Sure-Fire Ways to Prolong Your Summer

Unless you’re a polar bear, you’d probably like to hang onto the feelgood vibes of a summer holiday, especially if you didn’t get one this year.

Now this isn’t going to be a dumb piece about keeping your fresh-from-the-beach locks by spritzing on some expensive concoction. Oh, no.  Not when you can get the same effect far more cheaply.

First off, wear sunglasses as long as you can. Or maybe, to avoid stumbling about, just wear your ordinary glasses while tilting your head and admiring your surroundings as if seeing it all for the first time.

There’s nothing like holiday togs to bring back memories. Don’t you have an I  Santorini T-shirt somewhere? 

A straw hat will complete the look, though admittedly the rain won’t do it much good.

Keep shaving your legs and painting your toenails. Guys, stop shaving. It doesn’t matter what you do with your toenails because you’re probably wearing socks with your sandals.

Now for a more palatable suggestion: listen to music with a seasonal vibe, like The Boys of Summer, Summertime Blues, and Gershwin’s classic Summertime. My all-time favourite is still Under the Boardwalk

You may not be lounging by the pool, but you could still make time to read novels rather than newspapers and the increasing misery of reality.

Ditto, watching the TV news can only worsen the feeling of impending doom. Isn’t Hawaii 5-0 on repeat somewhere?

Go for a walk to boost your endorphins as you savour the last rays of sunshine. If you’ve already been on a walk, go for another one.  It’s even more like a holiday if one of your flip-flops breaks while you’re out. 

There’s nothing like a day out to give you a holiday buzz. You’ll need to plan well ahead to visit somewhere special like Kentish Town City Farm, but it’s well worth the effort.

If refreshments are on offer, why not get a cream tea or an ice cream? Where you can, drink sangria, Pimms, or anything with a paper parasol in it. You can always pop it into a hot chocolate later.

Dig out old photos and immerse yourself in happy memories. I’ve recently been writing about growing up in Egypt, and studying ancient albums full of grainy pictures from the beach have given me a lot of fun.

Finally, here’s the crucial thing for keeping autumn at bay: don’t mention Christmas. Sorry. Just did.

I’m off to put some overpriced brine on my hair. Meanwhile, I’d love to hear from you. Do you see off summer happily, or try to hang on as long as possible?  And what tunes would you put on your summer playlist?

 

10 Things You Didn’t Know about Hampstead

I didn’t know half of them myself till recently – and I live in Hampstead. This part of London is full of surprises.

1 Hampstead is chock full of delightful architecture, much of it Georgian, Victorian or Edwardian. Then there’s 2 Willow Road. Designed by architect Ernő Goldfinger in the 1930s, this modernist home was only made possible thanks to his wife’s great wealth.

2 Willow Road NW3

Goldfinger was a champagne socialist, which is why he concealed the servants’ bell. You could say that he wasn’t popular with everyone. Ian Fleming, you may recall, named the ultimate villain after him.

2 Nightclub hostess Ruth Ellis was the last woman to be hanged in the UK. Her crime? Shooting dead her cheating lover David Blakely in 1955 outside the Magdala Tavern. If you wander up South Hill Park in Hampstead, you’ll still be able to see the bullet holes on the wall of the pub, mainly because they’ve been enlarged with a drill.

Magdala Tavern, NW3

For a thought-provoking novel set around the Ruth Ellis story, I can highly recommend Jane Davis’s brand-new book At the Stroke of Nine O’Clock

3 The Whitestone Pond at the top of Heath Street is the highest point in London. It’s a man-made pond with ramps to let horses wash in it. A bit later, it was used for floating model boats and for paddling, earning it the name Hampstead-on-Sea. Now fringed with rushes, nobody much goes into the pond at all, but they do wander up here, and probably tell each other it’s the highest point in London.

4 Hampstead Heath covers 790 hilly acres and has something for everyone, with magnificent views over London as well as woodlands and a string of ponds, three of them for swimming (if you don’t mind cold water). The Heath enchanted author C.S. Lewis, inspiring him to write The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

Hampstead Heath

5 Fancy a bite to eat? Hampstead has not one Streatery, but two. The Belsize Village Streatery opened for summer 2020 on the paved area of the village to help keep a wide range of local restaurants and cafés running. It brings a continental vibe to this corner of London and is an excellent place to meet friends or celebrate a special occasion. The floor is clean enough to eat off, as the saying goes, but the socially distanced tables and chairs in the square are a better bet.

Belsize Village Streatery

Following on from the success in Belsize Village, there’s also a second Streatery at South End Green.

6 Hampstead is awash with celebs. Do you know Mrs Newbie? She and her cob lived together in bliss on the Heath, until Mr Newbie died in 2016. At some point, the grieving Mrs Newbie flew off and hurt herself on a nearby roof. While at the swan sanctuary for treatment, she met fellow patient Wallace who had come from Waltham Forest. Their relationship blossomed.

pair of swans

Once both of them were well enough, they were released to Hampstead Heath’s Number One Pond and have since raised seven cygnets. Mrs Newbie had to return to the swan sanctuary earlier this year after she was attacked by a dog, but is now back with Wallace and their cygnets. Vive l’amour! 

swan with one cygnet

7 Originally from Suffolk, painter John Constable relocated when his wife developed TB. At the time, the air in Hampstead was considered a lot healthier than elsewhere. Unfortunately there were no anti-TB drugs at the time and Mary didn’t improve. Most of the family is now buried in the family tomb at St John-at-Hampstead.

Constable family tomb

8 The Royal Free Hospital in Pond Street was founded in 1828 to give free treatment to those unable to afford it. To begin with, the Royal Free was in central London, and then moved near the site of the previous Hampstead Fever Hospital, a name which inspired the title of my novel Hampstead Fever.

For years, the Royal Free was the only London teaching hospital in London to train women doctors. The Royal Free’s pioneering heritage continues. It was the first UK hospital to have a high level isolation unit (HLIU) for infectious diseases like Ebola.

Royal Free Hospital

9 Hampstead has cats. Many, many cats. This busy fluffball knows exactly where she is going. You’re lucky the others moved too fast for me to photograph them all.

long-haired Siamese cat

10 You don’t have to go into the Freud Museum to see a fine statue of Sigmund Freud. Here he is outside the Tavistock Clinic in Fitzjohn’s Avenue, leaning forward in a pose suggesting period pain. I call it womb envy.

If you know Hampstead, please leave a comment with your favourite fact about the area. Meanwhile, until September 9, you can download a copy of Hampstead Fever for just 99p/99c. 

 

The Cheat’s Guide to Cambridge

Whether you’re about to start your studies at Cambridge or just want to know a bit about this ancient university, here’s the low-down in 7 easy steps.

View of Clare from King’s Bridge

1 Cambridge is a collegiate university and, no, the 31 colleges are not all the same. The oldest is Peterhouse, founded in 1284, while Robinson only dates from 1977.

Inside Caius College (full name: Gonville & Caius)

There are postgrad-only colleges (Clare Hall and Darwin), four colleges specifically for mature students, and two only for women (Newnham and Murray Edwards).

Newnham College

Mixed colleges are a fairly recent introduction. Until 1972, the vast majority of colleges were all male. With a sex ratio of 10 to one, it was much harder for a woman to get a place. If she wanted male company once she got into Cambridge, however, all she had to do was show up and breathe.

Each college has a bespoke woollen scarf in college colours. Whichever college you attend, the scarf is very scratchy.

Newnham Bear in college scarf

2 There are no mountains between Cambridge and the Urals, so winters can be chilly. Thanks to the easterly winds, most students sport a cold wet nose by November. It’s said to be a sign of good health in animals, though not in undergraduates.

3 Geography is generally ignored. Most people still call Cambridge a town though it’s actually a city. Although it is very flat, one still goes UP to Cambridge and DOWN to London. Nobody ever mentions Oxford, or they simply call it ‘the other place.’ Should you be forced to write it down, it’s traditional to use a lower case O for its name. This petty snobbishness is totally misplaced because Cambridge University was founded by scholars who fled Oxford.

Outside Great St Mary’s Church

4 The Cambridge Union is not a union. It’s a debating society. There was no students’ union at all until 1971, and even then it had no premises for its members, just a tiny office for those who ran it. It was in Round Church St, an address many dossers knew well as they turned up regularly for handouts.

5 You’re here to learn? Oh, right. Well, in that case you need to know that the Faculty or Department arranges your lectures, seminars, and lab work. Your college arranges small group sessions called supervisions which take place in the college, or in university buildings. And accommodation is almost always within college.

Where the atom was split

Each broad subject area is called a Tripos, eg Economics Tripos, Natural Sciences Tripos (which includes subjects from Physics to Cell Biology). These are divided into parts and students complete a number of parts in one or more Triposes to qualify for the BA degree. Yes, the basic degree is BA Hons whether you’re reading sciences or arts. Hold on to it for another few years, and it upgrades to an MA without any further study.

The word Tripos is so popular that end of year exams are also called Tripos. The name comes from the three-legged stool exam candidates used to sit on.

In BA gown & hood on Degree Day

6 From April to about October, cattle graze on picture-perfect common land within the City of Cambridge. It’s all very well wandering about with your nose in the air and your mind on higher things, but watch where you put your feet. Best look behind you now and again too, in case you’re being followed.

This cow wandered into a stream to cool off and she’s now munching watercress while a man serenades her with his violin.

7 Pets aren’t generally welcome in College, though, especially not dogs. When Lord Byron was forbidden to keep a dog, he got himself a bear for his room in Trinity. More recently, the Master of Selwyn was only allowed his basset hound when the College Council ruled that Yoyo was, in fact, a very large cat. I don’t know what they thought of its ears.

Welcome to Cambridge!

King’s College Chapel seen from the Backs on a frosty morning

Memories of Beirut

Explosions are nothing new in Beirut. My childhood visits to the city were punctuated by car bombs. I’d grab my mother’s hand and ask why. Usually there was an election on. Lebanese elections were not always orderly, and the many factions were particularly competitive in the 1960s.

But none of those explosions came close to this week’s huge blast, said to have been felt as far away as Cyprus. It was the very last thing this debt-stricken country needed.

Photo by H Assaf from FreeImages

My grandfather’s family came from Ehden, then just a small mountain town in North Lebanon, not far from Tripoli. The Arabic name for Tripoli is Troublos which tells you a lot about the country. The history of Lebanon has been nothing if not turbulent. And yet there was so much to admire and enjoy, as any Lebanese person will gladly tell you, in great detail.

Photo by <a href="/photographer/timot-37385">Csaba Moldovan</a> from <a href="https://freeimages.com/">FreeImages</a>

This tiny country boasts (I use the word advisedly) snow-capped mountains and bright blue sea. Why, you could ski in the morning and water-ski in the afternoon. And did you know that St George slayed the dragon right near the centre of Beirut, in St George’s Bay?

Until civil war began in the 1970s, Beirut was the Paris of the Middle East. The main cultural influence was French and the city was famed for its night life, restaurants, glamour, intellectual society, and tourism. Scratch that. It was the Paris of the entire world.

Photo by José A. Warletta from FreeImages

I’ll bet you never realized that the Lebanese invented online shopping. Why, even 50 years ago, I saw housewives lowering their baskets on a line from their balconies down to street level, their order either written on a list in the basket or, more often, relayed at full volume to the shopkeeper below.

As for taxis, Beirut pioneered the ‘service’ type which is a shared cab and much cheaper than regular taxis. To find a service, all you do is stand at a corner and a service driver will screech to a stop and carry you off, even if all you wanted was to cross the street. You might share a ride with a Maronite priest, a tourist, a student, a huge housewife clutching bunches of herbs, or whoever happened to be standing there. The drivers all drive with one hand out the window, the other giving you back your change, and the head turned back to see if you are happy. You’d better be, because if you’re not, they’ll sing along with the music on the radio and never look at the road again. There are fewer accidents than you’d expect. Every chauffeur has a string of blue beads hanging over the mirror to keep the Evil Eye and other drivers at bay.

I recall being disappointed with the Cedars. There were only about 40 of them left, and locals happened to be using them at the time to hang carcasses of various animals they were selling. But not far away there was a magnificent picnic spot by a stream. I drank from it with my hands and it was the iciest and best water I had ever tasted.

Photo by Edith Hdz from FreeImages

There’s no shortage of historic sights in Lebanon, so it puzzled me that for many years their postage stamps bore not photos of ancient monuments but images of fruit. Then again, the Lebanese are big on food. Nothing in Lebanon is small, except the country itself which is half the size of Israel.

Over the years, many Lebanese have left the country for bigger pastures. New York has long been a favourite. The city never sleeps and everything in the USA, especially the steaks, are twice as big as they should be, so it’s the natural destination for a young person making their way in life. The Lebanese have a deserved reputation for being good at making money, and a great many of them have succeeded in the New World.

I won’t even try to unpick the current economic situation which was dire even before this massive explosion. There’s no hope of ever recreating Beirut’s former glory, but there’s every reason to save as many lives as possible. My own cousins living near Beirut are safe. Thousands weren’t so lucky.

If you can, please help. The Lebanese Red Cross is non-partisan and is a good place to start.

What I Did on My Staycation – a Day Out in Norfolk

Never mind how newspapers and magazines use the word. In line with the real meaning of staycation (staying at home and making day trips), we set out with a full tank and a vague sense that we might end up in North Norfolk. I’m married to a Norfolk boy, and I hasten to add that I am not his sister.

“Think bike,” I said as we left home. I was only repeating what I’d read on a road safety sign but, with my OH, it triggers dreams of his beloved Bonneville and Suzuki V-twin, along with reminiscences of his speedway days. I woke him from his reverie before we hit a hapless pedestrian.

How I’d missed the sights and sounds of rural Britain during lockdown – and the smells. First stop Lakenheath where USAF fighter jets were about to take off. We’re merely opportunistic spotters, but lined up against the chain link fence were all kinds of spotters and their cars, plus a mobile snack bar to sustain life during a long wait.

The air, heavy with the scent of aviation fuel, throbs when the F-15s come to life. Their roar is unlike anything outside Cape Canaveral and I defy anyone not to feel stirred as the planes gather speed.

I tried to capture the excitement with my Huawei which, I’m told, beams every image direct to China. Sorry to disappoint you, Beijing, but all I got was a high-res view of galvanised metal fencing.

To save you the trouble of going all the way to Lakenheath, this video gives you an idea, though it’s only a tiny sample of the experience. You’ll need to imagine standing a few hundred yards away with your fingers rammed in your ears.

By way of a complete contrast, the second stop of the day was a Norfolk village where ducks outnumber humans and reading seems popular, if the phone box is anything to go by.

I won’t reveal the name of the village, but this little clip might recreate the duck pond for you without using any petrol.

On to Burnham Market, a postcard-perfect town where Hunter wellies are de rigueur, which made sense as it was raining by then. Hungry by then, we stopped at Tilly’s café for lunch. With no free tables left inside, we hunkered down beneath a shrubby honeysuckle.

I can never go to Norfolk in the summer without buying samphire. It grows around tidal creeks and estuaries, but I usually get mine at a stall by the side of the road, where you can pick up a small bag of the stuff in return for a few coins left in a well rusted honesty box. The first bunch I bought this week turned out to still have its roots attached, which unfortunately means that picking it sacrificed the whole plant. The other bunch I bought came in a plastic bag full of water. Although you can sometimes buy samphire in supermarkets, freshly picked bunches taste much better and you also get the experience of salt water sloshing in your Converses as you drive home.

In the spirit of sharing my day out, here’s a recipe for hot samphire and potato salad from the Easy Cheesy Vegetarian. It even works without the potatoes.

We then stopped at one or two of our favourite beaches for a paddle in the sea. The Med it ain’t, but it’s the epitome of a British summer. This is a three-wheeler we saw in Cromer. Looked like a Morgan, but it’s more probably a kit car enjoying an outing.

We headed home for samphire and salmon after a happy day.

How to Plunder Your Memories to Write a Book

For some people, a life story emerges as an autobiography or memoir. My aim was more modest. I planned to use some of my oldest memories to write a novel set in Egypt. It was never intended to be all true. While a convent education taught me not to lie, I used to be pretty good at embroidery, if I say so myself.

To aid my recall of fading memories, there were all the old photos that my mother had left me. I therefore dived into the cupboard under the stairs for the afternoon, finally emerging not with leather photo albums from 1955 but a mountain of dust and a couple of old cat toys.

In my experience, recollections have a habit of surfacing on their own now and again, usually in the small hours. Experience also tells me that, if I don’t jot it down at the time, I won’t remember it in the morning, hence what I call my amnesia pad on the bedside table. It’s not that easy to find in the dark and I’m apt to send water glass flying as I scrabble about for paper and pencil. There! I need only scribble a couple of words to nudge me in the morning and I can go back to sleep.

When the alarm goes off a few hours later, I make out the words Magic Marker

Which make no sense. I don’t think we even had Magic Marker in Egypt back then. Over a strong coffee, I try to work it out. The two words I wrote evoke the heady smell of a pristine Magic Marker and the hot tears I cried when I accidentally hit my mummy on the forehead with it. We both thought I’d marked her indelibly. At the time, neither of us quite understood how skin works. I was seven years old. I don’t know what Mummy’s excuse was.

Neither of those reminiscences is quite what I’m after. I resort to Wikipedia as an aide mémoire but, although I learn the history of the Magic Marker and the reason it smelled as it did (early versions contained xylene and toluene), it doesn’t help. I may as well have scribbled wild goose chase on my amnesia pad.

When my own recall lets me down, I sometimes consult my beloved aunt with whom I have a close bond. She clearly recalls what happened years ago, even if her version of events often contradicts mine. “At Suez, your mother was desperate not to be evacuated,” she tells me. “And Papa pleaded with the authorities for her to be allowed to stay in Alex.”

Which is totally weird since I remember with crystal clarity that Mummy had packed our bags and we spent all day at the docks in Alexandria. While she begged to leave on the US Sixth Fleet, I clutched my teddy bear and kept whining to use the bathroom. My mother’s negotiations were partly successful. Our suitcases made the trip.

Timing goes AWOL too when delving into memories. “You never know your mother’s dog, did you? Boogie got run over before you were born.”

My aunt sounds very sure, but this time I can prove her wrong simply by rolling up my sleeve and displaying a scar that’s still there more than half a century later. I had got up too quickly from my potty and accidentally stepped on Boogie’s tail. No wonder he bit me on the elbow.

Aunt is unconvinced, but I have a trump card. It’s a photo of Boogie with me and my best friend (also called Carol).

My aunt studies the picture. “That doesn’t even look like Boogie.”

From this joyous collaboration come as many as three lines of writing, most of which I cross out.

So my book The Girls from Alexandria will have no dogs and no Sixth Fleet. Even so, it will still be redolent of the Alex I knew, with vendors selling charcoal-grilled ears of corn by the sea, the seafood restaurant at Abukir, next door’s cockerel with his random commentary on the day, trams laden down with human cargo both inside and out, handsome men wearing a fez even after President Nasser banned its use, and the eternal cries of “Roba bikyaah!” from the rag-and-bone man touring the neighbourhood with his donkey and cart.

The novel won’t be out till early next year, but here’s what my new publisher has to say so far.  Introducing: Carol Cooper

 

Ready Pour vos Holibobs? Un Holiday Guide en Franglais

Bonjour, tout le monde. Avec le lockdown, c’est no doubt un très long time since vos last holibobs. But, maintenant que easyJet et other dirt-cheap avions are restarting, vous might be thinking of un nifty getaway.

Problème: vous ne parlez pas any foreign languages, not even français qui est spoken par our nearest neighbours (je ne compte pas Scotland et Wales).

Solution: learnez le Franglais! Also, shoutez beaucoup.

Le Franglais est une langue inventée par Miles Kington, writer extraordinaire et columnist pour Punch magazine pour many years. Très sadly, Punch magazine est now deceased, et Monsieur Kington also, mais son useful invention lives on. En mon opinion, il est due un revival.

Therefore cette week dans mon blog, ici les easy steps pour master le Franglais.

Premier, important de know what vous voulez from votre holiday. Voici quelques raisons pour travel:

  • Obtenir un suntan.
  • Recharger les batteries
  • Impresser vos followers sur Instagram.
  • Acheter un tawdry souvenir or deux.
  • Avoir quelque chose à parler chez le hairdresser later.
  • Drink beaucoup de booze qui est cheap comme les frites.
  • Aller sur le pull.
  • Faire un late-night tattoo ill-advised. Marquez mes mots, après 8 pints de bière foreign, tous les tattoos sont ill-advised.

C’est tout, really. Oh, merde. Je forget soak up la culture!

Les preparations pour le voyage sont très importants surtout après le long lockdown.  Dustez off votre passeport et loadez le Kindle. Achetez un nouveau bikini et loads de sunscreen – ne forgettez pas un soap de travel pour les undies – et paquez tout ça dans une belle suitcase qui va promptly go missing à l’aéroport.

Je sais. Loads à faire. Aussi pour parler avec les natives il faut plenty de practice. Apprendre une language, c’est pas just reading un livre de phrase. Je suis right, ou je suis right? Il faut écouter et parler. Prochaine week, therefore, je launch le app.

Regardez cet espace.

Zoom is a Four-Letter Word

In one morning, no less than three emails hit my inbox asking me to consider my Zoom wardrobe. Covid-19 has made it tough for the fashion industry to shift SS2020 collections but, all the same, I don’t need to spend money on smart new outfits for working from home.

Photo by Pat from Freeimages.com

Not being from the selfie generation, however, I need some help in getting camera-ready. Jewellers insist earrings make the best video conference statement, and incidentally there’s a sale now on and delivery is free (what are the odds?).

Beauty brands, on the other hand, claim that makeup is THE priority now. It’s not quite how I think of the pandemic, but I’ll gladly agree that a bright red nose isn’t a good look on a work video. Even if it’s an incipient boil, most people will assume it’s the cooking sherry.

It’s harder to conceal the WFH weight gain. And what about hair growth? Be they dark or white, roots can often by hidden by rearranging the height of the screen. If that’s not enough, a hat can work, like a colleague of mine who wears a beret to magnificent effect. Beanie hats, on the other hand, can engender mistrust. Can’t imagine why.

Obviously only the upper half needs to be groomed for a Zoom rendez-vous. Spare a thought, though, for those wearing only their worst knickers, or none, when they unexpectedly jump up during a call to deal with a wailing child.  

With image definition almost as good as a CT scan, everything is under scrutiny, piles of ironing and all. Bookshelves as backdrops have emerged as the biggest status symbol for the Zoom era. 

Photo by <a href="/photographer/pygment2-34407">dave gilligan</a> from <a href="https://freeimages.com/">FreeImages</a>

But which books should be on show? There has been a huge media fuss about certain titles which, said some, had no place in any right-thinking person’s home.

Well, now you can create a backdrop of virtual bookshelves with your own books on it. A little too contrived, perhaps, so few people go to such lengths. And why bother, when there are so many other background options, many of them courtesy of Zoom.us? The choice, I’m told, is very revealing. That picture of a palm-fringed beach says you’re not trying too hard.

Such photos have the added bonus of making a large cocktail in your hand seem entirely normal.  

Though I’m not sure what it says about me (Hampstead type, maybe?), this shot of Hampstead Heath is my preferred background for Zoom calls.

I even used it when trying out the new trend of WFB, though the effect was spoiled when an IKEA pillowcase slipped into view.

Once you have everything in place, there’s still no saying who will join your video meeting as an extra, as when your other half decides you need an impromptu kiss on the top of the head.

I pressed mute so I could tell him to bugger off. Unfortunately, I unmuted myself before he replied, ‘Did you finish all the gin?’

Video conferencing is tiring even if without such interruptions. Some days, I spend more time on remote meetings than real work, and Zoom fatigue is genuine. There’s all that sitting up straight and keeping one’s face in view, whereas, in a normal conversation, the vertebral muscles keep moving and don’t stiffen up. 

Still, all meetings end eventually. Memo to self for next time: click on the dinky END button before saying, ‘Thank God that’s over.’ 

***

Also from my inbox, I can tell you that Masturbation Month is coming. I’ve even been offered an expert who can guide me through it, but, all the same, I may not be blogging about it.

Janet and John Do Lockdown

“Gin and tonic?” says John. He points at the clock. “It’s almost six.”

alarm clock

“It’s actually 6am, John,” says Janet. “But make mine a double. We’ll need sustenance to go food shopping.”

When Janet and John get to the supermarket, they find a long queue all round the car park. “Have you seen all these people?” says Janet, fiddling with her mobile.

“I know. This is going to be so boring,” says John.

“You’re telling me. They’re the least Instagrammable people ever.”

“I’m worried about how close some of them are standing,” says John. “That’s much less than two metres apart. More like nine inches, if you ask me.”

“It’s nothing like nine inches, John,” says Janet.

When they get to the entrance, John says, “Where’s the shopping list?”

Janet frowns at him. “You don’t get this lockdown, do you, John? We just buy lots of anything that looks like it’s running low in the shop.”

“Let’s not forget biscuits,” says John.

“I never forget biscuits,” says Janet.

“Or gin,” says John, grabbing two bottles off the shelf.

An hour later, Janet and John are in aisle seven. John is confused about the contents of their trolley. “But you don’t need TENA pads, Janet.”

“I will do by the time we reach the checkout, John.”

They are about to leave the supermarket when Janet shrieks. “Look, John! The food bank donation box has gone!”

“Don’t worry, Janet. I expect we can donate money online.”

“That’s not the point. I was hoping to pick up tinned tomatoes because there aren’t any left on the shelves.”

After they get home, Janet and John wash their hands for 20 seconds and have a nap for two hours.

Janet wakes up with an idea. “Do you fancy a game of Scrabble, John?”

John agrees on one condition. “Only if you promise not to store all the blank tiles and Ss down your bra.”

“But John, stockpiling is what pandemics are all about. If you won’t play properly, then we shall have to sit on our sagging sofa and watch another episode of Poirot instead.”

After three episodes of Poirot, Janet and John are sitting much closer together on their sagging sofa.

“I say, Janet,” says John as he strokes Janet’s rounded belly. “I don’t know how many weeks gone you are, but I’m so looking forward to our baby.”

“Don’t be silly, John. It’s not your baby. It’s McVitie’s.”

***

Don’t be like Janet and John.

With the cancellation of major events such as the London Marathon due to coronavirus, many charities are on the brink of collapse, while at the same time facing increased need for their help. Please give generously where and when you can. If you want to help a hungry family, consider the Trussell Trust which supports a nationwide network of food banks.

Fax for the Memories

Fax machines were once cutting edge. “I just got a sandwich faxed to my desk!” claimed a colleague in the early 90s.

He wasn’t quite right, as it happens, since only his order was transmitted by fax.

Photo by Griszka Niewiadomski from FreeImages

For those who aren’t sure how a fax works, the gist is that the original document is scanned, converted into a bitmap, then transmitted down a phone line as audio-frequency tones. The receiving fax machine deciphers the tones, recreates the image, and prints it more or less legibly.

Before email, fax was the only way to send a sizeable amount of data quickly without an expensive courier. It made it possible to send letters quickly and, for reporters, to submit articles to newspapers on the day without dictating them to copy-takers.

It also enabled my mother, who lived abroad and had, like most seniors, a keen interest in the weather, to keep me updated without phoning.  I well remember the message in which she said it was SNOWING! (underlined three times). She seemed a bit miffed when I faxed back to ask what she expected from Switzerland in January.

Photo by Martin Wehrle from FreeImages

I also had a relative in the Middle East who liked using fax. She generally rang first to tell me her message was on its way, and her pronunciation was different to most. As my children enjoyed putting it, “Aunt Delia likes sending fux.”

The desktop fax came into existence around 1948, but it wasn’t widely used until the 1970s and 1980s. Some machines used dedicated lines, while others shared with a regular phone by means of a switch which didn’t always work. Well, mine didn’t.

Another snag is that one rarely knew how many pages would come in, so the supply of paper had to be kept topped up. My roll of thermal paper often ran out inconveniently mid-flow, like a loo roll. And the paper, being thermal, was useless for archiving as the print soon faded like a receipt. You’d have to photocopy the image or message to preserve a record.

Photo by Joanna Kopik from FreeImages

Some machines were advanced and did colour, but smaller businesses, like individuals, tended to have basic models and the image definition wasn’t great. When I was arranging the funeral of a cousin, there was a choice of coffins. As it wasn’t clear over the phone how they differed, the undertaker offered to fax over images of each one. This generated a long ribbon of paper with blurred photos that looked identical. Still, I expect the details made little difference to dear cousin Gladys at that stage.

The arrival of email meant the end of the fax for most, but the NHS doggedly continued to favour faxes for important communications such as urgent referrals, citing confidentiality as the reason. Emailing was banned for transmitting patient info – despite the fact that NHSmail is encrypted. Perhaps nobody at the top considered the risk posed by a clutch of paper messages sitting in the out tray of a machine for all to see.

Thus the NHS became the biggest purchaser of fax machines. Some hospitals had over 600 of the things each, and of course GP practices needed them too, using up money that could have found its way into patient care.

Now the NHS has seen the light and the new GP contract decrees that by April 2020 all GP practices should become fax-free. Some already are, but it’s possible that not all practices, or the agencies they deal with, will be prepared to unplug their faxes despite the 17 pages of guidance on the subject. The death throes of the fax, I suspect, could go on for a while.