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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.
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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 It's much cooler today, 17 degrees centigrade is forecast, and it’s windy. Adele, our neighbour and friend in Circle Bay, Stuart, Florida, rang this afternoon. She has found someone who wants to rent our place. We had asked her few weeks ago to let us know if she knew of anyone looking to rent and she has been asked by a couple if it can be rented for four months, January – April next year and could they cancel without penalty if the coronavirus affected their plans. We have agreed. We bought the place in 2004, a two bed, two bath condominium on a marina by the St Lucie River and have been going there twice a year for several weeks at a time ever since. The virus has put a stop to that this year, and we were thinking of selling but the three of us can’t agree. I want to, Cyril does not want to (he enjoys the golf out there too much) and Heather can be persuaded either way. Renting it out will help to keep the running cost down even though Heather is not keen on letting complete stranger move into our "little piece of heaven" as the residents of Circle Bay often call it.  Today is forecast to be the warmest so far this year, up into the high seventies so C and I got the electrical bikes out and had some exercise. We took the same route as last time we went for a ride, which was on VE Day, 8th May. Down Furzefield Road, turned right along Eden Vale, through the wood and into Dorman’s Park. Dorman’s Park is very posh. It drips money. Many of the houses are in the millions, some several. The roads are smooth, a delight to ride on, not a pothole in sight. Most of the traffic you see, and of course there is very little, are workers vans and pick-up trucks attending the houses – painters, carpenters, roofers, electricians, plumber – people put on this earth to serve the rich. Dorman’s Park is as far away from the slums of Manchester, where, as a teenager I lived for a while, as it is possible to get. Today, it is very warm and sunny, peaceful and quiet (as it should be in such an up-market area). As we ride around and along the various roads, enjoying the tranquillity of the day, the only sounds we hear, from over the recently trimmed hedges by gardner are the well-modulated voices of millionaires enjoying tea on the lawn, or more likely, cocktails by the poolside. This is an enclave for the so-called “celebrity.” Peter Andre the singer, and Adele are said to live here, or used to live here. Tom Cruise, John Travolta, are rumoured to have houses in the area, I wouldn’t be surprised. We cycle around for half an hour, stopping several times to take photos, me becoming more convinced, as I take this area in, that fate has dealt a cruel blow by not allowing me into the over-privileged class, (royalty, billionaires, overpaid TV personality’s etcetera) where I feel fate should have placed me. Okay, so I’m jealous, or is it envy? I think either would fit. We enjoyed our ride, it’s good to see how the other half live. Sometimes.
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