This lockdown is giving us all time to reflect on our lives. There’s no news, either locally or globally, other than the Coronavirus. Healthwise, no-one seems to be suffering from any illness at all, other than the dreaded virus. Brand new Nightingale hospitals have been rushed into operation, but seem to be empty. Whilst, on one hand, that’s good news, many are asking why we can’t treat all the Covid patients in these new, purpose-built facilities by specially trained staff, leaving our existing hospitals available for patients with other serious illnesses like cancer and heart disease. Healthy people over 70 are being told they must continue lockdown for a year! I understand the difficulties and the need to protect the vulnerable, but as the lockdown is slowly eased for everyone else, it would be better to separate those older but healthy individuals from the genuinely vulnerable with pre-existing health conditions. So, to summarise: we need the media to report other news, the NHS to get back to treating cancer patients and to ease lockdown for all healthy people, irrespective of age.
Soon after I started work at the University of Birmingham in 1978, an emergency erupted. A medical photographer working at the medical school up the hill from my office died tragically due to the accidental release of a dangerous smallpox virus grown in a research lab on the floor below where the medical photographer worked. Eventually it was concluded that the unfortunate worker contracted the virus via a poorly-maintained service duct between the two floors. Since then, the findings have been much contested. Fast forward to today’s much more lethal Coronavirus, in terms of its global death rate. Could it be that a similar accidental release of the Covid-19 virus occurred in the Wuhan virology lab in much the same way as the one which happened in Birmingham in 1978? I have no proof, of course; it’s merely speculation. But, just as arguments still continue behind locked doors over the smallpox tragedy, so I suspect we may never know for sure with the current crisis. As I’m currently classed as an at-risk over-70, I now read with dismay that I may be forced to continue the lockdown for “another year” or until a vaccine is available. Oh well better stock up on more loo paper....
As astronauts from the International Space Station prepare to return to Earth, what a change they’ll see. Major cities that used to be cloaked in pollution now have pure atmospheres and empty highways. Wildlife that used to be killed and maimed by vehicles and pesticides is now flourishing, skies no longer criss-crossed by grey aviation plumes, oceans and rivers at long last refreshingly clear from man’s wanton destruction. Was our planet heading for certain destruction then, the only possible salvation an urgent intervention from above? And if so, how can man be prevented from returning to the same old ways again once this pandemic is finally over? We mourn those who have succumbed to the deadly virus and do our utmost to stay healthy by remaining at home. So many imponderables this Passover and Easter Sunday.
Life in lockdown. As we are both what the government calls vulnerable, we are in lockdown for the foreseeable future. First problem: how to get home delivery of foodstuffs. It took weeks to get registered as vulnerable with our local supermarket and then a further week to access delivery slots. But, the good news. The first delivery to our doorstep is scheduled for tomorrow night. I chose that slot because for some reason it had the cheapest charge. Even I can afford 50p. Meanwhile, life outside is eerily quiet except for the boy racer who even now roars and revs past our house on his souped-up motorbike. Don’t know where he lives as we’re never quick enough to catch sight of him. FB is crazy at present, full of self-opinionated people spouting self-righteous comments about all the other ‘stupid’ people they see. Truth is we’re all having to make judgements on how to keep to government guidelines, none of which is precise enough to accommodate each individual’s personal situation. If you’re not coughing, take a deep breath. These are crazy times, but this too will pass.
To lighten the gloom a little, here’s an exclusive extract from my current No. 1 best-seller (click on cover image above.) Hope you enjoy it:
“Rome, 1660
Rome was a pot-pourri of the centuries, tiny colourful fragments from the beginning of time heaped one fragrant layer upon another. It was old but so so beautiful, full of rainbow colour and elegance. There was no other way to describe it but a decayed sort of beauty.
The streets were narrow, the thoroughfares roughly hewn. And down the centre and along the sides, butting up sharply against the houses, ran open sewage channels where residents would tip their chamber pots every morning – and woe betide any unfortunate passer-by who happened to be walking below at that very moment.
At intervals along the street there were wooden posts strung out to separate the main carriage-way from the narrow space left for passing pedestrians. Each side of the street was an odd assortment of dwellings and shops, each leaning towards each other as if to embrace, their windows shuttered to keep out not just the heat but the dust and foul smells from the street below.
In a shop slap bang in the heart of the Rome commercial area, a young man was slowly dusting the shelves in a rhythmic, but dreamy fashion. His exertions caused a thick flick of black wavy hair to fall forward over his broad brow. In an unconscious gesture, he elegantly brushed back the wayward tendril to reveal clear olive skin.
After finishing the dusting, the boy whistled tunefully to himself as he willingly stacked yet another pile of spruce, willow and maple in the back storeroom, ready to be fashioned into beautiful musical instruments. Along the inner walls of the shop were already a small selection of guitars, violins, violas, cellos and a large harp resting in the corner.
The boy absolutely loved his work. He was yet only sixteen, but he could imagine no finer occupation in the whole world.
‘No, no, Antonio! Not like that!’ shouted Signor Amati, who had come down to Rome especially to supervise Antonio’s new venture. It was Signor Amati, or Nicolo as the boy called him, who had taught Antonio all he knew about making musical instruments. But it was always the violins which Antonio loved the best, a love which had blossomed ever since he first heard Signor Amati play.
Antonio’s dream was to set up in Nicolo’s home town of Cremona, but first he decided to move further south to Rome. ‘There are not enough rich people yet in Cremona. I want to make and sell violins, and where better than in the great city of Rome,’ he had cried to his mentor.
And Nicolo could only agree. The boy had ambition and undoubted skill, he had to admit. Never could he have imagined that someone so young could be so very talented. From the first time that Antonio had watched and then copied him as he fashioned the supple wood, it was clear that this was no ordinary boy.
This boy was a veritable maestro in the making......”
“Rome, 1660
Rome was a pot-pourri of the centuries, tiny colourful fragments from the beginning of time heaped one fragrant layer upon another. It was old but so so beautiful, full of rainbow colour and elegance. There was no other way to describe it but a decayed sort of beauty.
The streets were narrow, the thoroughfares roughly hewn. And down the centre and along the sides, butting up sharply against the houses, ran open sewage channels where residents would tip their chamber pots every morning – and woe betide any unfortunate passer-by who happened to be walking below at that very moment.
At intervals along the street there were wooden posts strung out to separate the main carriage-way from the narrow space left for passing pedestrians. Each side of the street was an odd assortment of dwellings and shops, each leaning towards each other as if to embrace, their windows shuttered to keep out not just the heat but the dust and foul smells from the street below.
In a shop slap bang in the heart of the Rome commercial area, a young man was slowly dusting the shelves in a rhythmic, but dreamy fashion. His exertions caused a thick flick of black wavy hair to fall forward over his broad brow. In an unconscious gesture, he elegantly brushed back the wayward tendril to reveal clear olive skin.
After finishing the dusting, the boy whistled tunefully to himself as he willingly stacked yet another pile of spruce, willow and maple in the back storeroom, ready to be fashioned into beautiful musical instruments. Along the inner walls of the shop were already a small selection of guitars, violins, violas, cellos and a large harp resting in the corner.
The boy absolutely loved his work. He was yet only sixteen, but he could imagine no finer occupation in the whole world.
‘No, no, Antonio! Not like that!’ shouted Signor Amati, who had come down to Rome especially to supervise Antonio’s new venture. It was Signor Amati, or Nicolo as the boy called him, who had taught Antonio all he knew about making musical instruments. But it was always the violins which Antonio loved the best, a love which had blossomed ever since he first heard Signor Amati play.
Antonio’s dream was to set up in Nicolo’s home town of Cremona, but first he decided to move further south to Rome. ‘There are not enough rich people yet in Cremona. I want to make and sell violins, and where better than in the great city of Rome,’ he had cried to his mentor.
And Nicolo could only agree. The boy had ambition and undoubted skill, he had to admit. Never could he have imagined that someone so young could be so very talented. From the first time that Antonio had watched and then copied him as he fashioned the supple wood, it was clear that this was no ordinary boy.
This boy was a veritable maestro in the making......”
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