June First Feestdag Blog

  

The last two or three weeks have been marked particularly by two welcome phenomena: almost constant sunshine and the frequent melody of the resident blackbird. With the terrace door open all day, sunshine glowing through the open door, have come frequent bursts of song. Frankly, Elysium for me. I have quietly walked to the door often to see the blackbird in full-throated song, perched on the warm brick terrace wall, seemingly oblivious to anything except capturing the joy of the moment. Often, daringly, he has sung as I worked out there, sometimes near, sometimes perched high on the top step of the Flemish facade of the Zwarte Zusters next door. I have been thrilled to hear what felt, ridiculously, was like a special present but today has been barren of song. Why is this? My terrace is still in his territorial patch. It seems a little late for mating finished, being the explanation.. Do blackbirds produce that divine harmony to welcome the eggs laid? Possible but doubtful. No, I lack a persuasive explanation but I DO miss it. One mustn’t expect a surfeit of sweetness to last I suppose, but I almost did!!

Astridpark in flow.

But in the meantime, the floral adornment of the terrace goes on, now that the Blessed Markt has been re-installed. I have been buying plants as if preparing for a wedding and the Satisfaction Quotient soars. Extraordinarily,

Along Langerei, early one morning ….

though chiefly unspoken in case I commit the cardinal sin against Englishness, of being Rather Pleased with Myself, I am really enjoying Lock-down. I do nothing at all that I don’t want to do; miss the daily swim but really enjoy the early morning walk and savour the rising sheen of sun on water; continue in haphazard fashion through the days and weeks, to examine books and assign some to possibly fortunate grandchildren and children who may and may not appreciate their singular good fortune; beautify the terrace; sit and read and drink on the terrace and enjoy the occasional Zoom and Facetime.

Dominic Cummings and wife, Mary Wakefield.

This may be somewhat doctored but not by me. Wish I knew how!

Nothing much disturbs these golden days, but the Affair Dominic has! British readers will understand the previous phrase as sufficient to recognise the irritation, disbelief and perhaps anger at the steadfastness of Boris Johnson’s loyalty to his supposed adviser, Dominic Cummings, who made unnecessary journeys North for child care during Covid19. He broke the current rules in a fairly mild way and yet went wholly against the texture of the advice he had helped devise: to Stay At Home in all circumstances. Dom is a proud contrarian and arrogant with it, so he saw nothing wrong with driving to be near his family in Durham, [260 miles] twice in fact, from London, “in case he and his wife needed childcare help”, and while there, driving to a local beauty spot, Barnard Castle, supposedly to test his eyesight or was it his stamina, although it happened also to be his wife’s birthday. It is just possible that Dom didn’t realise that the rules to help shield the vulnerable, and limit the spread of the

The Barnard Castle Trip Advisor page is full of spoof 

reviews from people enjoying the joke.

There is also one on social media sadly commenting

that her Dad died of the virus, in Barnard Castle.

So not always so funny, Dominic.
[Worth noting: Above, printed in The Telegraph.]

virus, were intended for everyone, not just the Poor Bloody Peasants. Boris’s refusal to sack him, bolstered by a phalanx of ministers, on cue, mouthing platitudes on radio and TV, supportive of the Chief’s position, presumably is an indication of Boris’s Need, his Urgent Need, for Dominic’s advice, possibly orders, on How To Run The Country. It looks like Boris prioritising the job of his elite adviser over the health of millions, and predictably, millions feel miffed. All these shenanigans stop me from feeling superior about the ghastliness of Trump’s America and I do resent that! The situation there is so awful, so destructive, so weird, that even Britain, dysfunctional as it has become, [John Crace suggests the appropriate name is now a Banana Republic!] is preferable, provided one’s support is exhibited in a gingerly, 'mind the poo', sort of way. It will only take a No Deal Brexit [echoes of the past] to sink HMS Great Britain altogether! But I suspect that we can rely on Dom ‘n’ Boris to manage that. Idealogues, unite!!