Heron Island, Great Barrier Reef, Australia

Tuesday, 28 April 2020

What a difference a week makes

Last week was sunny and warm enough to encourage a bike ride up to central London and through the parks and back:

This morning - gray, chilly and rainy with enough wind to blow the raindrops sideways on to my window-boxes (usually shielded by the balcony above).

And so we plod on through the lockdown. But on the bright side, on Sunday one of our local convenience shops had...... bread flour! 

Friday, 10 April 2020

 On my (permitted daily) wandering around the neighbourhood, I've been struck by the different timetables by which the trees are coming into leaf and flower.

The plane trees are barely thinking about it at the moment:

while the poplars and willows are in the first flush:

and the chestnuts are looking well advanced (and much healthier than these particular trees will look later on in the year - there's some sort of blight seems to get them then):

On one of the patches of unmanaged street edging land (no-one seems to know who owns them) this escaped cherry is in full bloom

while these managed ones look like an explosion in a frilly-knicker factory:

and a favourite ceanothus is at its best (there was another small one not so far away that was putting out the odd flower back in February)

Now the weather's set fair for a few days, the parks are more needed than ever, even though the play equipment has been cordoned off. There is much debate about the way the major park in the area saw so many people too close together, and whether or not it should have been closed, but our local ones weren't quite so popular yesterday:

Monday, 6 April 2020

Tell it not in Gath, but I think I've found the sweet spot for visiting the supermarket. Three weeks ago, having thought to ask for an early refill of my prescription to cover me for the next three months or so, I went to the supermarket nearest the pharmacy to find that things like, not just the seemingly inevitable toilet rolls (I read of a delivery driver who filled someone's order for 120 of the things, can you believe), but oils and vinegars, rice and pasta had been cleared out. Two weeks ago, it seemed a clever idea to try to go for opening time on a Saturday, only to find that my regular supermarket was staggering entrance to a small group at any one time, and the distancing queue stretched practically to the other end of the shopping centre. But as it happens, the smaller supermarket up the other end of the centre wasn't busy at all and had certainly enough, even if not necessarily what I would normally have bought.

This week, however, mid-morning on a regular weekday seems to be the quiet spot for my regular supermarket (usually, it's quieter on a Saturday when all the regular office workers in the complex are away). No queues, and plenty of stock (though still not rice and pasta, which isn't that surprising, and I didn't bother to check on the toilet roll situation).

So with luck, one can be reasonably confident a new routine has settled down. Thank goodness the weather is more encouraging for getting outside and taking the push-bike somewhere else. Today it was a shortish run up to Limehouse and back, stopping only to admire this display:
Tulips in lockdown - sounds like a title for a very odd movie

Sunday, 29 March 2020

Today's first task was to to use up some time adjusting the clocks.

It's remarkable how many timepieces there are to adjust in a fairly straightforward flat, what with the accumulation of things over the passage of time: in the kitchen, the cooker, microwave and (for some reason) the electronic scales each have their own clock, in the bedroom a bedside clock, in the living room two analogue clocks, the radio/hifi and the DVD player need manual adjustment - and so does the landline phone. Not to mention three old-fashioned wrist-watches.

It doesn't take long, and at least it looks as though we've used up another hour of confinement - even though it's the confinement itself that removes the need to keep an eye on any clock for just about anything (other than shop opening hours). It may be called Summer Time, but since it's neither winter nor summer, one can't really call the present limbo hibernation or estivation - primaveration?

Thursday, 26 March 2020

Seen in our local bus shelter

I assume someone's home schooling is aimed at being helpful, even if the spelling needs a little work:

Monday, 23 March 2020

I blame the onions

Arriving at the supermarket early last Saturday, luckily just as they were handing out packets of toilet rolls, I managed to get one of the last of that delivery. That meant juggling it with shopping bags and basket, along with the purchases, among them, some onions, which I put in a bag that promptly slipped out of my grasp and rolled under the shelves. In the five seconds or so in which I put everything down to concentrate on fishing them out again, some enterprising soul swiped the loo-rolls from behind my back. In Waitrose, no less.

But if I'm honest, my situation wasn't that desperate (things might be different in a week or so's time), and it was a bit embarrassing that the only size of packet they had was of nine (count 'em) rolls. It's hard to imagine the kind of intestinal apocalypse for which I'd need that many (I was planning how to share with neighbours or the local food bank collection, honest, officer).  That will teach me to have eyes too big for ... something or other.

And it rather revealed that, even though on the whole the distancing advised by the government isn't that far different from the way most of my time is spent (apart from lunches out a few days a week and the occasional pint in a pub), there's a sensation that's more than the ordinary annoyance when something one takes for granted suddenly changes.

Realistically, it's not hard, even now, to change with it, find substitutes for things that aren't on shelves, use up my usual store-cupboard stocks (a good week's worth), or even just do without (heaven knows my parents' generation managed that, and we're a long way off Woolton Pie, after all). But it's surprising how quickly one slips into the naggingly uneasy frame of mind that keeps a spare shopping bag tucked away in case there's something useful that might not be there another time.

In the meantime, there are some onions to use up.

Friday, 7 February 2020

This is St Anne's churchyard in Limehouse this morning, just the right distance for a gentle bike ride to see how the spring bulbs are doing (just as they do year after year, it seems).

There would have been some words about global warming and the seasons being out of joint (we have had sudden snow storms in the first week of February in the past), but I see much the same pictures were possible about this early at least 8 years ago.

So that's one pontification the less.

Sunday, 2 February 2020

I learn today that there is a thing called the genetic isopoint, a point in time where anyone then alive who had any descendants at all must (at least statistically)  be an ancestor of everyone alive today. And apparently it's more recent than you might think, less than 15,000 years or so.

Which means, of course, that we're all a mixture of some sort.  No secret to me, since discovering some ancestors in Jamaica half a dozen generations back who included both slave-owners and enslaved Africans. 

Friday, 31 January 2020

One chipped and battered mug, somewhat over-scoured inside, and ready for recycling. I bought it on my first trip abroad after my father died, to Brussels, on the then newly-opened Eurostar train service, so the mug's been with me 25 years.

It came with the EU flag on it, from the EU souvenir shop, but the flag wore off in the dishwasher some years ago.

Some sort of a metaphor there, as the clock ticks down to our formal exit tonight (not that we shall awake to any immediate difference, let alone to an end to the conundrums of trying to have cake and eat it).

Thursday, 16 January 2020

This tree graces the playground of the primary school over the road.

The old-style building remains rather forbidding-looking, despite the play equipment outside (and when one sees inside on election days, the walls are full of cheerful artwork): but in a rather dull and wet January, the early (very early) emergence of flowers makes a nice surprise on the way to the paper-shop.