. 

I already feel a lot better than I did in the months leading up to the procedure, but still not best. However, I'll take this so far. 

I've waited for a while to feel better. I can wait a bit longer.

The long way down

It's disconcerting how quickly things change.

Just under a year ago I thought my health was pretty good for a man my age. A clichéd late forties rediscovery of cycling had blossomed into a love affair with all things two-wheeled in recent years  

I'd bought a decent bike and found some similarly interested guys who have turned into ride buddies. Nothing too serious - compared with some - but great fun and great for health.

Without really trying I've found my fitness levels as high as they've possibly ever been, felt unwanted pounds slip off my frame, and noticed my wellbeing improve. All while doing something I really love - getting out on my bike, pedalling the lovely lanes of Essex and Suffolk, and finding lovely parts of the surrounding area to boot.

Just under a year ago I woke in the night with a racing heart and felt something flash across my chest. My dad died of heart problems at 44 so in some ways I'd been expecting this for years.

I ended up in A&E that night where I was checked out but given the all clear and sent home. I hadn't had a heart attack, which was what I'd feared but something clearly wasn't right.

The months since have been a slow movement through the NHS system - something that is increasingly picking up pace. 

Back in May I was told that I had severe coronary artery disease and I'm now on a journey towards some sort of treatment. What that will be depends on the result of a test that is coming up in a few weeks. In the meantime I'm taking a lot of pills to manage the situation.

I'm not sure whether it's the pills, the condition, or what's in my head but it's astonishing how downhill I've gone in a few months.

The only exercise I feel confident doing is a sedate walk, and some days I don't feel that I can go very far. 

My chest feels tight, I feel anxious a lot, and generally feel crap most of the time. 

I don't sleep well and I'm constantly worried about my heart. 

I don't feel confident doing anything that raises my heart rate - and I mean anything!

I feel like I'm taking a backseat on family life as there is so much I don't feel able to do, or just don't see any point in. Joy has been sucked out of large areas of my life.

If I'd have known the change that would come over me back in December when I left A&E, I would have been completely crushed. As it is, this overall state of affairs has crept up on me somewhat, which may be a blessing in some ways.

The next couple of weeks could reveal a lot and could be the start of things getting better. That's what I should try to think but it's hard.

There's a side of me that doesn't want to get too hopeful. There may be no quick fix and what if what's being proposed doesn't work, or doesn't work as I'd hoped? 

For a glass half empty person like me, this isn't a great position to be in. (Strictly speaking, the glass is usually completely empty at the minute as I've forsworn most drinking. That'll show them!).

It's the cycling that's been one of toughest things though. As I wrote on here in one of my infrequent rambles, when you find something you love late in life you almost start to mourn it because it has an inbuilt shelf life. That shelf life is now closer than I thought.

Cycling in lockdown

Here's an interesting state of affairs. The Prime Minister of the UK, Boris Johnson is feeling some heat at the moment. Not for his maladroit handing of the pandemic or Brexit, but because he decided to go for a bike ride at the weekend.

On the face of it this is because he did so at some distance from his home - seven miles to be exact - in the Olympic Park in East London. This at a time when COVID-19 is racing through Britain and we are being urged to stay at home to limit contacts with others.

There are a few exceptions to this guidance, one of which is exercise, which you are permitted to take once a day. Of course, being Britain, it's never that simple. Guidelines talk about staying local and the government's definition of this is 'your village, town or part of a city where you live' according to British Cycling.

The issue for many cyclists is that they probably have a more expanded view of 'local' than that. Firstly, you can get quite a long way in a relatively short amount of time on a bike - it's one of the delights of cycling. You can also take yourself away to quieter country lanes where there is less pollution, fewer irate drivers  up your backside, and fewer people to bump into generally. It's therefore healthier, which is sort of the point of exercise.

But, again, nothing is that straightforward in Britain. Johnson's outing on his bike creates a problem for the rightwing, bike-hating, car-worshipping media of this country. They love Johnson's Brexity ways and his colourful turn of phrase, but can't he just ditch the bike?

To be fair to Johnson, who I have little time for, he has fought the corner for cyclists. He has ridden a bike in London for years, despite the ridicule that comes with it. He appointed a cycling Tsar to improve cycling infrastructure in the capital. His government has spoken of the importance of active travel, including cycling, since the pandemic, and has backed up this talk with funds.

However, his cheerleaders in the press - Hitchens, Littlejohn, Clarkson, Coren, the usual suspects - are casual in their abuse of people on bikes. The grumpy old men (it's always men) 'other' cyclists, relying on stereotypes about Lycra, midlife crises, more money than sense, highway code avoidance, and non-Road Tax payment (yes, I know it doesn't exist).

I've never quite understood the depth of hatred focused on bikes by some people. For a certain segment of society there is nothing more infuriating than a fitter middled-aged man (as they usually are) on a bike passing a fatter middle-aged man in a car. It's not even ridicule, which wouldn't bother me. I don't care that you think I look stupid in a contour hugging outfit. Laugh your teeth out - I'm off for a ride.

The abuse of the commentariat seems to imply that anyone on a bike is a slightly left of centre/liberal type a la Jon Snow or Jeremy Vine. Either that or a self-centred, arrogant, and abusive bell-end who things rules don't apply to them. Cycling is a shibboleth - a sign that cyclists are different from everyone else.

Or maybe right wingers just can't comprehend how anyone who has the wherewithal wouldn't just drive everywhere. Margaret Thatcher thought anyone who used public transport was a loser - similar mindset. 

There's an interesting comparison to be made here with another sport - one of the few that you can still do during lockdown. And that's angling. While we're reaching for stereotypes, I'd hazard a guess that the typical fisherman (they're mostly men, right?) is a working class, conservative with a small 'c', car driver. I'd also hazard a guess that a reason angling is still allowed is because it's a relatively easy sop to the kind of working class votes that Tories are anxious to keep in former Red Wall seats for example.

But here's a thing. I've got no beef with anglers, but my guess is that most of them don't live within walking distance of a fishing hole, so they will probably drive there, which when it comes to holier than thou screeching about the iniquities of lockdown, 'drives' some folk up the wall. Will there be outraged columns in the Mail, Times and Telegraph about how anglers are taking the piss (as there inevitably will be about cyclists - they're in the post)? What do you think?

On the issue of 'what's local?' police minister, and former Mayor Johnson sidekick, Kit Malthouse, has apparently okayed rides of 70 miles if you can do it. That's probably a bit more than I'll be doing at this stage in lockdown, but it shows he has an awareness of what a good ride is - he must have learned from his boss. There are plenty of serious cyclists who can manage those sorts of distances, and who can mend punctures and mechanicals, or find their way home if they don't.

It's worth remembering what this is about. Exercise is 'a good thing', particularly cardiovascular exercise. There were concerns during the first lockdown about people delaying contacting doctors over heart attacks and cancer - two of the biggest killers, and ones which we won't be able to wish away with a vaccine. Life has to go on, albeit within new constraints for the moment, and we have to bear in mind longer term health concerns among the population.

It would be a shame if Boris Johnson's ongoing enthusiasm for two-wheeled transport harmed the thing he loves. Think about that on your next Covid-secure pedal, and ride safely.

Not cancelled

Christmas was always going to be different for me this year - the first without my mum. As it happens, it will be different for all of us. The new variant of the coronavirus has led the government to slap restrictions on large parts of the country that were not expected. People were already facing the awkwardness and anguish of choosing what households they would be allowed to meet over the sanctioned five-day period. Now those decisions have been taken out of our hands. Some are allowed to meet no one outside of their own household. The lucky ones can meet one other household on Christmas day. I say lucky, but it's a privilege that wasn't extended to the followers of other religions this year. Muslims, Jews and others have had to have lockdown celebrations, sometimes at very short notice. We've been given a bit of notice at least. It's easier for me in that I don't care so much for Christmas. Since my dad died, I've associated it with sadness. For years it was just my mum, sister and me who were thrown together on the 25th. Mum did her best to try and make things nice, but I don't think any of our hearts were in it. I always preferred the days either side of Christmas Day when I could meet friends, get drunk and forget about things. It changed when my sister and I had families of our own. The focus on children allows those of us who are not spiritual to find a purpose in Christmas beyond providing a massive drive for the retail sector. Young kids in particular get giddy with excitement in a way that I can barely recall. It's quite intoxicating and something I shall probably miss when my two become as lackadaisical about Christmas as I am. My wife is the complete opposite of me in her regard for Yuletide. She absolutely adores it, and the pleasure she takes has softened me somewhat and helped me appreciate it a bit more. She has a large, close and loving family who enjoy a get together, especially this one. As such, she has been hit harder by the doors slamming shut on the traditional loosen your stays festive blowout. So this year it's just the four of us, with possibly a friend popping round later on Christmas Day. We will, of course, have our Zoom contacts, which will be something. An interesting aspect of the pandemic is how it has affected communication. We were all in danger of slipping into non-verbal means of staying in touch - texts, Facebook comments, enojis, thumbs up, kudos... Nobody says what they mean any more - we're too busy trying to present our best lives. Not being able to meet face to face for a good deal of the year has perhaps made us appreciate the value of talking to others. Sometimes, as I've sat through stilted Zooms, it has felt like we're relearning how to speak to each other as we're forced to interact in real time, read facial expressions and interpret body language. There's an awkwardness and frailty to our conversations that we can't hide. Everyone has shed a skin. So this Christmas isn't cancelled. It's just different. For some, that will be a good thing, while others will find it tough. Like many things this year, it will make us reassess the normal and everyday, including how we celebrate and how we show our appreciation for other. I don't think we'll be having Christmas in summer, once we've all had the jab, as some are promising. If this year has taught me anything it's that sometimes you make a decision and move on. We cant live our lives looking backwards to see what we might have done differently. Enjoy the Christmas you can, and don't mourn what you can't have.

All this

It's now more than 100 days since lockdown. We may be starting to come out of the other end, or we may simply be experiencing a lull before the next wave. It's been, and continues to be, a strange time. We know it's happening - of course we do, the impact is all around in lives suspended, routines disrupted, and anxieties rising.
And yet, in some ways it's a bit of a phoney war for us. We don't know anyone closely who has been affected. I'm thankful for that. My tank of coping is still running on low after mum passed. This part of the country has not been as hard hit as some, despite the proximity to London. Infection rates and mortality is relatively low. We seem to be on top of it, for now.
But life has changed. The restrictions on us, and warnings are likely to stay in place for a while. The internal hesitancy may last even longer. When will we feel comfortable shaking hands with people again? What about hugging, or kissing? I catch myself watching TV images of behaviour that a few months ago was unexceptional, and bridling at the riskiness of it. And I don't consider myself to be especially subdued by this pandemic. What must it be like for others? As lockdown eases, and support for the most sheltered ends, it will be tough for some people to trust society again.
It hasn't all be terrible though. Family time has been great, and although work has ebbed, the measures that the government has brought in have helped my personally - it would be churlish to say otherwise. Not everyone has been caught by the safety net, but who'd have thought a Tory government would go so far? Strange days indeed.
I've been thankful for the reduction in options in some ways. Naturally indecisive, closing off choices hasn't been terrible for me. I'm happy to be guided in a particular direction at the moment.
Everyone has experienced this their own way. In some ways I've felt slightly apart from it because my focus was elsewhere for so much of it. Losing mum has affected me in ways I didn't anticipate. I've had feelings of guilt that I wasn't there for her as much as I might have been; feelings of loss - probably more than I expected; moments of  anguish as I pondered my own mortality, and... just sadness.
I've been drinking more than I should be and telling myself that it's okay. It's a coping mechanism. And that I can stop when I like, although I wonder. Are there things I'm not addressing?
We're moving on but there's still a fog.

Goodbye

Like many people at the minute, my sister and I had to arrange a funeral in very strained circumstances. It's never an easy thing, I guess - I've never had to do it before. When my dad died, we were both quite young - I had just turned 15 and my sister was 12 - and it was out of our hands.
I've been to enough funerals though to know the form, and currently there are many restrictions in place. We couldn't use the chapel. It was a graveside service, with a limit to the number of people in attendance, which meant my sister and me, plus immediate family. We couldn't even have floral tributes as florists aren't open. No hugging to comfort each other, and at the end we would head off back to our own lockdowns again.
It doesn't sound like much of a send off, does it?
Be that as it may, the stripped down affair on the day was quite touching.
If there can be such a thing as lovely weather for a funeral, then this was it. Sunlit blue skies untroubled by anything but a few fluffy clouds.
I drove to the funeral with my eldest son, who is 12. During the drive we chatted about what to expect. The only funerals he has been to before were when he was a baby. I said that I'd probably be upset, as would his aunt, and that he might be too, and that was alright. But it was alright if he didn't feel like crying - there's no one way to feel at a funeral.
I'd asked if he would read something on the day, and he agreed. We chose a poem suggested by the celebrant - She is Gone, by David Harkins. I asked him because I thought he could do it. He's very composed for his age. I hope he didn't feel pressured to do it, and I told him that if it came to it, and he didn't feel able, then he didn't have to read it.
With little traffic on the road we arrived in the town of Leighton Buzzard with about half an hour to spare, so we sat in a lay by for a bit. No cafes for a cuppa. The we drove to the cemetery where mum was to join dad.
My sister was already there with her partner and youngest son. So was the celebrant, who I had previously spoken to on the phone. We spoke briefly and anxiously to each other, but there was little time to say much to each other before the hearse arrived carrying mum's small coffin.
We followed the car into the cemetery to the strains of The Corries' Loch Lomond playing gently in the background. James, the celebrant, was a very comforting presence and led us gently through a simple service to remember mum. I said some words, getting through it relatively well until near the end when I choked. My son was next to do his reading and I'm immensely proud that was able to carry it out - he grew that day. It was also great to have him as my support - I don't know how I would have got through it without having someone to hug.
At the end of the service, my sister distributed some floral tributes that she had made, with pictures of mum with various family members and friends, and we dropped them into the grave on her coffin.
It was over relatively quickly, and with no hugs beyond the bounds of our two little groups, we went home.
It was simple, and that's what my mum liked, so it was a fitting service for her, even if it wasn't what we'd have chosen ordinarily. In some ways, the simplicity helped us deal with the day better. I think I'd have struggled to face all the family and friends on the day - it's such an emotional tidal wave. People want to pay their respects and offer their condolences, of course they do, and as someone who is grieving, you have to accept their wishes, but every one revives the upset you feel. It's a long and trying day.
This was more manageable for both me and my sister I suspect. We've spoken to family and friends before the day, and had lots of very touching messages, and that was plenty, to be honest. We'll see these people again at some point, and we'll probably cry with some of them individually.
We'll all remember her.