Seriously isolating

Jean, Melbourne Australia

Big changes in Melbourne. Only last week I was enjoying having a friend over for coffee but as of Wednesday midnight all of Melbourne is in lockdown again. The sky this afternoon is in synch, with dark clouds threatening to overpower any glimmer of light. We are only allowed to go out for food shopping, medical care, exercise, and work if you can't work from home. Melbournians can't visit their holiday homes in the country. And Victorians are not allowed to cross any state borders either.


Even more severe restrictions were imposed on the residents of 9 high rise apartment blocks housing approximately 3000 people who had a severe lockdown on their buildings - they aren't allowed to leave their buildings at all for 5 days while all residents are tested. This was a rapid response from the Victorian government after discovering a number of 'hotspots'.

In the Guardian 10 minutes ago, 165 new cases were reported in Melbourne with 30 linked to known outbreaks and 135 still under investigation. There is the inevitable politicking going on with outraged attacks on the Premier Daniel Andrews for
1) firstly employing security guards instead of police to guard returned travellers quarantining in hotels (reportedly the guards weren't well trained, shared cigarette lighters and one even slept with a returned traveller) and then

2) imposing the severe lockdown, without any warning, on the 9 apartment towers and using the police to guard the buildings. Andrews was criticised for a lack of sensitivity in bringing in large numbers of police instead of using community leaders and elders to explain what was happening and why, and to reassure people, amongst whom are many migrants struggling with poor English as well as the trauma of dislocation. There was also upset and anger that people weren't given any warning and a sense that this 'heavy handed' approach would not have been used in suburbs 'on the other side of the river,' ie wealthier, WASP communities. However, in response to this rather extraordinary lockdown, the community rallied with individuals donating food and money and incredible organisations such as the Sikh community and the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre immediately got into gear, cooking up and delivering thousands of meals.


The lockdown is of course disappointing news for all the restaurants, theatres, libraries and galleries which were planning to open, but I have a lot of respect for the Premier who is not shying away from making difficult and unpopular decisions, putting the safety of the community first, all the while remaining calm and clear. Really impressive.

So no more jolly get togethers with friends. Back to zoom: there is a such a full schedule of weekly chats there's hardly time to do much else. Am finding Zooming is quite tiring but am still very grateful for it.


And just because it's good to support the artists amongst us, here's my second pandemic art purchase: a little bird by Melbourne artist Ingrid K Brooker. She's on Instagram too.


Gratefully Sheltering

James Oglethorpe, Virginia, USA

Dinner with Hegal 

“Please be careful with my heart,” Fenella whispered as she clicked the button on her measuring app, fixing a fork to a precise distance on the table. She had kissed, or rather pecked, a hundred frogs to get to this point. Tonight she was having a dinner party, in her New York apartment, for two. Fenella had met Porter through Affinity. A dating agency for the intelligent professional. She was in the end stages of relationship recovery. He was two years widowed. Biology had passed her by, love hadn’t. Yet. The evening had to be right. She considered and rejected putting Hegal, her non-shedding Chinese Crested emotional support dog, into a kennel for the evening. 

His acceptance would be a key factor in her decision to proceed. 

With Melody Gardot on the Bang and Olufsen stereo (a relic from her split with longterm schlub Steve) and Hegal in her arms, she opened her front door. 

The evening got underway and Hegal was banished, with a treat, to his crate in the kitchen while they ate. Her job as a digital content editor on the NYT, his as a curator at the Guggenheim, were soon dispensed with.


“And your parents?” Porter asked in a refined mid-Atlantic accent issuing from a passionate mouth, a vein pulsating in his neck. 

“Happily retired in Connecticut,” she replied, her voice New rather than original York. “Daddy was a lobbyist, Mum a home maker.” Her mundane words sounded flat compared to her racing pulses, a blush rising in her cheeks. Porter was attentive, listening, absorbing her. Feeling naked under his gaze she went to release Hegal. Porter, unasked, cleared the table. 

While Fenella made coffee, Hegal sat next to the guest on the sofa, staring up at him. Taking out his hankie Porter took an anxiety dab at his forehead. The dog, distracted, buried his nose between the cushions until he was picked up and put on to the floor by mistress, who sat down next to Porter. 

She did so knowing that there was no fear of inappropriate actions. With Porter she was safe. The evening was reaching a perfect conclusion. No premature physical unpleasantness and need for rejection. Just friendship and the expectation of their next date. 

Without warning Hegal began whimpering and keeled over on the rug, his hairless body convulsing.


“What is it my precious?” Fenella cried out as she sank to her knees. 

As Porter sat helpless on the sofa, a thought occurred to him. He reached into his pocket. His pills. They must have fallen out of the hankie when he used it. Hardly daring to breathe he reached between the cushions and found them, one whole, the other half chewed. He looked at the expiring dog. The realization hit him: the remainder must be inside Hegal. 

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out. “Let’s get the little fellow to the vet.”

“How do you know what the matter is?”

“It was wildly inappropriate of me to bring them, just insurance, but I fear Hagel has ingested some Viagra.”
“Them? You need two?” Fenella said, gathering up limp Hagel. “What on earth did you imagine was going to happen this evening? Who do you think I am?”


Indeed. What did it say about his expectations of her: easy? What did it say about him: 



In the Uber on the way home from the all night vet: Porter poorer, and out of explanations and apologies, Fenella silent, stroking the stomach pumped Hegal. Once outside Fenella’s apartment building Porter stood on the sidewalk, preparing to leg it down to the subway and into oblivion.

“Aren’t you going to help me upstairs with poor Hegal?” She asked. “It’s the least you can do.” 

With reluctance, then resignation, he took the dog wrapped in his leather jacket. Prolong the humiliation and guilt. Sure. Add the cost of an expensive dry clean to the tab. Why not? 

As they waited for the elevator Fenella turned to him.
“I hope you also brought protection.”

“Of course. They are in my other pocket.”


As the elevator ascended Hegal opened his eyes, looked up at Porter, and summoning up the energy, licked the back of his hand. 


From Rural New York

Sandy Connors, USA

These past two weeks have flown by with thunderstorms and a small tornado that swept through our little hamlet uprooting trees (thankfully none of mine) and shutting down electricity for many hours during a very hot spell. Intending to submit a journal entry but waiting til the very last minute, I was unable to do so with no power or internet and of course when last Sunday’s journal arrived I was very sorry to not have been included, but was interested to hear how everyone is faring.


For quite a while I have enjoyed subscribing to and reading online posts from Foxed Quarterly. Last month they interviewed British writer Tim Pears, who I had not heard of before. Intrigued with what I learned about his latest ~ a trilogy, I began listening to the first book ‘The Horseman’ through Audible while I worked on my engraving or a sewing project. Written from the perspective of a sensitive and quiet 12 year old boy who is a very close observer of nature and has a special love and connection to horses, it is set during the early 1900’s in southwestern England. It was beautifully written, and at times very moving ~ I ended up listening to all three books one right after the other as I couldn’t wait to hear what became of this young man and recommend it highly.


Most everyone here in rural NY is complying with wearing a mask when out and about ~ there are the occasional few, including a local woman who ignored signs outside our very tiny post office requesting not only that patrons wear masks, but also only come in one at a time. Most folks don’t seem to mind, and keep their conversations with the postmistress short, if there is a line outside. I was at the window mailing a parcel to the UK when this unmasked woman walked in behind me and went to her box to retrieve her mail. I (masked) smiled and asked where her mask was and did she know we were only allowed in one at a time. She, unsmiling, just continued taking her mail and left without a word. Even in our little community one sees the reflection of the larger picture where some folks value their freedom more than their safety and respect for others.  


My days continue as they have for the past four month, quietly at home with very little going out except when really necessary. This week I had to return my leased car and begin a new three year one with the same reputable dealer not very far from home. Most of the communication has been online or by phone, but when I did have to go to exchange cars, and sign all the paperwork, it was done safely with everyone wearing masks, and sitting behind plastic shields. Except when my salesman had to show me the inside of the new car ~ we had to sit right next to each other but kept masked and afterwards I was offered hand sanitizer. I have a lovely brand new car, and will most likely not use up all the mileage I am allowed now that I am retired and may be remaining at home for an indefinite period of time. It seems I am always busy with something or other, and I love the feeling that I don’t have to be here or there, that I have whole days free to savor the lovely summer days with birdsong, and peaceful views of the farm fields and my little garden to tend to.


Care in the time of Corona

Shirin Jacob, Ålesund, Norway

Back to reality. My reality. We drove back home from the island with the cats. Sofus, my black and white likes to sit on my lap and cuddle. Julius, the ginger, enters a catatonic state in his box but shoots out of it when we open the door at home.

The Hurtigruten, the ship which takes tourists, only Norwegian ones now, from Bergen, in the South, to Kirkenes in the far North, is plying its route again and announced its arrival into port with a long blast of its horn. It was strangely reassuring. This was the Midnattsol, the boat I travelled on 12 years ago. My journey then was a long overdue visit to Norway, a land from which my late mother’s three good girlfriends had originated from. I loved the slow journey and the storybook little wooden houses by the coast. NRK TV actually had a program which charted the boat’s course up the coast and through the fjords. Every evening Norwegians sat and watched their coast slip by with locals standing and waving or holding concerts to celebrate the ships’ visit. The thing I least liked on my trip were a big group of tourists who organized themselves early to reserve the best window seats for every single meal. I’m not a great fan of aggressive competition after surviving medical school. 

I received a message last week from a former Polish classmate from my language school asking whether I could help her prep for her exams later this year. I thought it will be a useful exercise to revise with her and at the same time enjoy some human connection other than just my husband. I think I’m older than her mother and I appreciate her company. My mother always surrounded herself with much younger friends. She had trusted old friends but occasionally found the moaning and groaning about all their various illnesses, which she thought was par for the course at their age, boring. So she would ring younger devotees on her Rolodex to have a coffee, lunch, attend a concert or see an exhibition. And got herself driven around as she had been banned from driving by then. In return, they received the benefit of her hugely entertaining company and wise counsel.  

My young friend takes a bus from her village an hour away and walks twenty minutes to my home. I tend to be terribly lazy, especially on blustery, rainy days but have decided to stir myself to meet her bus daily with a brisk walk beforehand, so I force myself to move at least an hour before we meet. 


Rali, my best friend in Singapore, and I have just decided to do a long distance book club. Daily. I made a commitment in my mid thirties to attend either a professional or personal self improvement course yearly. Rali and I met 18 years ago and we have attended three major courses together. Two coaching courses and a neurolinguistic programming course (NLP) in London. We did the Newfield Network ontological course led by Julio Olalla ten years ago which was life changing. I initially did it to widen my communication skills as one tends to be a little pedantic and paternalistic given the old fashioned medical training I received. Coaching was all about moving forwards; listening rather than speaking (which a few of us are not very good at) and facilitating the patients’ needs rather than just than my medical agenda. 

Our goal with NLP was vastly different. The commitment was a long weekend every month in London for four consecutive months. A hugely expensive undertaking. We flew in Thursday night and left Monday. We each had a question in mind and used every technique and process during the course, moderated by Ian McDermott, to arrive at an answer. As a result, I personally found the courage to leave Singapore in my late fifties; to leave everything familiar and comfortable for me. A beautiful home, my clinic, my friends and my personal Disneyland. So... Rali and I are re-reading Ian’s book and looking at it with new eyes, given that the material has had time to sink into our subconsciousness. 


In Norway, our borders are slowly re-opening and we are a bit nervous about a second wave of Covid 19. For the most part, in our county on the northwest coast, we aren’t exactly crowding the beaches or hanging out at the wine bars or pubs. Given that we only have one wine bar and less than 10 pubs. 


My husband and I have just finished watching the second series of Borgen, a Danish political drama. Have a good weekend, my friends. God helg!



John Underwood, Norfolk

Life is in the bubbles! A lesson unlearned.


We have been gradually poking our heads above the parapet, to find other people doing exactly the same. Like chickens emerging from their coop, we are shaking our feathers, scratching about, and looking generally rather startled. We run about haphazardly in short directionless jags. 

On Tuesday last we had three visitors to the house. Firstly we had a man coming to talk to us about digging a wildlife pond in the garden. After that, a fellow book dealer visited to look at (and buy!) books, and in the early evening, Ally had her hair cut, after we had both looked at various styles online (“trendy shorter styles for the over sixties”), and sanitised everything that stood still in preparation, and again after the visitors. Later on in the week we sold more books from online enquiries, and I made three “book safes” by hollowing out three rather defective school story books that I had bought for their cricket covers. And as I write, I am listening to cricket on the radio. I am listening to cricket on the radio. I am only actually bloody well listening to the cricket on the radio! We are probably losing of course but heigh-ho, a familiar gentle burbling is coming from the wireless. Only the one commentary this time, as I have realised that my previous radio dominance for several days in a row, in two separate rooms, over several test matches was probably… unreasonable…

But it was last Monday that provided the most excitement. We had managed to find enough creamy elderflower heads to ferment some champagne (other fizzy beverages are available) and although it was rather sweeter than our usual attempts, we were enjoying a chilled glass or two, and I was experimenting mixing it with gin. Or exshperi, eshpexrish, eshpermentin mishwith giiin-daahling-ahling. On Monday evening we were sitting in the kitchen and just about to cook supper when we heard a loud bang from the porch. “What the flipping heck was that?” exclaimed the imaginary and invisible Bishop standing behind me. My own exclamation was along the same lines but somewhat more Anglo Saxon in both content and delivery… we rushed to the porch to see smashed glass everywhere, a door dripping with elderflower champagne, tiny shards of glass embedded in the plastered walls and, unbelievably, a hole in the ceiling. An actual hole in the ceiling. We have pictures. One of our bottles had exploded- not taking out the wired-on bung, but actually fragmenting the thick glass bottle, and shooting the top half into the ceiling above. A previous journal entry of ours reported a similar incident from a few years back, and we were again presented with the same problem as before - what to do with the remaining adjacent bottles? This time I grabbed a large decorating floor cloth, bundled it in front of my face, and carefully carried the bottles outside to open them, creating three frothing fountains, the bottles virtually emptying themselves. (That was not a thinly disguised metaphor for an excitement of a… prurient nature). 

Goodness knows what would have happened if anyone had been near the bottle when it exploded - serious injury would have occurred from flying glass. 


We are too old for such excitement. We are becoming a danger to ourselves as we dodder aimlessly about. Our children will talk about our humorous unreliability behind our backs, and then in front of us thinking that we don’t understand. They will remove sharp objects and hide car keys. “Will they never learn, the old fools”, I hear them say. Pass the Wincarnis. Would you like some Sanatogen with that, daaahling?


Vie de château

Marie-Christine, Blois, France

Superlatives and lies. 


This morning, on the radio, I heard a journalist, who was leaving for his holidays, say he was wishing everybody to have a "wonderful" summer. 

A "good" summer would have been just right for me, quite enough. He made me cross, I am tired and I don't want a "great" summer, e.g. climbing across the Himalayas, rowing across the Atlantic. I just want my summer good not great, to sit in a hotel at 80 € the night for 2 (not one of those hotels you read about in the newspapers, costing more than 300 a night - journalism of the right or the left is the same when it comes to hotels and restaurants, always expensive). I want to read a second rate book of Stendhal (none of his classics), have a good glass of wine for 5€, take a walk, an easy one no more than 2 hours...

A story: "Have a great day!" "I will have exactly the kind of day I intend to have": the reply of an uptight English man in California. 

I have really enough of everything being exaggerated: great, wonderful, gigantic, colossal, big, tremendous, world beating, fantastic, marvellous... words in permanent mascarade and an inflation equivalent to the salary of footballers. Only Kensington and Chelsea  girls in the Eighties were using those words, now it's everybody. And it has got much worse with the C virus, everything even more exaggerated and inflated, including the budgets of nations. 

The ordinary, simple, modest, quiet, sober, private is being transformed by reversing the meaning of these words, so that these things, good in themselves, are turned into lies. I can't even remember when it started. It came gradually, and it seems that it will be difficult to find words which will go further, thank God.

Who will put a stop to this?


I like reading in the Financial Times, the section "How to Spend it". At least I get informed about all the beautiful things I often admire, invented or created for the 14 million millionaires of the world. I enjoy looking at human creations and masterpieces in museums, galleries, shops or estate agents' windows. Most of the time, with admiration and without envy. I don't necessarily want to buy a Rembrandt or a château. I notice that in How to Spend it, they never use that kind of inflated language, instead they say: soft, soothing, exquisite, tender... Sometimes I must admit they use "extraordinary", for cars, boats, watches or jewels, but then you are sure to be in the multimillionaire rank. Sometimes, I treat myself with a 10 € expresso in a luxury café, usually good value (quality, service, surroundings). The Financial Times has almost abolished the superlative from its vocabulary, not from economics. The inflated language is kept to trick ordinary people. 

But (now I come to my paradox) simplicity is now a value for the richest, wanting to "live  according to their hearts" , after all they are human too. This simplicity is not generally available, you have to be well off. A doctor knows that everybody has only two legs and that ultimately hard realities will prevail for rich and poor alike. That is probably why politicians hate doctors and people tend to find doctors arrogant. Sic transit gloria mundi.


Words from Wood Lane

Susan Neave, Beverley

The most adventurous thing we’ve done this week is a visit to our hairdresser. She works on her own, and is very efficient, so it was all extremely well-organised. We wore our masks, which made chatting more difficult. Apart from that we’ve had a short and dampish trip to the beach, and yesterday I had tea in a friend’s garden. It was unseasonably chilly for July, but it seemed wrong to keep my coat on. This afternoon I did my weekly supermarket trip, which included a fairly long list from our friends. Discovered they (the supermarket) have now abandoned the one-way system, which made things slightly easier, but surprised and slightly concerned to see the distance markers removed. An acquaintance in Paris who is a leading virologist tells us that the virus would be worse in winter, and that air conditioning is a very bad thing as regards spreading it.


Cafes and restaurants have begun to open around the town. We haven’t been into any of them, but it will be interesting to see if the Chancellor’s £10 bribe will mean that everywhere is full on Mondays to Wednesdays in August!! Sad to see some more shops closing, mainly national chains. Hotter Shoes shows no sign of reopening, Laura Ashley is selling their remaining stock, and Joules has closed. So far the independent shops seem to be doing better. The greengrocer’s that opened fairly recently is always busy, and the new Refill shop seems to be doing well, especially as they had items such as flour when the supermarkets didn’t. An empty shop has just been refurbished and will apparently sell expensive watches, another seems to be having a makeover for a new tenant, and a ‘let’ sign has just appeared on a third. This should mean a few new jobs locally, but nationally we must be facing a massive rise in unemployment. At the same time there is a growing crisis in the social care sector, and the only way to begin to tackle this (apart from not imposing planned immigration restrictions) is to make jobs in that sector more attractive, starting with much better pay. On a more cheerful note the weather is going to improve at the weekend and there will be the Journal to look forward to on Sunday. Thankyou Margaret and Sheila!


Rural Norfolk

Chris Gates, Norfolk UK

The Political Week is in two parts. 

Much upbeat ‘fiscal stimulation’ from Chancellor Sunak mainly aimed at encouraging spending: VAT reduction for tourism and eating out etc, a gimmicky voucher for everyone to spend at participating restaurants in the dull days Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday, and an increase in Stamp Duty threshold to £500,000 (reckoned to save the average buyer £4,500). Plus a bit of job creation. 

The other part is the PM being pursued over an unwise throwaway comment about Care Homes being tardy to get on board with virus control/defence. What he actually said was: ”too many Care Homes didn’t really follow the procedures”. It’s not my job to defend him, but I suppose one would be too many. He hasn’t chosen to use this.

Amongst the conflation provoked is one interesting report from Birmingham where a Care Home that locked down early, refusing to take in either new guests or visitors and didn’t lose a single guest or Staff Member, revealed the temptation put their way to: ‘bid‘ for a hospital patient of unknown covid status within a four-hour ‘availability window’, take delivery within 24 hours and get an introductory bonus of £1000. Sixteen homes did take patients - numbers are uncertain but thought to be in the region of 400. Was that happening all over the country, or just Birmingham?

Sadly, latest news is that John Lewis is closing some stores and, together with losses announced by Boots, another 5000 jobs have gone.


It’s been a dullish, wettish sort of week when suddenly everything I want to do is impossible and all the things I should do unattractive. On the upside, we welcomed our first Yurt Guests and as I sit here typing, my perch is selected for a view of the driveway so as to get an early sight of Guests #2 arriving - their eta being 4pm and the time now 4.30. Visitor feedback so far is good and the extra care required to reassure both them and ourselves that cross-infection from coronavirus unlikely while they’re here turns out to be not very onerous. We have bought extra sets of bedding (including the cushions no bed is complete without these days) so as to introduce a sanitary ‘break’ in the cycle, and though we always were careful, we now have colour-coded cloths for the three areas, Yurt, Cookstation and Cludgey. The Cludgey is a Shepherd’s Hut that contains the shower, basin and compost toilet. I’ve devised a welcoming protocol that goes like this: I proffer a hand to shake, explaining we’ll all hand-sanitise at the Yurt after and that after I’ll be putting on gloves so’s not to compromise the touch surfaces we’ve been so careful to clean for them.


Thoughts from the Suffolk coast

Harris G, Suffolk

I've just finished my first online hospital consultation (as a patient) using the video-camera facility on my iPad. I was very impressed. The idea is to reduce unnecessary attendances at the local hospital. To start, I was concerned but I connected almost immediately. Administration quickly checked my details and welcomed me. Then - I waited a couple of minutes and hey presto - there was the consultant! It was excellent - he asked all the right questions, listened, observed and gave me time to ask questions too. I know it wouldn't be appropriate in all circumstances but today - for me the consultation was perfect. No travelling. No hanging around in crowded, noisy waiting rooms. All completed in the comfort of my home.


One little source of amusement I must share. When I first started speaking with the chap in hospital admin, I saw myself on video and thought 'I'm going to get the giggles'. I was sitting in the wing armchair where I usually read and there is a standard lamp behind the chair with a large lampshade. The angle of my iPad and the way the camera was positioned - it looked as though I was wearing the lamp shade as a hat! I had to move away... I could never have been serious had I been viewing myself and others - looking like that!


The rest of the week has been an odd mix of "Lockdown-lite" experiences. The charming "sentry on guard duty" at the door of the shop I visited on Tuesday was super - welcoming, encouraging, respectful. Such a contrast with the overbearing teller at the bank yesterday - miserable, unfriendly and abrasive. I noticed how she barked orders at me and snatched my debit card in order to get my details on screen - but did not use hand gel either before or after touching the plastic card I had previously held in my hands. Is this to be the way of things for the foreseeable? Do we have to tolerate hostility as a consequence of fear and ignorance?


How are others feeling about the easing of lockdown? I am trying to be upbeat and resist the temptation to make cynical and sarcastic comments. I have some anxieties about crowds and confined spaces - but I'm no goody-goody and know I crave some of the normality of my pre-lockdown life. We had a meal sitting outside one of the restaurants in Framlingham on Sunday - so lovely. And I'm so looking forward to being able to go to my favourite chocolatiers in Eye. As it seems we must learn to live with the virus, I just wish I could have faith that we are heading in the right direction and making changes for the right reasons - at the right time.  


A friend tells me that the UK has seen a huge increase in the cases of domestic abuse and violence since lockdown started. Some of the cases have been utterly awful - horrendous injuries and hideous emotional assaults. We do not compare favourably with our European neighbours. Indeed, other countries had put in place strategies to identify and protect those at risk - while we have just seen the rising numbers as a sad consequence, an inevitability. We didn't properly prepare it seems. It is a shameful reflection on our policies.


I check the online news from time to time and see Boris Johnson has been outspoken again. An image of him seemed to get frozen on my screen the other day and I am sharing it now because it is relevant to a little ode I have penned.


To explain - while recently going through old books from schooldays - I came across a poem called Tenuous and Precarious by Stevie Smith. It inspired me to make up a humorous poem too - so with thanks to Stevie Smith for the inspiration and apologies to the English language - here goes... 



I am Dubious,

Dubious, the mischievous,

One Briton


I live with Cautious

Cautious, the precarious

We are two Britons


Beneficent and Censorious used to be our leaders 

Beneficent and Censorious

Four Britons


Scrupulous and Imperious

Also got in on the act

Scrupulous, Imperious

Yes, more Britons


But times have changed 


Our leader now is Furious

Furious the spurious

Leading us

(With hair that is extraneous)

In times that are most curious


Hail Furious!


The chief adviser is Perfidious

Perfidious - the odious 

Furious trusts him. 


Well, Perfidious told Furious

You'd better move your old carcass

A pandemic is upon us

A virus has beset us

It might even get one of us 


So Furious told all of us

Stay home and wash your hands

Lockdown is the protection

From the infection

In our green and pleasant land. 


So we all stayed at home

(Well, most of us)

Did what was asked of us

Believing to do otherwise

Would be disastrous 

Oh but still…

It hasn’t really worked for us

The plan saved the NHS

But the virus still got lots of us

Many deaths occurred

Too many deaths occurred

At the daily parade before us

Figures from some bod called Calculus

Told of those lost to us

To date - over 40,000 Britons

Yes, over 40,000 Britons


Surely this is fallacious?

Why, our scientists loquacious

Say we had all the PPE

The very best in Track and Trace us

Goodness, Gracious

Surely we do!

This is modern Britain!


Oh and guess what... the news is even more salacious

Even more hideous

When you think how Perfidious

Wasn’t ever true to us,


Yes, you see 

It seems he knew better than the rest of us

He went journeying,

To Castle Barnardicus


What do you say to that, Furious?

Who is really running this circus?

What a pain in the gluteus maximus!

Some Britons!


And as if death and suffering 

Weren’t enough for us

It seems we are now impecunious

Poor, broke Britons


So what is to be done, Furious?

Blame the care homes for being careless?

Say you'll pop out and get half a meal for us?

Promise the electorate that we will soon be prosperous?

You're something else, Furious -

You're preposterous!


I know I don't speak for all of us

But this could be the downfall of us

The virus remains with us

Present and pernicious







No Britons.

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