 Very warm today, sunny, blue sky, it's the start of the predicted heatwave, obviously, and long may it continue.
A letter to me from the Department of Health and Social Care, dropped on to the front door mat this morning signed by Matt Hancock, the Health Minister and Robert Jenrick the Minister of Housing, Communities and Local Government - the man, incidentally, who is presently accused of a suspicious manoeuvres involving millions of pounds; don't know the details but nothing new there as when ever there is a government minister involved in a scandal involving money we never get all the details. Apparently, Boris has said, "The matter is closed," so like the Dominic Cummings incident, a few weeks ago, we won't be getting the truth. Anyway, the Right Honourable Minister, Mr Jenrick, tells me, (again) I am clinically extremely vulnerable due to COVID-19 But the shielding advice I had been given (stay indoors, avoid non essential face to face contact) is changing because the chances of meeting someone with the virus has considerably reduced, so the shielding is to be relaxed, and from August 1st there will be no need to shield at all. I think they are rushing it, and we may come to regret this hurry to get back to making money. But what do I know? Mr Jenrick didn't mention, in his letter, the trouble he was presently experiencing. It is such a beautiful day I put the bike batteries on charge and when Cyril emerged suggested we go for a ride today. He agreed straight away. We took our usual route down to Dormansland ("Posh-land.") and took a different course to last time. Along the footpath by the side of the railway. It is straight but narrow in parts and up and down. A problem occurred when we reached the bridge just before Dormans Station. There are steep steps up to the road and getting the bikes up them proved to be quite a challenge. We managed it in the end and rested on one of the seats on the platform. The tannoy came on every few minutes telling passengers, (there weren't any) to observe the two metre rule and wear face covering - now the law on all public transport. We watched a couple of trains come through and then made our way back through Dormansland Park. At one point, on a hill, I stopped and couldn't get going again, tried a couple of times, but the electric motor didn't engage, so, no momentum, no balance. I fell off. C circled back, tutted and helped me up. No injuries, except to my pride, and we made our way back to the entrance to the wood, meeting on the way a fellow cyclist, and resident of Dormanland who had self-built his 4 bedroomed house and was an ex Gatwick worker. He is expecting delivery tomorrow, he told us, of an electric scooter, an item I am interested in having myself.
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Today, the media tell us, Boris will announce that from July 4th the restrictions on the catering industry will be lifted and the rule of maintaining two metre distance between us all will be reduced to one metre. Shame it isn't now, the Met people are forecasting a heatwave over the next few days, a state that is ideal for pubs I imagine.
Is this good news? Well, the heatwave is and no doubt landlords and restaurant owners will think it is too but I'm not so sure. The government seem to have got things wrong throughout this epidemic - usually late decisions - so I am not too confident that these latest changes are going to run smoothly. My sister, toward the end, displayed symptoms of dementia. Loss of memory and confidence being the most obvious, and it keeps crossing my mind – will this become my fate? I have always had a bad memory, forgetting where I’ve put the car keys – things like that. Heather has often joked, “If you get dementia, nobody would know.” But recently my bad memory seems to have got worse. A drama comes on the television that Cyril and Heather assure me we have seen, but I do not recall it at all. This afternoon, for instance, I was in my chair in the summerhouse when H called out to me, “I’m off now!”
I got out of the chair and walked up to the carport, “Where are you going?” “I told you this morning, I’m doing some shopping.” “Did you? Well, remember, keep away from people, six or seven feet, okay?” “Yes, yes, don’t worry.” I do worry, can’t help it. I didn’t recall her telling me she was going shopping today. This kind of memory lapse seems to be happening more often and it’s just a little bit worrying. I haven’t talked about it. I’m sure if I did Heather would want to pack me off down to the doctors for tests and once they’ve got me down as a possible dementia candidate who knows where I will end up? No, I won’t mention it. I follow politics. Had I ever had the opportunity to go to University I would have studied the subject. "Politricks" was how my late Uncle Jim described the subject. During one of our stays in America, I followed the antics of Trump and his cohorts; watched the Congressional Hearings, watched the political debates on CNN, NBC, ABC, and even viewed (against my better judgment) Fox News.
In America, I found it faintly amusing. The way the goings on in Congress and the White House were dissected and analysed by the 'experts;' while Trump's daily tweets were leapt upon and talked about in depth ("Are the President's tweets official policy?") But over there I was divorced from it. It was nothing to do with me. It was just entertainment; interesting, funny at times - that's the way they do it here, was my thinking, it was fascinating but it didn't really affect me. Now I'm home again and into the politics here again and it is not amusing and it does affect me. What a mess it all is, what a scandal. In the few short weeks, I have been home the politicians have been up to all sorts of politricks, their reputations have sunk to an all-time low. Mrs May promises £10M to Northern Ireland in order to keep herself in Downing Street. She insists the 1% pay cap to nurses, firemen, police, teachers and other public sector workers will remain while the MPs themselves get a 1.4% rise on top of the 10% raise they had in 2015. The Queen is to have her income doubled to £82M "to cover the cost of essential works at Buckingham Palace." It is revealed Prince Phillip took a ride on the Royal Train to Plymouth to attend a dinner at the Royal Marines Barracks. Cost: £18,690. Prince Charles took a two-day journey to Lancashire, Cumbria and West Yorkshire from Windsor on the train. Cost: £46,038. The train was used 14 times last year and its cost is between £800,000 and £900,000. An official is quoted as saying it was 'good value for money.' He was serious. The council leader and the chief executive of Kensington and Chelsea Council have resigned over the scandal of the Grenfell Tower disaster. They couldn't stand the heat so they have got out. They were lucky, over 82 of their constituents couldn't get out. According to The Telegraph the CEO will be entitled to compensation of around £100,000. How much will the poor people who were able to flee from their burning homes in the middle of the night get in compensation? I would like to know the answer to that. Some years ago, not long after my 80th birthday I was on the tube travelling from London Bridge to Eauston. The Underground was crowded, people everywhere. I dragged my wheelie case aboard and clutched hold of an overhead strap as we accelerated out of the station trying not to bump into anyone.
A young man sitting nearby stood and said, "Sit down, sir, take my seat." It was the first time that had happened to me. It was because I am old. It’s no wonder the end of my days keep creeping into my thoughts, eight weeks ago I had a letter from 10 Downing Street, no less, in it Boris told me about the steps being taken to combat coronavirus and instructing me to stay indoors for six weeks and various other rules. This morning I had a text from the NHS Coronavirus Service (the latest of several) informing me “You have been identified as a someone who may be at high risk of severe illness if you catch coronavirus.” It told me that support is available to get food or basic care should I need it.
It’s all very good and I’m impressed, but it’s another reminder of the stage I have reached in my life, isn’t it? My sister’s lung cancer was inoperable, she had it in both lungs. Mine was operable, and I went into St George’s Hospital, London, last July, and one third of my right lung was removed. Since then I have been unable to run up the stairs, or, in fact, run. But still, what’s the hurry when you are 83? Apart from that minor irritation I also get out of breath easily – which I suppose is not surprising considering Dr Nimako removed one third of half of my breathing apparatus. I can and do still ride my (electric) bike and I take walks now and then. Some weeks after the lung op I had an appointment with an oncologist. She told me radiotherapy in my case was not necessary but I should consider chemotherapy, “to be on the safe side,” she said. She spent some time explaining what it could do, went through the side-effects, and ended by saying the percentage of people’s condition being improved in this way was around 5%(!) I declined and here I am almost a year later and I don’t regret that decision in the slightest. I’d heard too many negative stories about that treatment to risk it and had spoken to a couple of people who had endured it, and both said I had done the right thing. Even Sandra (one of the Macmillan nurses assigned to me, more of later) agreed. Another reason death is on my mind these days is, I think, is because Stephanie, my sister, died on January 9th 2020 and there is still not a day goes by that she doesn’t slide into my head for a minute or two; She's not so active in there as Heather is, of course, Heather is there 90% of the time Stephanie only creeps in a few times these days. Incidents when we were kids, pop up, the time we shared a flat in Crumpsall, Manchester for a few months, various love-affairs she had, most of them unhappy until she met David, whom she married, had a son, Jason, divorced David after 25 years although still in love with him, I am sure. This daily reminder of her is a form of mourning, I guess. We got along quite well, she could be good fun, she could be bloody annoying. But she’s not here now, and I don’t like it. I miss her. It was lung cancer that got her, she was 78, had smoked since she was 16. Wouldn’t – no – couldn’t - give it up, and although she said three years ago she had we suspected she was still having a sly drag before the bloody things finally got her.
For any of you smokers reading these words, let me add this, in the hope it will make you consider things next time you light up: - I gave those damned things up when I was 40. Yet last June, 42 years later, after a biopsy, I was told, “Sorry, Mr Thornhill, you have lung cancer.” “But I gave cigarettes up over forty years ago,” I said. He shrugged, “Most of the people I see are ex-smokers,” was his reply. So, as they say in the North: Think on. Another reason death is on my mind these days is, I think, because Stephanie, my sister, died on January 9th this year and there is not a day goes by that she doesn’t slide into my head for a minute or two; incidents when we were kids, the time we shared a flat in Crumpsall, Manchester for a few months because we had fallen out with my Mum for some silly reason; the various love-affairs she had, most of them unhappy until she met David, whom she married, had a son, Jason, divorced David after 25 years although still in love with him, I am sure. This daily reminder of her is a form of mourning, I guess. We got along quite well, she could be good fun, she could be bloody annoying. But she’s not here now, and I don’t like it. I miss her. It was lung cancer that got her, she was 78, had smoked since she was 16. Wouldn’t – no – couldn’t - give it up, and although she said three years ago she had we suspected she was still having a sly drag before the bloody things finally got her.
For any of you smokers reading these words, let me add this, in the hope it will make you consider things next time you light up: - I gave those damned things up when I was 40. Yet last June, 42 years later, after a biopsy, I was told, “Sorry, Mr Thornhill, you have lung cancer.” “But I gave cigarettes up over forty years ago,” I said. He shrugged, “Most of the people I see are ex-smokers,” was his reply. So, as they say in the north: Think on. It struck me yesterday already I am over a month into my 84th year and time seems to be rushing by faster than it ever has done before. It’s rather concerning. The end is creeping ever closer.
We are in lockdown, have been for weeks now. To me it makes sense, this coronavirus is spreading like wildfire, and anything that helps to keep it away from us is okay with me, as, I am told, I am one of the most vulnerable. When I was told by Neil Smith, (surgeon) I had bowel cancer it shocked me but didn’t frighten me. I never thought it would kill me, and, so far anyway, it hasn’t. Then, a year later when I was told, by another surgeon, “Sorry Mr Thornhill, you’ve got lung cancer.” It did shock me, but it didn’t frighten. I think the reason for that is, because 90% of the time I feel fine. And everyone tells me how well I look - accompanied by comments like: “Nobody would ever believe you are 83!” All very encouraging and flattering and good for my ego, but realism soon creeps back to remind me I AM 83 and people do die at 83 and nobody would be shocked if I suddenly went in my sleep, (my preferred choice of demise). Well, I think wife Heather and brother Cyril would be if it was tonight. People would probably ask, ‘how old was he?’ And then nod and say something like oh well, a good’age. No. The young lady was just curious. We walked up to the The Grill and sat at the bar, both determined not to drink too much. Our conversation followed the usual pattern: we talked of Heather, money, our forthcoming trip to America, the cancer. "How are you feeling these days?" C asked. "Yeah, fine. I mean no different to how I felt a month ago - in fact not much different to when I was first told, and that was eight months ago." "That's good, isn't it? I tell you, I'll go before you." "So I'll the one that ends up rich!" We then talked of how our estate should be left (or distributed as I described it) by the last man standing, as it were. "If it's me, I'll probably make it percentages, you know. 5% to him 10% to her and so on." We moved on putting the world to right, talked of Putin's invasion of Ukraine last Wednesday and how, it seems, he is not doing as well as he hoped, there seems to be more resistance than was expected. But, as some eminent person once said, "The first casualty in war is Truth." So who knows what is actually going on? Then a girl, spoke to me, the bar, by now, was crowded and noisy and I couldn't understand what she was saying. She was young, pretty I had to ask her several times the question before I understood her. "What football team do you support?" she had asked. Manchester United, I told her. She asked why and we got into a conversation, that included C. She was curious about us. What are two guys like you doing here was the basis of her curiosity. "Like you?" I asked - "what do you mean 'like you?'" "Well , I mean,`' she waved towards |
