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.

Alarm in the time of Coronavirus.

I have always hated alarm clocks and would always avoid setting one if I could.

Now, even when there is no need I set one. For the joy of tomorrow, what it will bring.

Dentures. Snow. East Croydon.

Snow in East Croydon,
turns to rain by Haywards Heath,
heading down to Eastbourne
in search of second hand false teeth.
Train grinds to a halt at Lewes,
flooding on rails ahead,
now a taxi ride to the seaside
and the dentures of the dead.
There is no snow on Beachy Head
nor on the strand beneath,
just one solitary fossil
in search of fallen false front teeth.

A law perfectly broken. Coronavirus.

I turned my computer and phone off late this afternoon. We drank cheap fizz on the naughty bench in the last of the sun.

Sudden weather change drove us in to cook and momentarily up onto the roof for herbs, I picked and gave her thyme and a strawberry in the rain, it was bitter she said, we laughed. I said it was about the giving and the eating not the taste.

The dying sun built a perfect double rainbow over Westbourne Park Road. We patted ourselves down for camera's we did not have.

She said 'We do not need to photograph it, we have seen it'. We left the roof and the perfect rainbow singing.

Downstairs we happily bickered over who should cook and then ate.

Found a fondly remembered mutual friend and more. There was no room for silence.

She left before dark after socially distanced goodnights and plans for tomorrow.

A law perfectly broken.

So shoot me. My armour is now perfectly seamless and inviolate.

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.

On living in a bubble. Lies and bliss.

Her life was a disco ball constructed from shards of shattered bliss

Lies

the blunt but self sharpening things

you brought into the bubble of bliss.

The knife you hold to your wrist

should I threaten to leave.

The new man you prefer to the last man

all forgetting to leave a forwarding address when they 
meeting cheerfully in pubs discuss

the blunt but self sharpening things

you leave lying around

Amid shards of bliss.

On line Video Confessions. The First Church of New Purism.

The Irreverend Jan Nieupjur of the First Church of New Purism.

Now available for on-line video confession. Guaranteed absolution and fast-tracking to heaven.

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.

Trump orders removal of Statue of Liberty.

The Orange Squatter has declared the statue: "No longer relevant" in his America and sends out the wrong message to the World.

BREAKING NEWS. Johnson tests positive for Coprophobia.

Scientists have discovered that the reason for the prime minister's inability to comb his hair is a direct result of, until now, undiagnosed Coprophobia. A symptom of which is the inability to look at himself.

He may have passed this virus on to the whole cabinet plus 'Driver' Cummins.

Trump's America: Deathspot/Despot.

Tinpot
tosspot
crackpot
despot
pisspot
crockpot
Tinpot
despot
blackspot
drosspot
hotspot
deathspot
baldspot
blindspot
blackspot
deathspot

Strippers against police brutality

Photo: Chris Scholey

Photograph of the Year.

Look into the eyes: A hundred million stories told.

When I look into his eyes I see my own guilt reflected.




Photograph courtesy of Christopher Scholey. http://www.christopherscholey.com/