Coughs and Sneezes Spread Diseases

Despite having had both the COVID and flu jabs, from the end of November I’ve endured a never-ending stream of colds which have all merged into one long snot-fest not seen since I was a nipper. And to add to my misery, the start of meteorological winter gave me a nasty rasping cough that kept us both awake with my constant hacking. Why are these things always worse at night?

My dreaded lurgy subsided a little over the festive period – I think over-indulgence of the Devil’s brew masked the pain – only to re-emerge as an ear infection earlier this month. ‘Winter pressures’ as they’re called in the trade, always put a huge strain on health services at this time of year but, according to those in the know, hospitals are fuller than normal at the moment, particularly with grey tops like us.

My sore ear needed more than just a couple of paracetamol so off I trudged to the quack. The practice nurse had her own theory about why coughs and sneezes are worse this winter. COVID’s back in town, she thinks, newly minted. Not so deadly but still dangerous.

Just when you thought it was safe to bin those bleedin’ face masks.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow!

A light dusting of the fluffy white stuff generally brings the entire nation to a shuddering halt and a lot of huffing and puffing over the airwaves. But, as we’re already under house arrest, this year’s avalanche has made little difference to our daily lives – except for one thing. Our Sainsbury’s supermarket delivery was cancelled and we were forced to venture out into the snow and ice to buy bog rolls, booze and our daily bread.

Still, the kids seem to be having a ball. Beats school any day. Oh yes, I forgot. They’re not at school anyway!

Jack Frost

Brisk walks are the best way to burn off all those festive calories, especially during lockdown when keep fit options are limited. Timing is everything at this time of year. The distant sun is low on the horizon and, at its height, peeps only briefly above the tree line. A midday stroll is best, crunching through the frost, bubble-wrapped against the winds that blow across the East Anglian flatlands. Then it’s back to the cottage to put all those calories back on again.

Rain, Rain, Go Away…

Since we became village people, hardly a day has passed when it hasn’t rained – drizzle one day, deluge the next and endless dreary skies. Even the ducks have had enough. So at this time of year a young (and not so young) man’s fancy turns to a bit of cheap fun in the sun. Unlike the ducks, we’re flying south to Gran Canaria.

Whereas in 2019 we lodged in a bijou men-only bungalow complex for wrinkly friends of Dorothy, this time we’ve going large and going upmarket. While it would be rude not to venture to the bars at least once for our annual no nonsense in-yer-face, up-for-anything fix, I suspect the main event will be chick-lit under a parasol by day and cocoa laced with a medicinal nightcap by bedtime.

An M&S Winter

Watching Mother Nature drench our windows brings memories of mad Turkish weather flooding back. People who haven’t experienced it first-hand simply don’t believe me when I say our Aegean winters were a real challenge. It’s the Med, right? How bad can it be? How about a split personality of hurricane rain, typhoon winds and cyclone floods followed in quick succession by crisp bright mornings and balmy afternoons of warm dazzling sun? Whatever the drama going on outside, inside was constantly cold and draughty. Despite our valiant efforts, we never quite managed to get the heating right and, in the depths of winter, most evenings were spent under a duvet. We dressed in fleecy layers and praised the Lord for the cosy Marks and Sparks slippers insulating our tootsies from Jack Frost snapping at our heels. Actually, I had never owned a pair of slippers before our move to Turkey and it came as some relief to find two small M&S outlets in Bodrum.

For the uninitiated, Marks and Spencer is:

A clothes and food retailer, the cornerstone of the high street and as British as the Queen, except Her Maj is German and most M&S products are imported.

As described in Turkey Street’s Turkipendix Two: A Word or Two in British.

Naturally, there’s an M&S here in Norwich, a large one too. It’s quite a draw for the county’s well-heeled grey herd in their waxed jackets and Jaeger. The store features a fancy vertical garden which, as you can see, takes some effort to prune. As for the old M&S slippers? I finally threw them out last year. Replacements not required.

The Big Thaw

After the big freeze comes the inevitable big thaw as temperatures rise to their seasonal norm. The glaciers of Norwich are gently melting to a sloppy slush of dirty grey and iced water gently trickles away into sewers. My bruised back is gradually recovering from my big trip and I can venture out once more without fear of slippage and indignity. Before the cold snap becomes yesterday’s news, I give one last cold snap of my own – our patio table looking like a giant iced sponge on a silver cake stand.

The Hazards of Duke Street

Norwich City Council in its municipal wisdom has decided that gritting pavements isn’t their bag. While city streets are generally clear, the continuing arctic snap means that unsuspecting pedestrians risk their dignities and their coccyxes attempting to skate along the glacial footpaths. People are dropping like nine pins judging by the amateur footage taken by a voyeuristic resident of Duke Street. Yesterday, I was gingery trying to navigate the Tombland icecap. My thick-tread winter boots did not save me from an arse-over-tit, ice scream tumble that nearly put me into an early grave. It hurt. I think I’ll sue. It’s all the rage these days.

Winter Wonderland

It didn’t take the power of the Delphic Oracle to predict the chaos that would result from yesterday’s whiteout. Even a light dusting of snow generally brings the nation to a shuddering halt. East Anglia has been particularly badly hit by the avalanche. It’s been the talk of BBC Radio Norfolk all day with a litany of cancelled events hitting the airwaves – whist drives, netball practice, line dancing, am dram, bowls and bingo. The county is littered with abandoned cars, parish halls have shut up shop, the brownies will not be dib-dib-dob-dobbing any time soon and the oven’s gone cold at the WI. Hundreds of schools have called time and thousands of kids are playing in the snow before it turns to dirty slush. Trains are cancelled and planes are grounded at Norwich International Airport (Yes, Norwich does have an international airport, not that you can fly to anywhere particularly exciting). The Dunkirk spirit has been rekindled and tales of random acts of kindness are flooding in. Plummeting temperatures and a sharp frost will guarantee that the show will run and run for a few days more. This all pales into insignificance when compared to the drama and tragedy that unfolded on the streets of South London this morning when a helicopter crashed into a crane, killing two people and injuring twelve more. You would never know it from the coverage on local radio here in the frozen east.

A sparkling blue sky enticed me out of the warmth for a hot drink and an iced bun. I took these snaps along the way.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

I was going to pop out for an Americano, but when I peered up from the laptop, I noticed that Norwich was enveloped in an instant blizzard. I thought better of it and decided to stay inside all warm and cosy instead. I can’t afford to break a hip at my age. Naturally, the county came to a standstill with jack-knifed trucks bringing gridlock to the highways and byways. Liam arrived home from his rural office two hours late. “Bugger the dinner,” he said. “Let’s go out for a pizza.” So that’s what we did.