I cannot wear a mask for any longer than a few minutes. My lungs do not have the strength to drag sufficient air through the fabric or filter. After 5 minutes in a mask I require an hour recovering my breath. The only mask I can wear long term needs oxygen piped into it.
This is why I am shielded and considered high risk.
This is why the place in which I self isolate is a sacred place. It is the only place where I can lead a normal existence whilst any trace of the virus exists in the community.
I have lived, and learned to enjoy living this precarious life for ten years and thanks to the stunning kindness and generosity of good good friends may continue do so in this Haven.
There are thousands of people in similar circumstances who do not enjoy such privilege.
Lifting shielding too soon is sentencing them to death.
Showing posts with label Coronavirus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Coronavirus. Show all posts
Thursday, 25 June 2020
Tuesday, 23 June 2020
What lifting of shielding means.
At present I am Shielded. I am shielded because I have a chronic condition which would guarantee that the virus will kill me.
As I live in a RBKC flat where it is impossible for me to be able to self isolate I am living elsewhere. My landlords are pleased that I am doing this because, under shielding, they have a duty of care and cannot carry out that duty.
When, on an arbitrary date - August 1st - with no evidence that the Virus will cease to be a danger to me, shielding is lifted, my landlords will no longer have that duty of care.
My tenancy dictates that I MUST live at my flat, failure to do so will result in my eviction.
Therefore, on the first of August, I must move back into a building that the owners feel is not safe for me to live in. I will not be able to self isolate if I so chose. If I do not I will be making myself intentionally homeless and cease to be of any interest to RBKC.
If I decide to remain away from my flat my possessions will be put into storage by RBKC at my expense.
I would be delighted if Boris Johnson, Cummins and co lift not only my shielded status but also my condition, therefore rendering me safe to go home.
The virus is still in the community, there is no cure, a second wave is expected but it is safe to leave the trenches in order to protect the economy at the expense of human lives.
I am lucky. I have somewhere safe to remain and good friends. Millions of others are not. They are being thrown to the wolves.
As I live in a RBKC flat where it is impossible for me to be able to self isolate I am living elsewhere. My landlords are pleased that I am doing this because, under shielding, they have a duty of care and cannot carry out that duty.
When, on an arbitrary date - August 1st - with no evidence that the Virus will cease to be a danger to me, shielding is lifted, my landlords will no longer have that duty of care.
My tenancy dictates that I MUST live at my flat, failure to do so will result in my eviction.
Therefore, on the first of August, I must move back into a building that the owners feel is not safe for me to live in. I will not be able to self isolate if I so chose. If I do not I will be making myself intentionally homeless and cease to be of any interest to RBKC.
If I decide to remain away from my flat my possessions will be put into storage by RBKC at my expense.
I would be delighted if Boris Johnson, Cummins and co lift not only my shielded status but also my condition, therefore rendering me safe to go home.
The virus is still in the community, there is no cure, a second wave is expected but it is safe to leave the trenches in order to protect the economy at the expense of human lives.
I am lucky. I have somewhere safe to remain and good friends. Millions of others are not. They are being thrown to the wolves.
Thursday, 11 June 2020
In the time of Coronavirus.
She passes the window each day
Pre-Raphaelite hair new penny bright catching the sun
catching my eye.
In this strange time of isolation
she is my only constant
when once it might have been
the morning ferry on the Dart,
the night-bus on Chepstow or church-bells.
she clicks away the days day in day out
heels, halyards tapping idle masts, on cobbles
I do not watch for her
I simply sit writing at the window that she passes
and as she passes
mark another day happy in her constancy.
I do not know her and for that reason can imagine,
invent a life and circumstances
watching her walking in the rain
talking on a hidden telephone,
(she has an American accent),
Laughing and happy
oblivious to the drenching of her hair
perhaps to a lover caught elsewhere, planning a reunion,
a parent in New York, Agent in L.A.
or a comedienne in St Louis
practising new material for want of a live audience
Maybe there is no phone at all
she is an actress learning lines for a show that may never go on
or a schizophrenic happy in her own company
I do not know her name
I shall not give her a name of my making.
In naming something a sense of ownership sets in;
I could no more name her than name
a wild palomino or the salmon that did not rise
or the raindrops on the glass
She does not notice me
I am too old to be of any interest or threat
like a piece of street furniture, or a bicycle
chained to railings slowly losing component parts.
I am invisible and benign
free to count her daily passing
marvelling at her loyalty
happy to have this constant reminder of time and place.
I will leave this place soon
and return to my home not far away
but not close enough to be on her daily route.
Perhaps I will catch sight of new penny bright hair
on Portobello Road, clumsily smile, remember fondly,
lock-down in the time of Coronavirus.
Pre-Raphaelite hair new penny bright catching the sun
catching my eye.
In this strange time of isolation
she is my only constant
when once it might have been
the morning ferry on the Dart,
the night-bus on Chepstow or church-bells.
she clicks away the days day in day out
heels, halyards tapping idle masts, on cobbles
I do not watch for her
I simply sit writing at the window that she passes
and as she passes
mark another day happy in her constancy.
I do not know her and for that reason can imagine,
invent a life and circumstances
watching her walking in the rain
talking on a hidden telephone,
(she has an American accent),
Laughing and happy
oblivious to the drenching of her hair
perhaps to a lover caught elsewhere, planning a reunion,
a parent in New York, Agent in L.A.
or a comedienne in St Louis
practising new material for want of a live audience
Maybe there is no phone at all
she is an actress learning lines for a show that may never go on
or a schizophrenic happy in her own company
I do not know her name
I shall not give her a name of my making.
In naming something a sense of ownership sets in;
I could no more name her than name
a wild palomino or the salmon that did not rise
or the raindrops on the glass
She does not notice me
I am too old to be of any interest or threat
like a piece of street furniture, or a bicycle
chained to railings slowly losing component parts.
I am invisible and benign
free to count her daily passing
marvelling at her loyalty
happy to have this constant reminder of time and place.
I will leave this place soon
and return to my home not far away
but not close enough to be on her daily route.
Perhaps I will catch sight of new penny bright hair
on Portobello Road, clumsily smile, remember fondly,
lock-down in the time of Coronavirus.
Wednesday, 10 June 2020
On line Video Confessions. The First Church of New Purism.
The Irreverend Jan Nieupjur of the First Church of New Purism.
Free NHS mental health test for all Tory voters.
Due to the Government's handling of the Coronavirus crisis along with Boris Johnson's licking of Trump's arse the NHS has announce that it will Test all Tory voters for the 'I'm all right Jack' Virus as well as their ability to think for themselves.
Monday, 1 June 2020
'The Naughty Step'. The most exclusive pop up private members club in London.
For one month only the Naughty Step will offer socially distanced exclusivity; a place to meet no one save the Bouncer. Facilities are non-existent, hats compulsory and the welcome effusive. Bring your own conversation.
Social distancing is fiercely enforced.
Applicants, who must be known to the bouncer, a virtual post card please. No Tory MP's admitted.
Another day up the PM's bum, toxic policy and survival.
'Another day up the queen's arse' was a common 'end of day' refrain in England's prisons.
It was a statement of defiance, resilience and survival. It ticked off another day towards freedom.
During these days of chaos and Governmental incompetence in which the sensible part of the community remains 'banged up', Another day up Boris' arse has become my end of day mantra.
As the General Amnesty begins; an elitist gamble which will cost many lives in a drive to restart the economy, much to the horror of all common sense, along with most scientists and Doctors, even those advising Johnson and co, the mantra: 'Another day up Boris' arse will remain valid and necessary to mark survival during a doomed idiots selfish and ill advised toxic policy.
The amnesty will also disguise the fact that, since the Cummins crime, no-one is listening to Johnson nor following lock-down rules.
God help us all.
Sunday, 31 May 2020
Thursday, 28 May 2020
Simple guide to BBC political bias.
The BBC, Formed on 18 October 1922 by a group of leading wireless manufacturers including Marconi. It was established by Royal Charter in 1927.
The license fee was introduced in 1946. Issued by the GPO which was the regulator of public broadcasting at that time.
Now, the fee is collected by the BBC itself and is primarily used to fund radio, television and online services of the BBC itself.
The money does not go directly to the BBC, it is paid into the Govt's Consolidated fund and passed back to the BBC after the annual vote on the Appropriation Act, to pay for the running of the BBC's services free from advertisements.
CONCLUSION:
We, the license fee payers, own it having paid for it. We pay the wages.
.
The Governors of the BBC must pander to Government demands regarding content and bias or lose funding
.
The Governors therefore are inclined towards a Government bias.
The journalists, producers, announcers etc who work for the corporation can and do think what they like provided they do not voice their opinions. If they do they are punished.
Anyone over the age of 70 currently makes no financial contribution to the BBC, is therefore beholden to the fee payers and should have no say in policy. Giving over 70's the vote in General Elections allows them a say in BBC policy and should be stopped immediately.
Alternately the BBC should be freed from Government control of freedom of speech and propaganda and allowed to speak to,and advise, us of the facts.
Wednesday, 27 May 2020
Dealing with Chronic lung disease.
PLEASE DO NOT MESS WITH YOUR PRESCRIBED MEDICATION WITHOUT CONSULTING YOUR GP. I talk to mine and I spent years researching my condition.
If you are looking for a new age vegan organic macrame prophylactic, move along. there is nothing for you here.
Photo: David Petch. He was hoping to shoot a Warholesque death bed scene. I was obliged to disabuse him of that notion.
I acquired a chronic lung disease ten years ago. To this day neither I, my GP nor specialists have a clear idea of what it was, but whatever it was it reduced my lung capacity by 70%, stripped me of my immune system and left me permanently exhausted, breathless, stressed and occasionally hospitalised. I also have a morbid fear of flu in winter, a dose of which would kill me without touching the sides. They tested me for AIDS.
Hospitals, those places designed to cure are for me a threat; bugs lurk there. I try to avoid them but the advice from my GP is to dial 999 rather than calling him when I get a flare up. I prefer to sit it out with a combination of drugs and CBT.
I know my eventual killer well, I have been studying him for the past ten years, I know where he lies in wait, in dark damp places, we meet from time to time, play Russian roulette with an air gun ( one chamber of which is empty) before moving on. My GP recognises my knowledge of my condition and allows me the driving seat in prescribing, changing or stopping medication.
Although in itself it will not kill me, pneumonia will do that, stress is my biggest enemy, it is the finger-post for my piper at the gates of dawn. Stress causes breathing difficulties which exacerbate the stress which exacerbates the breathing difficulties leading to collapse, sometimes in public places which is uncomfortable as passers by frequently mistake my condition for 'social problems'. In the early days I would call an ambulance, get put on machines and oxygen until things calmed down.
These days, being wiser, I do nothing of the sort.
I call a good friend who drops everything, picks me up from wherever I am incapacitated, tells me I look shit, drives me to a calmer place, invariably offers his personal panacea (a beer and an appalling bad joke) then lets me get on with stressing in.
After having been drawn graphs and charts by specialists ten years ago I gave up smoking. I kept that up until stress got the better of me. I now self medicate with a cigarette.
Stress is the enemy, keep it at bay and there is a good chance that: A. The hyperventilation will not start, or B. The hyperventilation will abate... Fuck brown paper bags give me the fags.
After a chat with a GP this course of action was quietly endorsed but not officially. I asked him how much longer I would live by quitting smoking and would I have that extra time at the beginning of the rest of my life or at the end, bedridden and artificially aspirated. He told me: 'The latter'. Pass me a fag.
I was prescribed anti-depressants for the stress after I found myself living in the shadow of Grenfell Tower at the time of the Government backed arson attack by cost cutting councillors waging their social cleansing campaign ( a story for another time). Once prescribed I was left taking them for years.
My new regime, which works for me, is as follows:
I kicked the antidepressants into touch a few weeks ago, I weened myself off them, having spoken to a GP, slowly over a period of a few days, Yes, during lock-down, replacing them with a request for Diazepam, which was happily prescribed. I would take one or two now and then as needed. I've given them up now but keep a stash in case of serious problems. I must take the daily steroids and bronchodilator for the rest of my life.
I have a rescue pack of serious Steroids and antibiotics at hand.
I have given up the blue inhalers synonymous with asthma relief... I do not have asthma so why do I need it. It is prescribed as a matter of course for anyone who's condition is dumped in the COPD file. I take a drag from one from time to time, I like the placebo buzz. The remaining inhalers in my possession I shall use to fill balloons come Carnival's return to sell to unsuspecting seekers of incremental brain cell death. Or hand out to children at Halloween (they all seem to have asthma these days).
I no longer worry about anything outside of my control. I don't give a shit about shit. I take half my originally prescribed drugs but take half an hour for them to kick in before even considering action, smoke, write poetry in my head and no longer attempt any physical exertion that might have my lungs rattling like an ebb tide on shingle. Friends know the score and do not mark me down for it.
I've been in solitary lock-down since just after Christmas, the past twelve weeks of which have been spent in a delightful friend's equally delightful house. I cook, eat, water the roof garden and write in rotation and feel healthier than I have done for a long time. I experiment with arcane ice cream recipes. I'm ready for Hell.
Lastly, I like myself these days. Enjoy my own company, laugh at my jokes. Living alone in isolation is difficult unless you are happy in your own company and can look yourself in the eye. I'm lucky my head is full of stories, anecdotes, memories and poems, I awake mentally reciting unwritten verse then pounce upon paper and pen. I am in part my own best medication. It took a long time to find out and I aim to take my time enjoying it.
I no longer wake up and smell the coffin.
If you are looking for a new age vegan organic macrame prophylactic, move along. there is nothing for you here.
Photo: David Petch. He was hoping to shoot a Warholesque death bed scene. I was obliged to disabuse him of that notion.
I acquired a chronic lung disease ten years ago. To this day neither I, my GP nor specialists have a clear idea of what it was, but whatever it was it reduced my lung capacity by 70%, stripped me of my immune system and left me permanently exhausted, breathless, stressed and occasionally hospitalised. I also have a morbid fear of flu in winter, a dose of which would kill me without touching the sides. They tested me for AIDS.
Hospitals, those places designed to cure are for me a threat; bugs lurk there. I try to avoid them but the advice from my GP is to dial 999 rather than calling him when I get a flare up. I prefer to sit it out with a combination of drugs and CBT.
I know my eventual killer well, I have been studying him for the past ten years, I know where he lies in wait, in dark damp places, we meet from time to time, play Russian roulette with an air gun ( one chamber of which is empty) before moving on. My GP recognises my knowledge of my condition and allows me the driving seat in prescribing, changing or stopping medication.
Although in itself it will not kill me, pneumonia will do that, stress is my biggest enemy, it is the finger-post for my piper at the gates of dawn. Stress causes breathing difficulties which exacerbate the stress which exacerbates the breathing difficulties leading to collapse, sometimes in public places which is uncomfortable as passers by frequently mistake my condition for 'social problems'. In the early days I would call an ambulance, get put on machines and oxygen until things calmed down.
These days, being wiser, I do nothing of the sort.
I call a good friend who drops everything, picks me up from wherever I am incapacitated, tells me I look shit, drives me to a calmer place, invariably offers his personal panacea (a beer and an appalling bad joke) then lets me get on with stressing in.
After having been drawn graphs and charts by specialists ten years ago I gave up smoking. I kept that up until stress got the better of me. I now self medicate with a cigarette.
Stress is the enemy, keep it at bay and there is a good chance that: A. The hyperventilation will not start, or B. The hyperventilation will abate... Fuck brown paper bags give me the fags.
After a chat with a GP this course of action was quietly endorsed but not officially. I asked him how much longer I would live by quitting smoking and would I have that extra time at the beginning of the rest of my life or at the end, bedridden and artificially aspirated. He told me: 'The latter'. Pass me a fag.
I was prescribed anti-depressants for the stress after I found myself living in the shadow of Grenfell Tower at the time of the Government backed arson attack by cost cutting councillors waging their social cleansing campaign ( a story for another time). Once prescribed I was left taking them for years.
My new regime, which works for me, is as follows:
I kicked the antidepressants into touch a few weeks ago, I weened myself off them, having spoken to a GP, slowly over a period of a few days, Yes, during lock-down, replacing them with a request for Diazepam, which was happily prescribed. I would take one or two now and then as needed. I've given them up now but keep a stash in case of serious problems. I must take the daily steroids and bronchodilator for the rest of my life.
I have a rescue pack of serious Steroids and antibiotics at hand.
I have given up the blue inhalers synonymous with asthma relief... I do not have asthma so why do I need it. It is prescribed as a matter of course for anyone who's condition is dumped in the COPD file. I take a drag from one from time to time, I like the placebo buzz. The remaining inhalers in my possession I shall use to fill balloons come Carnival's return to sell to unsuspecting seekers of incremental brain cell death. Or hand out to children at Halloween (they all seem to have asthma these days).
I no longer worry about anything outside of my control. I don't give a shit about shit. I take half my originally prescribed drugs but take half an hour for them to kick in before even considering action, smoke, write poetry in my head and no longer attempt any physical exertion that might have my lungs rattling like an ebb tide on shingle. Friends know the score and do not mark me down for it.
I've been in solitary lock-down since just after Christmas, the past twelve weeks of which have been spent in a delightful friend's equally delightful house. I cook, eat, water the roof garden and write in rotation and feel healthier than I have done for a long time. I experiment with arcane ice cream recipes. I'm ready for Hell.
Lastly, I like myself these days. Enjoy my own company, laugh at my jokes. Living alone in isolation is difficult unless you are happy in your own company and can look yourself in the eye. I'm lucky my head is full of stories, anecdotes, memories and poems, I awake mentally reciting unwritten verse then pounce upon paper and pen. I am in part my own best medication. It took a long time to find out and I aim to take my time enjoying it.
I no longer wake up and smell the coffin.
Tuesday, 26 May 2020
Jan Nieupjur, Gloaming, marshmallow dreams and a bonfire of Tory vanities.
Rudely awakened from my, post liquid luncheon snooze, by an helicopter chattering overhead like an Inuit naturist's teeth, I peered, in an old fashioned fashion, from the front door only to notice old friend Jan Nieupjur, standing on the corner, looking nonplussed, in a myopically challenged kind of way, at a discarded tailors dummy.
'What ho! Jan'. I cried in greeting. 'What ails thee?'
He limped, his Zimmer frame rattling like a pox doctors clerk, over the cobbles to the six foot perimeter barbed wire.
'Just taking my post Covid libido out on a test run. Judging by my groin's response to that charming young thing on the corner and her reaction to my Seventh Avenue come on, I am fucked... Or not fucked. If you get my drift'.
I handed him a glass of the funeral sherry I keep to ward the barflies off my good stuff and pointed out that she was, in fact, a dummy.
'You bet'. Ejaculated Jan. 'I have three florins in my pocket itching to be spent. Enough to get her back to Estonia and still have change'.
I gave him the address of a wonderful sex therapist in Barnard Castle I had once had the pleasure to consult.
We talked on into the burgeoning gloaming of our lives. Toasting marshmallow dreams on a bonfire of Tory vanities.
'What ho! Jan'. I cried in greeting. 'What ails thee?'
He limped, his Zimmer frame rattling like a pox doctors clerk, over the cobbles to the six foot perimeter barbed wire.
'Just taking my post Covid libido out on a test run. Judging by my groin's response to that charming young thing on the corner and her reaction to my Seventh Avenue come on, I am fucked... Or not fucked. If you get my drift'.
I handed him a glass of the funeral sherry I keep to ward the barflies off my good stuff and pointed out that she was, in fact, a dummy.
'You bet'. Ejaculated Jan. 'I have three florins in my pocket itching to be spent. Enough to get her back to Estonia and still have change'.
I gave him the address of a wonderful sex therapist in Barnard Castle I had once had the pleasure to consult.
We talked on into the burgeoning gloaming of our lives. Toasting marshmallow dreams on a bonfire of Tory vanities.
Notable dates in History. !2th April 2020 Dom Cum Dur.
On April 12 2020:
My 65th birthday
Dominic Cummins' wife's birthday
Dominic Cummins whilst suffering from the Coronavirus drives his wife and child 30 miles each way to Barnard Castle to 'test his driving skills and eyesight'. What a curious and thoughtless birthday present for the missus, a potentially lethal drive whilst suffering from the virus and no doubt pilled up to the eyeballs. Surely one tries out this kind of thing alone in order to protect the lives of one's loved ones.
I spent the day, like many others abiding by the lockdown rules set by Cummins & co in order to protect myself, protect others and help the NHS, missing friends and family and missing the glorious sights of Barnard Castle.
If I were a conscience I know who's conscience I'd rather be...
My 65th birthday
Dominic Cummins' wife's birthday
Dominic Cummins whilst suffering from the Coronavirus drives his wife and child 30 miles each way to Barnard Castle to 'test his driving skills and eyesight'. What a curious and thoughtless birthday present for the missus, a potentially lethal drive whilst suffering from the virus and no doubt pilled up to the eyeballs. Surely one tries out this kind of thing alone in order to protect the lives of one's loved ones.
I spent the day, like many others abiding by the lockdown rules set by Cummins & co in order to protect myself, protect others and help the NHS, missing friends and family and missing the glorious sights of Barnard Castle.
If I were a conscience I know who's conscience I'd rather be...
Sunday, 24 May 2020
The Dominic Cummins Coronavirus trip inconsistencies.
So far I am able to ascertain that the following statements are true:
Cummins is not telling the whole story. No surprise there.
Mrs Cummins did not tell the truth in her Spectator article of 25th April regarding her and her husbands Virus experience.
Grant Shapps defended Cummins' actions before even talking to Cummins or ascertaining the true facts.
The Government described stories of further Cummins breaches of the lockdown rules as 'Innacurate'. Not 'false' or 'untrue'.
Cummins must go but Boris must be saving that until he has some nastier news to hide.
to be continued
Saturday, 23 May 2020
Cummins Durham Coronavirus saga.
I wrote a silly ditty on the subject of the Cummings idiocy:
Kids, stay home, stay mum about Dad.
Play candy crush saga on your mum's iphone
while she's drunk amid pots and pans
not Covid cruise saga on Dad's spy phone
as he drives up to Durham to Gran's.
I sent it to the conservative party fb page. Their reply is priceless.
Wednesday, 20 May 2020
Coronavirus nonsense for children of all ages.
Ware Container
Ice cream for breakfast
porridge for luncheon
elevenses in the afternoon
all day sprinkles to munch on.
Fruit soup for dinner
more ice cream for supper
sherbet for a late night snack
I keep it in a tupper
ware container.
Sunday, 17 May 2020
All the ships that pass have black sails..
Isolated in exile I am my own Napoleon
but longing for no Josephine
and confusing my Arras with my Elba as
waiting and watching The Empire Strikes Back ad nauseam
talking loudly to myself, reducing this island's population of donkeys
to sad creatures dragging themselves along
by their front legs.
All the ships that pass have black sails.
I turn my eyes inward
scan that horizon
whilst indulging in fantastic orgies with hope, faith and patience.
but longing for no Josephine
and confusing my Arras with my Elba as
waiting and watching The Empire Strikes Back ad nauseam
talking loudly to myself, reducing this island's population of donkeys
to sad creatures dragging themselves along
by their front legs.
All the ships that pass have black sails.
I turn my eyes inward
scan that horizon
whilst indulging in fantastic orgies with hope, faith and patience.
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