A glistening pint of cold, fizzy lager

    Quick update on my last post: as I mentioned, I’d received a letter from the dermatologist to tell me the biopsy had revealed moderately abnormal cells, I needed further surgery on my ear and that I would hear from Wythenshawe hospital. Six weeks later and I’ve still not heard from them. I gave them a week before I followed up. I started at the scene of the crime—Withington hospital’s dermatology department—but they didn’t answer their phone. 

    I called several times on the number they had given me before dialling another, which eventually got me through to the nurses’ station. The woman I spoke to checked my records and confirmed that I was on a waiting list and I should call Wythenshawe directly for more information. She gave me two numbers, which I dutifully tried every day for a few more days. There was no answer but there was an answering machine so I left a couple of messages. Still nothing.

 
    On Wythenshawe hospital’s website, I found their Patient Advice and Liaison Service—PALS for short—who promise to ‘help make your voice heard and liaise with the relevant staff to sort out any problems quickly.’ I called the number but there was no reply so I emailed them. I’ve still not heard from them. Not very pally, if you ask me.

    At a loss how I was supposed to talk to anyone at Wythenshawe Hospital, and not knowing who I should speak to anyway because the original letter hadn’t contained that information, I thought I’d try Withington again.

    I didn’t mess about this time; I went straight to the nurses’ station number as they were the only people I’d got through to in all this time, and I laid it on. The woman I spoke to was lovely and helpful and professional. When I said to her with a slight shrillness to my voice, ‘I just need to know if I have skin cancer or if I’m going to have my ear removed’ she told me she couldn’t comment on the content of the letter but she’d ask the doctor that wrote it—the first person I’d seen at the dermatology department way back when in the middle of February—to call me.

    Ten minutes later, and the doctor was on the phone. She explained that I do not have skin cancer; the further surgery was to be undertaken by the plastic surgery team at Wythenshawe; and that it was an advised precaution given the moderately abnormal cells and the possibility of them becoming more abnormal in time. She went on to say that I do not need to worry and that I should wait for a call from Wythenshawe.

    After weeks of moderately abnormal worrying, I finally felt reassured. That being said, I’ve still not heard from Wythenshawe, I still don’t know how much of my ear they want and I can only assume the PALS team have fallen out and disbanded.

    In wider national news, the covid rates in the UK are dwindling as the vaccine does its job. Almost half of the UK’s population has had at least one vaccine shot—my first is due next Wednesday—and the country is gradually opening up again. Of course we’ve been here before, and things can change, but last time the country started to get back to normal we had no vaccine and the only thing to assist us was the Government’s ‘eat out to help out’ promotion.

    So as it stands we may go to a pub, or restaurant, but we must sit outside. That ruling is in place till 17th May and has led to a flurry of bookings across April and May—I’ve currently got a birthday dinner next Friday, drinks the following Thursday, lunch then drinks on the Saturday, dinner on 21st May with friends, again on 26th for our anniversary and one last reservation on 1st June because in the olden days we used to enjoy going out for a pizza on a Tuesday night. This might appear to the untrained eye as overkill, but believe me, some of these reservations are rarer than hen’s teeth.

    When the pubs first opened again, I was keen to get out there and sip a glistening pint of cold, fizzy lager, poured by someone else, and served to me in a glass—simply because I’d not done that since October. I went into work on the Thursday of that first week knowing that a couple of colleagues would be there and after we’d finished for the day we hit the Northern Quarter on the hunt for a table. Twenty minutes later, I was utterly dejected as we realised it was going to take an eon to find a seat. I had a right face on me. When somebody suggested we buy some cans and drink them on the roof terrace at work I had to apologise for my miserable attitude and mumbled the words, ‘Well, yeah, obviously it’s about the company.’ I don’t think I convinced them, especially when I said, ‘You know if I were on my own I could’ve got in that last pub.’ I eventually got my glistening pint a few days later, and I have made up for it since by necking the stuff like it’s going out of fashion.

    As part of the process of returning to normal, there is a new arm to the track and trace scheme whereby people who have no symptoms test themselves at home and report back to the NHS. As a good citizen I ordered my kit of seven tests which should last about a month. They arrived on Monday but I had an important appointment on Wednesday so I pushed it to one side—I couldn’t risk missing it if it turned out that I was positive. Apparently that’s not the right way to look at it, but it was a very important appointment.

    I didn’t find time to do it on Thursday (glistening pints of cold, fizzy lager) then, on Friday, I got myself all revved up for it before realising I wasn’t supposed to eat before the test and I’d just wolfed down a massive piece of quiche with some new potatoes and salad. I pushed it aside again and settled down with a slab of carrot cake.

 

    Eventually, this morning, I got round to taking the test. It’s the standard thing you see on the TV of folk having swabs jammed up their noses and into the back of the throat. You then take said swab and mix it in a formula and drop it into a little plastic strip before giving it half an hour to reveal the answer. I imagine that’s what a pregnancy test is like, just with fewer tonsils and more piss. Thankfully, the test was negative because I’m due at a garden party this evening and I didn’t want to cancel.

    Finally, I feel I should mention the biggest news of the last month: the death of Prince Philip, the Duke Of Edinburgh, at 99 years old. It’s one of those strange situations where something affects people despite them having no direct link to the event or in this case, the person. There was the usual mix of sentiment on social media with some horrors being completely merciless, as if the money and privilege afforded to members of the royal family negates any need for sympathy or their need to mourn. I mean, why should someone be upset about losing a family member when they have a driver and a nice house?

    Thankfully, though most people saw past the ceremony and the bluster of the misanthropes, and recognised the event for what it was: a woman who had lost her companion of over seventy years, human, diminished in stature, and hurting, and having to do it in the spotlight of public scrutiny.

    His funeral was at St George’s Chapel, Windsor, and as current Covid rules dictate, the congregation was made up of just thirty people. The service was solemn and pared back and the Queen cut a lonely figure, standing unaccompanied to the right of her husband’s coffin.

 
    News reports say that she will continue to live at Windsor now and only return to London for work. Others have suggested she might pass the crown on to Charles, though I don’t see that happening. There will always be mixed opinions about the royal family, and whilst the death of Prince Philip was a big deal, you can guarantee the international reaction will pale into insignificance when the Queen dies.

A stitch in time

    I recently wrote about having some moles excised at the dermatologist and this Friday, two weeks to the day, I went to have the stitches removed from my ear and the back of my head. The rules, having been changed to ensure social distancing guidelines, were that I had to go around the side of the health centre, to the staff car park, where I was under strict instructions not to park (I haven't had a car for five years), then I was to press the buzzer at the staff entrance and announce myself. 

    Dutifully, I did as ordered. Hello, I'm a bit early but it's Richard Douglas, I have an appointment.

    The person at the other end huffed irritably, and replied: Right, I'll let 'em know. 

    The intercom fell silent and I began loitering in the car park. I was the recipient of two, side-eyed, suspicious glances from people who had parked and assumed I'd come to break into their hatchbacks, and almost the victim of a hit and run, except they didn't actually hit me and the only running was done by the flustered healthcare worker who, at 9.40am, I think was running late. 

    I paced the potholed tarmac and checked the time on my phone. I'll let them off, I thought, the appointment wasn't till quarter to. T minus two minutes. I examined what appeared to be pieces of a tiny, plastic palm tree strewn across the ground and, bored, sent a message to Alison to ask her if Lego still made those little green trees. She told me to Google it, I told her I had become too reliant on Google. I paced some more.

    Are yer still there? The voice eventually bellowed through the tinny intercom, like a furious Metal Mickey. Noticing they were now a minute late, but not wanting to say anything, I trotted to the door and confirmed that I was, indeed still there. She'll just be a minute, she's findin' a visor, said the voice.

    A full three minutes later than my assigned appointment time an excellent woman opened the door and beckoned me in with wide eyes and an enthusiastic voice. I immediately forgave her tardiness as she led me down the corridor and asked if I'd eaten because she didn't want me fainting like all the other men that have stitches taken out. I told her about my Weetabix, took a seat in her room and pointed out where the stitches were. 

    Have you been fighting? she asked.

    No, I had some moles removed. Do you get a lot of fighters?

    Yeah, loads. And stabbings.

    Really? I was shocked, this is a nice neighbourhood.

    You'd be surprised. After the pub when they all start scrapping. She paused before adding, And gunshot wounds.

    I couldn't tell if she was joking so I didn't pursue it.

    One of her colleagues came into the room and, so as not to disturb me, pulled a blue curtain half way across the room. I'm not sure how it was going to help as, despite the fact I couldn't see her, I could certainly hear her as she struck up a conversation.

    Where did you get them fancy biscuits? she pried.

    Reception, but I had the last ones. Do you want them? offered my nurse.

    No. Yer alright.

    Are you sure?

    Yeah. Then almost as an afterthought, They're fancy though.

    By now I needed to know just how fancy these biscuits actually were so I piped up: If I'd have told you I hadn't eaten this morning would you have given me your biscuits?

    Yeah, do you want them?

    No, thanks.

    Are you sure? You can have 'em.

    I leaned forward to have a look: Biscoff, extra large, double pack, separately wrapped. I wanted them but I knew I had some baby Biscoffs at home so I declined. The other nurse collected her tools—something about an open wound on a foot—and left. I never did see her face as she ogled the biscuits.

    Right, which ones do you want done first? my nurse asked as she sat down next to me with a tiny blade in her hand.

    A few minutes later, I was done, stitches removed with only one tiny twinge of pain—they were very tight knots I was told—and I was sent on my way with instructions to call if I had any problems with anything, At all, she emphasised. I wanted to ask if I could call her about a few personal issues I wanted to work through but thought better of it. I liked her very much, I think I'd enjoy working with her.

    An hour after I'd left the house I arrived home. There was a letter waiting for me from the NHS with the results of the biopsies. The larger, uglier mole behind my right ear was thankfully harmless but the small dark one, on the rim of my left ear, was described as 'moderately abnormal'. The letter went on to inform that, to cure it, I would need to have further surgery and that I would next hear from their colleagues at Wythenshawe Hospital.

    I'd not expected that. I'd been a bit concerned about the results but everyone, myself included, said it'd be fine, no need to worry, better to be safe than sorry and so on. I'd almost written it off as a formality.

    The letter was short and, while on the face of it, it appeared to the point, the more I thought about it, the more questions I was left with. What does moderately abnormal mean? Is there an abnormal scale and if so, where does moderate sit on that? Should I be worried—I already am—or is it routine? What is further surgery? I'm already missing a small chunk out of my ear, which has left me looking like a bad cat after a fight, but how much more will I lose? A couple of millimetres; half a centimetre; half an ear? Can you get your ear reconstructed on the NHS? I wondered. 

    And this is where I started catastrophising. What if I end up without an ear? What if the radiotherapy (that nobody has suggested I'll need) gives me a brain tumour? Is it too late to get life insurance so Chris isn't lumbered with the rest of the mortgage? Should I leave my grandparents' antiques to my brothers or Chris? An upward spiral of ridiculousness; ad nauseam.

    There's been an (un)fair amount of cancer in my family, we've waved farewell to a lot of people before their time, and this is obviously where this neurosis comes from. 

    My granny buried four of her children—twins in cot deaths, my mum's half brother Peter at the age of seventeen from cancer, after having his legs amputated at the knees, and my mum's sister Anna (the only one I knew) at the age of 45, who died after a particularly bad seizure at the Chalfont St Peter Epilepsy Centre where she was a patient; and my dad and his three siblings all lost their spouses in their fifties—all but one to cancer. These things have led me to spending a lot of my adult life both worrying about dying young and trying to fit as much as possible into my time because you never know when it's up.

    I like to think I'm rational but I've also spent the last nineteen years counting down the years till I die. In my head it's inevitable that I'll pop off at the same age as my mum did, 56, giving me slightly more than a decade left to squeeze everything in. Somehow I manage to dismiss the knowledge that her dad lived till he was 94 years old and on the Douglas side of my family—various ailments, conditions and situations notwithstanding—all seem to be plodding on into or at least towards their seventies.

    The rational side of my brain tells me I should wait for information from the hospital, or indeed contact them myself and ask for it; it says this might not be cancer (but that's what they check moles for isn't it?); half a centimetre of my ear is not such a big deal in the grand scheme of things; medicine has moved on since 2002; this is why I got it checked in the first place; better now than in five years time; and whatever you do, don't Google it. I haven't Googled it, but I'm sorely tempted.

    The side of me that I show to friends, family and colleagues makes light of the situation, because that's what I do. I've joked that I've always wanted to wear a monocle (I don't even wear glasses so the joke's on them) and I talk about looking like that bad cat I mentioned earlier. 

    I make light of it because I don't know what the letter implies, because I don't want folk to be awkward with me and make it weird, and because it's only a tiny little mole. But mostly I do it because I'm a bit scared that I might have skin cancer.

    Time will tell, that's all I know, and so I imagine a day, when I'm ancient and wizened, that I find myself sitting in the corner of one of those down at heel modernist pubs from the sixties, pint in hand, with my one and a half ears and my monocle. I'm telling stories about the olden days during the great pandemic, when surgery meant being stitched up with a needle and thread, the nurses were all called Jackie, and if you pretended you were going to faint you could get your hands on a packet of posh biscuits.

Roseanne Barr

    In seven days time it will be twelve months since I started writing this blog again after a hiatus of nine years. I started writing it again to keep a record, ostensibly for my own purposes, because I've got a terrible memory and I suspected 2020 was going to turn out to be a notable one. 

    In that post I wrote: "Yesterday the Prime Minister urged the British public to avoid all non-essential contact with others. While at present it feels a little over the top I'm confident that in the near future we'll see this as sage advice and suspect this is just the beginning of a long haul." 

    So here we are, almost a year later, and what a long haul it's been, with 140,000 people having died in the UK with Covid-19 registered as one of the causes on their death certificate. Even with the question of excess deaths that I was wondering about in my last post, it's a pretty sobering situation.

    The positive news—for there is always something positive to be found—is that nearly 24 million people have had their first dose of a vaccine, another 1.8 million have had their second, and the rates of infection and deaths are dropping. Here in Greater Manchester the rate has fallen below 100 positive tests in 100,000 people for the first time in months, with only three of the ten boroughs counting more.

    There are reports of folk choosing not to have the vaccine—fine I say, it's up to them—and the odd case of evangelical anti-vaxxers who rather than just saying, it's not for me, are intent on using the powers of social media to convince the rest of us that we're sleep walking into some kind of dystopian future where we'll all be killed by our own governments.

    As far as I know my dad, who is just over a week short of 71 years old, has yet to be vaccinated and last time I asked he didn't seem especially concerned or in any hurry. Like I said, fine, it's up to him.

    In other news, I've had a couple of moles removed, one from my left ear and one from behind my right ear, which was loads of fun. I contacted my doctor about something else entirely and during the phone consultation (because during a pandemic everything is done remotely) I happened to mention that I'd like him to look at some sun damage on my skin. He asked me to upload some images via a hyperlink then called me back to say the one on my cheek was a common or garden liver spot—I thought they were something old folk got—the one on my nose needs some attention, but wasn't anything to worry about, and the one on my ear needs an urgent consultation with a dermatologist. 

    Shortly after I received a text message from the health centre confirming the referral process and of course they used the word cancer which was somewhat disconcerting. I next received a letter to give me my appointment date and thirteen days after my initial call I went to get them checked out. 

In the interim Chris pointed out another mole on my head, behind my right ear, which of course I had no idea about because I couldn't see it. I discussed the moles I'd mentioned to my GP with the dermatologist and also asked them to look at the newly revealed one as well. The long and short of it is that the thing on my nose was some kind of vessel damage and they zapped it there and then with liquid nitrogen to burn it off; the one on my ear they weren't hugely concerned about but because it was dark they said it was best to whip it off; and the secret, surprise mole was of some concern because it was of an irregular shape and looked suspicious.

The remains of the frozen nose thing.

    A few days after the consultation I received another letter inviting me to have the two suspect moles surgically removed.

    Two days later, in her consulting room, I chatted with the dermatologist about that favourite lockdown pastime: going for a walk, and she regaled me with a story about stumbling on a secret garden village in the heart of Burnage. We then passed the time of day discussing books: I'm reading The Little Friend by Donna Tartt and she's just finished Hangover Square by Patrick Hamilton, which she recommended and I've since bought. We talked about the imminent excision, almost in an abstract way, as if she was teaching me how to do it, then I signed some documents and, lulled into a false sense of security, followed her to the next room.

    The anaesthetic was pretty straightforward, though a needle going into the edge of my ear stung more than I expected, then I lay there while it did its magic. The two women assisting the consultant tried to distract me and keep me entertained. Will you be going on holiday this year? What's your job? That sort of thing. They were pleasant enough but I think they could learn a thing or two about their patter from a hairdresser. Chit chat about city breaks only goes so far when international travel is all but banned.

    All numbed up, the consultant slipped around my side, weapons of choice secreted upon her person so I couldn't see what she was about to cut me with, and said, Can you feel that?   

    No, I replied. 

    And that? she asked as she jabbed me in the side of the head. 

    No. I could not feel anything, happy days, the anaesthetic had done its job. 

    I'm going to start on this side, she said, indicating the big one behind my ear. You'll just feel a bit of tugging.

    To begin with I sensed the work being done and the mopping of blood, a strange sensation, accompanied by the dulcet tones of the three women trying to get me involved in a discussion about their favourite comedians, a distraction technique if ever I've heard one.   

    With the benefit of hindsight I'd say it was about a third of the way through the procedure when I realised the anaesthetic hadn't flooded all the way across the flesh that was being cut out. 

    That was sharp, I thought.

I didn't say anything obviously. 

    Ouch! Shit, that hurt.

    Everything okay? asked one of the butchers as I unclenched my fists and wiped the sweat on my jeans.

    Roseanne Barr, I replied, she's hilarious.

    Roseanne! I'd forgotten about her, said the consultant, and carried on slicing me up.

    Had I known the pain was going to continue for as long as it did I'd have said something but I thought, just get it over with, it won't be long, it's not that bad. So I gritted my teeth and tried to focus on something else: the drawers with paperwork in them, the pile of swabs on the counter, the crinkle of the protective paper I was lying on, the OH MY GOD SHE'S SEWING MY HEAD UP!

    And she was. The offending mole had been removed, they'd talked over the works of Miranda Hart, and the wound was being sewn up. I couldn't tell whether what I was feeling was the needle going in or coming out but I knew I could feel a hot puncture in my skin followed by tugging and instructions in secret medical talk to do something to each of the stitches. One, two, three, four in turn. 

    All done! she eventualy said, chirpily, Just the little one on the other side to do now.

    Thankfully while the bloodbath behind my right ear was occurring it had given my left ear sufficient time to numb properly and all I felt was the tugging previously promised. The consultant was done in no time. She assured me that the flesh would be lab tested for cancer and I'd receive the results in two to three weeks. She then scuttled off back to her office leaving me in the capable hands of the other two women who briefed me on stitches etiquette. 

    Don't get them wet for three days; book yourself in at your health centre to have them removed in two weeks; and don't lie on them when you go to sleep. Followed by a moment of realisation as she appreciated there were stitches either side of my head and that might make sleeping tricky. Maybe you could... Er... I'm not sure how you're... Well you could try...

    I tried to help her out by saying, If only I had one of those hard little pillows Geishas sleep on so as not to mess their hair up. She looked at me like I was mad. I'll find a way, I assured her and left, light-headed and with a handful of leaflets.   

Stitches behind my right ear.

Stitch in my left ear.

Bitter Orange Tart

Three weeks into the new year and 2021 is already weird. Coronavirus continues its rampage around the world, the UK is in another national lockdown and has essentially closed its borders to the whole of South America, Portugal and South Africa because of new strains of the virus. Not that there are many people flying at the moment anyway. 

At the same time the amazing news is that we are now working with three vaccines in the UK and more than four million people have had their first injection. Vaccination centres are popping up everywhere and at the speedy rate we’re going it looks like everyone will have been inoculated much sooner than predicted. Mid-July keeps being bandied about as a possible date, though there is also talk of people having to be vaccinated again in the autumn. I wonder if it might become an annual thing like the flu vaccine – time will no doubt tell.

Alongside these headlines are those of the number of deaths happening every day which reporters bark at us, albeit with a sympathetic tone, every time the news comes on the television. Something that I’d like to look at though is how many people died of covid rather than with covid. Given that hospitals fill up in the winter anyway, and the headlines every year include stories of bed shortages and the struggling NHS, I wonder why the difference in winter deaths this year compared to previous years isn’t being highlighted. That to me would be a better indication of what Covid is doing. But then the headline: 1,600 people die with a Covid diagnosis in the worst day yet of the pandemic, doesn’t have quite the ring to it as: 300 more people died this year to last.

I’ve been tracking Covid 19 rates in the ten boroughs of Greater Manchester since the beginning of October and this second wave, as it stands, hasn’t reached the levels of November, and what's more, rates are dropping again now. The increase could be attributed to mixing at Christmas, though I think the majority of people followed the guidelines closely, and the downward turn of the graph could be attributed to the national lockdown. It’s difficult to say, especially when you consider that the November restrictions were heralded as a success in Greater Manchester despite the fact that rates were already decreasing when they were imposed. 

What I have noted however is that Greater Manchester rates, whilst following national trends, have been significantly below London rates and also well below England rates. Make of that what you will.

So whilst all this rumbles on, as it has for almost a year now, we look across the pond to the United States where today – 20th January 2021 – Joe Biden will be inaugurated as the 46th President and Donald Trump will leave Washington. This wouldn’t usually be of much concern to me, I’m not especially interested in American politics, but this is going to go down in history as a notable transition of power. Firstly because (of course) Covid 19 is having an impact and the crowds of hundreds of thousands that normally attend the event are being asked to attend virtually instead. Deaths from the virus in the United States have surpassed 400,000 as of today so it’s simply not safe to have people gather in large numbers. A field of flags will represent the people that would usually be there and this will be one of many changes to the ceremony.

In addition to the crowds another notable absentee will be the outgoing President. Trump has said he will not be attending in a snub to Biden and a continuation of his belief that the election was fixed and he should have won. The Vice President, Pence, will be there in his own capacity and not a representative of Trump.

There are concerns over safety in Washington DC today so security has been massively boosted, beyond, it seems, the levels normally seen at an inauguration. This in the most part is a reaction to the events of 6th January when, in scenes you’d expect from a developing democracy, a tyranny or a totalitarian system, the American Capitol building was stormed by protesters. Congress were gathered to confirm the electoral college vote and confirm, once and for all, Biden’s success when, egged on by Trump at a rally, hundreds of people forced their way into the building in an attempt to disrupt the process.

It was truly shocking to see politicians and staff fleeing to escape, and rioters marauding through the building. Tear gas was fired by the police as they tried to regain control and workers barricaded themselves into offices to avoid the protestors. Five people died including one police officer who was hit over the head with a fire extinguisher.

I won’t labour the story as news of it was reported around the globe, however I will say that it revealed the passion, disillusionment and dare I say it, hatred felt by one side of what is essentially a split country.

So back to the UK and Nigella Lawson has chosen today to tweet her recipe for Bitter Orange Tart as recipe of the day. Coincidence? Who knows but if you fancy giving it a go here it is: https://www.nigella.com/recipes/bitter-orange-tart 

Gas Giants, Brexit, Mutant Viruses and Christmas 2020

It’s the day after Boxing Day. The month since I last wrote has whizzed by and the world again seems to have been tipped on its head. I suppose that’s one thing you can say for sure about 2020 – there’s never been a slow news day.

At the end of the last lockdown the tier system of restrictions was restructured and strengthened. In Manchester, which remained in tier 3, pubs and restaurants didn’t reopen but some shops did. Rules about Christmas gatherings were announced and as expected they were to keep it low key. It was all a bit gloomy.

Then followed the news that the MHRA had approved a Covid 19 vaccine for use in the UK which was a massive breakthrough. Within a matter of days the first person in the world received that vaccine in Coventry, on 8th December, and to date around 800,000 people have been inoculated. I suspect that because of my age and good health I’ll be quite low down the list and may get my chance in late summer.

As we’ve come to expect from 2020, with the good news comes the bad. Reports of a significant mutation in the virus were hot on the heels of the vaccine. It appears to have originated in Kent and infection numbers in the SouthEast began rocketing. The new variant which was identified in September and sequenced in October, transmits faster and is more infectious than its predecessor. The increasing numbers prompted the Government to put London and a chunk of the SouthEast into a new Tier 4 with almost immediate effect. Christmas plans were scuppered for millions and the capital essentially shut down, but not before thousands of residents, keen to get to their families for Christmas, rammed train stations and a mini exodus out of town took place on cramped trains.

Countries around Europe, fearful that the new strain might land there, immediately banned flights and ships from the UK. Most noticeably France, simply because so many cross border goods go through Dover and Calais. The channel tunnel was closed and Dover port became a car park with hundreds of drivers stranded there over Christmas. I read reports of locals lowering food packages down to them from motorway bridges and skirmishes with police as drivers who wanted to be home for Christmas became increasingly frustrated. I suppose the travel restrictions were to be expected but I suspect the mutant virus (as the papers refer to it) is already on the continent given that it was seen so many weeks ago and it’s been recognised in Brazil too. On top of that, a third strain has been noted in South Africa leading to further flights being grounded from that country.

There have been other UK restriction changes in different parts of the country as of Boxing day, though Manchester remains frozen in suspended animation as it has been for months. Infection rates across all ten boroughs have begun to creep up again, but not at the same rate as they have in the SouthEast. In fact rates seem to be on the increase across Europe generally as well as in parts of Asia and it feels like there’s a race between Covid and the vaccine. A second vaccine, developed at Oxford University and with AstraZeneca is due for approval imminently and as it’s easier to handle and transport than the Pfizer vaccine it’s hoped that the programme will speed up.

In the meantime Christmas has come and gone. For many it’s understandably been a quieter, pared back affair, though the Government did authorise mixing of households for those not in Tier 4. We had Chris’s folks round, as we have done many times before, so it didn’t feel all that different. 

Outside of the pandemic – for there is still a world out there – and just in time, a Brexit deal has finally been agreed. Boris Johnson addressed the UK on Christmas Eve to tell us that trade deals have been agreed alongside fishing rights, a move away from the European Court of Justice, agreements on data security, policing and travel. Naturally there is still a split between those who voted to remain in the EU saying we’re in a worse position than we were before and those who voted to leave saying we now have the freedom to chart our own course. Time will tell who is right though I reckon it will more than likely be a mix of the two. I for one am optimistic about the future – let’s see what happens eh?

And in celestial news, on 21st December, the winter solstice, Jupiter and Saturn, two of the solar system’s gas giants, were in alignment with the earth in what is known as the Great Conjunction. Their positions, so close to each other in our skies, made them look like one bright body and while this happens about every twenty years it seems they were closer than they have been for some for eight centuries. Typically it was cloudy in Manchester so we didn’t see a damn thing.

New York City, 1999

"Are you okay?"

Chris was sitting bolt upright, in the hotel bed opposite, counting on his fingers.

"I've been up for ages."

"How come?"

"I'm trying to work out how we leave Miami today, fly to New York, then take an eight hour flight to Manchester and arrive home yesterday. What time zone are we in again?"

I frowned in concentration, counted on my fingers then replied, "Oh shit Chris. I think we might have missed our flight."

We didn't know it then but missing our flight back to the UK was the least of our worries.

The holiday had started with mixed fortunes. Two days before flying to New York, Chris had been made redundant and relieved of his duties. His boss had taken the decision to remove all the heads of music, of which Chris was one, from across the group and replace them with his boyfriend, who despite him having no discernible experience in the radio industry, he felt was well suited to take a senior group position. 

"It's a business decision," he'd said to Chris, his knee visibly shaking under the desk as he delivered the news. Of course it was. 

As I was heading into work that lunchtime, to wrap things up ahead of our holiday, Chris was leaving the building with a box of belongings . Until that day, we had worked at the same radio station, Chris was head of music, I was head of research. 

This wasn't going to be awkward at all, my partner of three years losing his job, in a grand example of nepotism, and me continuing to be employed by the company with all the expectations of integrity and loyalty that go with it. I could continue to be professional – if I wanted to – as it turned out, I didn’t.

Cut to Manchester Airport – 21st April 1999 – check in. A few weeks earlier someone had suggested a surefire way of getting an upgrade on a flight so we'd arrived smartly dressed, looking respectable, script learned. Chris's opening line, as he passed his paperwork to the woman at the Continental Airlines desk was well rehearsed.

"Good morning fine lady," he didn't really say fine lady, but it sounded like he should. "If you're considering upgrading anyone today we'd be very happy to accept."

We both grinned inanely at the woman, our overly enthusiastic smiles laced with looks of desperate pleading.

"You what?" She didn't even look up at us.

Chris cleared his throat and enunciated, slowly, "If you're considering upgrading anyone today we'd be very happy to accept."

"Sorry love, no upgrades today. Passports please," she sucked her teeth and finally made eye contact.

We curled our lips at each other and shrugged, the realisation dawning that we'd have to sit on a plane in smart but uncomfortable clothes for eight hours until we landed at Newark.

Checked in and luggage deposited we headed for security and the shops. This being 1999, and pre-9-11, security meant having your suitcase x-rayed, walking through a metal detector arch and, if you were lucky, getting a quick pat-down from a security guard a la Diana Ross. Even then, Ms Ross's life altering ordeal at Heathrow was nearly six months in the future. It wasn't the heyday of flying by any means but it was far easier than it is today.

Scanned, beeped and well patted, we headed for Duty Free, that esteemed institution that in April 1999 had a mere two months lifespan remaining and was gasping for dear life on the last of the cheap fags while swigging one last bottle of cut price brandy.

Chris gets carried away at airports; he sees an opportunity to stock up on perfume and voddy and takes it. Unlike many Brits he doesn't care for an early morning pint and has no interest in browsing reading material for the flight, no, he wants to shop till he drops, walking out laden with the latest goodies from Tom Ford or Calvin Klein, and so a mammoth expedition got underway. 

Chris sees airport shopping as a challenge to get as much out of the staff as he possibly can, whether that be discounts or free samples. I've seen him get on a plane with a Givenchy sports bag containing not only his shopping but hundreds of tiny packets of testers, a pair of socks, a travel blanket, flip flops and bottles of branded mineral water before now. 

While eschewing the aforementioned pint, Chris, when on his tour of duty (free) is always sure to take advantage of the alcohol tasting stands. It doesn't matter what time of day it is, if there's a thimble of whiskey or a snifter of gin going free, he's having it. He has the routine down to a fine art. Spying his prey from a distance he casually approaches, as if he's not onto a sure thing, and begins his patter:

"May I try some?"

"Of course, would you like to try the standard, the lemon or the summer berries?"

"Lemon please."

Chris sips the illicit nectar, it hits the spot, you can tell by the glimmer in his eye.

"Richard! Come and try this."

I traipse over, sullen.

"Hello," I offer the assistant a knowing shrug. "Thank you, I'll try the lemon too."

"Ooh, this is delicious. I can see us having this before a dinner party," Chris will coo.

"Urgh," is my usual grunted response. "Are we done?"

"I might just try..." he turns to the assistant. "What's the summer berries one like?"

"Fruity. Would you like to try some?"

"Is that okay?" Chris won't be seen asking for more booze at 7am but if he's offered it, that's a different matter altogether

This merry dance continues until Chris has tried everything on the stand at which point he'll ask in elevated tones, "And where can I buy this marvellous product fine sir?" (Again, the ‘fine sir’ is more of an attitude than a quote.)

The assistant will point to the large display of bottles next to him, Chris will feign surprise then in a stage voice highlight to me what a reasonable price it is. Grabbing one and sticking it in his drag-behind-you shopping basket, he'll thank the member of staff profusely and go on about his business. 

Within three minutes of leaving the free drinks behind, the bottle of fancy booze will be stuffed in amongst some overpriced teddy bears or abandoned with the sunglasses, and replaced with a litre of the standard brand at half the price. I've watched these interactions at airports around the world and it never changes.

On the morning in question we were just coming out of the shop, stinking to high heaven from the concoction of perfumes we've tried on with the false pretence of buying them, with our shopping in hand, when we heard our names being announced on the tannoy.

If you're at an airport and you hear your names being called then you know something is wrong. What had happened? Had we inadvertently stolen something? Had the machetes and bomb blueprints in our suitcases finally been discovered? Had the authorities been alerted to the child trafficking? No – we were late for the aeroplane.

"Will passengers Buckley and Douglas please make their way to gate 22 for boarding. This is your final call, the gate is closing."

In unison, "Shit!" 

We legged it for the gate. We ran along the concourse, doing double speed on the moving walkways, practically jumped down a set of steps, past the loos which Chris considered stopping at before I yelled at him, then up another lot of stairs and finally arrived at gate 22.

"We're here!" I wheezed. "Let us on! Please!"

"You're lucky. We were about to take your luggage off." They weren't, airline staff are liars, it's all a power trip.

"Here! TAke them!" I thrust our boarding cards into the woman's hand.

She looked at the cardboard tickets, then at a clipboard next to her, then back at us. After a visible hesitation and a secretive word with a colleague she finally turned to us and said, "I'll just need to print new boarding cards. Your seats have been changed."

Chris's hackles were raised. "What do you mean? We've booked those seats!"

"Shut up will you! They won't let us on."

"I'm not having..."

"Chris just be quiet!"

"These are your new boarding cards, you'll be in seats 4A and 4B." The Continental Airlines representative was suddenly all smiles. "Please make your way along the jetway and turn left when you get on the aircraft."

We set off down the tunnel to the aeroplane scrabbling with each other like children.

"What did she say?"

"I don't know."

"She said turn left, what does that mean?"

"I don't know, hurry up!"

"If we've been given shit seats I'm going to brain them!"

"Just shush! We're here."

We composed ourselves, and stepped through the door onto the Boeing.

"This way please sir." The assistant indicated the front of the plane.

And with that we were directed into Business First. Chris was practically squealing with glee and immediately turned into the modern day equivalent of a medieval princess, bowing to people and announcing 'Good day kind Sir' and such. (I don’t need to mention the Sir thing again do I?)

We took our seats, the stewardess offering to put our hand luggage and coats in the cloakroom – who knew such wonders existed on an aeroplane? – before asking if we'd like a glass of champagne.

"Why yes, fine lady. That would be simply exquisite," said Chris.

As soon as she left us we descended into childish giggles and 'Oh my Gods!' and ‘What just happeneds?’ before immediately beginning to play around with the gadgets you didn't get in standard class. At that moment we decided we'd only ever fly First Class from now on. Our social status had been elevated and with it we had become more important than everyone we knew. We'd have to get new friends now and move far away from our families for fear we might be associated with them.

The woman returned with our glasses of champagne and we composed ourselves. 

"Can I help you with anything? Do you know how to use the TV?"

Chris put on his best 'this isn't our first time' voice and declined her offer of help with a deep bow of the head and a dramatic swish of the arm. Ten minutes later we had to call her back.

"Remind me fair maiden, how dost one retrieve thine television set from the arm of one's chair?"

I think the cabin crew suspected we'd only ever flown in the back of the plane before and most of them were very accommodating. The Cabin Crew Manager was even good enough to give us a couple of bottles of wine which they'd opened but not used, as we got off the aircraft in America.

The only negative on the flight was one member of cabin crew who was rude to me when I confided our secret in her. 

"Excuse me, I'd ordered a vegetarian meal but we've since changed seats. Is there any chance..."

She looked down at me, both literally and figuratively, and with a flare of her nostrils said, "No. Your meal's back there," and flung a thumb over her shoulder towards our old seats before marching off. 

It was fine though, I complained about her attitude to the woman who eventually gave us the bottles of wine. She sorted me out with something to eat, and ejected her colleague out of the aircraft at 32,000 feet.

Me with the magnificent Manhattan skyline

We spent the first week of our holiday in New York City before flying down to Miami and the Florida Keys for the remainder. While in the Big Apple for the first time we took it upon ourselves to visit every single tourist trap we’d ever heard of.

We began with a round trip on a ferry to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, unfortunately though, we somehow messed it up. 

Lady Liberty as we sailed away 

Ellis Island was very interesting – in the way a museum is interesting next to a theme park – but what we really wanted to do was see Lady Liberty up close. It wasn’t until we were on the second ferry and Liberty Island, with its famous resident, was gradually, but surely, getting smaller, that we realised we’d messed up and got on the wrong boat. If only we’d have known then that this was to be a harbinger of things to come, maybe we’d have been more careful in Miami a fortnight later.

Chris in his consolation tourist crown

I don’t even know how we managed it, now I think about it, it’s a one way route taking in both islands, and it’s pretty difficult to mess it up. Anyway, the Statue of Liberty looked pretty grand from a distance and we consoled ourselves by buying foam crowns and postcards from the hawkers back at Battery Park when we alighted.

Undeterred we continued our day of sightseeing. We headed for Midtown to visit the Flatiron building and coo at its unusual shape, we went to the Chrysler Building to take in its deco delights and we obliged the gods of tourism by taking in the Empire State Building, where of course we visited the viewing deck and looked out across Manhattan to where the Statue of Liberty stood on her plinth in New York Bay, smirking at us and waving her torch in defiance.

It turns out that a week in New York City is a long time when you’re a tourist and it’s possible to run out of things to do. That being said we managed to fill our time fairly well with a mixture of sightseeing, shopping and drinking. 

We went to the twin towers of the World Trade Center on two separate occasions. The first to have cocktails in the Windows On The World bar in the North Tower – aka The Greatest Bar On Earth – where after checking in our coats on the ground floor and travelling in the ear-poppingly fast lift to the 107th, Chris realised he’d left his cigarettes in his jacket downstairs thus triggering the first moment of realisation about how unfair and ill-timed his redundancy had been. I ordered drinks while he went to retrieve his menthols and by the time he returned Chris was livid and actively wishing the early demise of his former friend and boss, the hatchet man, not only for his actions but for doing it a day before we went on holiday.

On the second trip to the World Trade Center, later that week, Chris was slightly less furious. This time we visited the Top of the World observation deck on the 107th floor of the South Tower. We had our small change mangled and imprinted with a friendly message by a machine which charged us ten dollars for the privilege and gazed across the bay to where a certain green statue stared back, blank and smug.

I remember standing on a railing and leaning our heads against the glass, amazed and feeling slightly sick by the distance to the ground below. I can’t even begin to comprehend what it felt like for those poor souls that two years later made the choice (if you can call it that) to leap from that height, beaten back by flames from an exploded Boeing 767.

Oblivious as to the impending future of the World Trade Center, New York City and indeed the world, we went on to spend a wonderful afternoon in Central Park admiring the roller skaters’ balancing skills and going to say hello to the penguins in the zoo. We then spent an hour or so browsing FAO Schwarz, the world’s biggest toy shop, which back then was situated on Fifth Avenue, near the corner of the park. I must admit to loitering a little too long in the Barbie shop, not because I had a particular fascination with the plastic princess but simply because it was a separate store, within a store, with its own street entrance, and I got a little bit confused. We eventually left the emporium with a box of Milleniumopoly and a shiny, steel slinky, important finds I’d say.

As Chris and I were both radio folk at the time, I’d hatched a little plan back in Manchester to see what American radio was all about. I’d been on an internet message board, left my calling card – English man in New York – and secured us a trip to Jammin 105 which was located on the 18th floor of a building on 6th Avenue. This was when I saw Chris’s recent redundancy experience overflow for the second time as he cursed the bastards back in London to the bemused Music Director who was showing us around. 

Jammin 105 was strange to us in the late 90s. British radio was a lively, creative place back then, our station was bustling and fun. In comparison this one was soulless, situated as it was in a corporate style office with glass partitions and carpet tiles, and where we saw only two people. Their presenters, it was revealed, were stationed at home studios in different states across the country and would often broadcast on more than one station. The United States’ geography allowed for this as it was unlikely that a small radio station in New York would clash with say one in San Francisco or Salt Lake City. Looking back now it seems that, as with commercial, format radio before it, the UK was destined to follow in the footsteps of America, removing people and rationalising resources, as a way to improve the bottom line.

Our holiday continued with a dash through Times Square where we attempted to take photographs of a group of grumpy police officers; a stroll around Washington Square Park where we met lots of lesbians congregating for some reason with their lap dogs – each of them dressed preposterously in strange garb. The dogs not the lesbians. 

Bustling Coney Island boardwalk

Part way through the week we took the subway all the way to the end of the line in Brooklyn because I had somehow become obsessed with Coney Island. It was lovely and everything but this being April, and Coney Island essentially being a seaside town, everything was shut. No fairground, no cotton candy, no Diana Ross and Michael Jackson Easing on down the road.

Coney Island funfair, closed

When we returned to Manhattan later that day we stumbled upon a Sikh procession which Chris was thrilled by because they were offering free food to passers-by. I couldn’t tell you what the celebration was about but the food was delicious. 

Naturally we tried a number of bars during our trip including the famous Stonewall Inn, renowned for being the birth place of the American struggle for gay rights, where fellow drinkers marvelled that Chris and I had been a couple for as long as four whole years. We celebrated this with copious amounts of beer and a singalong to high energy mixes of Toni Braxton and other such hits of the day, before heading for The Monster, a gay club across the road. 

We were reliably informed that The Monster was another Manhattan institution and we’d been assured we could continue singing to show tunes around a piano – music to Chris’s ears. Once settled and with drinks in hand, I left Chris trying to work out the lyrics to Somewhere That’s Green from the Little Shop Of Horrors while I went to find the loo. He eventually had to come and find me when, while trying to locate the gents, I’d inadvertently wandered into the basement club and was bumbling about in what appeared to be a gay, Hispanic, hip hop night. I was very popular, a British accent used to do that in New York.

I forget the other places I remember – if that makes sense. I have vague memories of a place called G Bar or G Club or G Spot (but it was a long time ago and I didn’t write it down) and another basement club in a long room where I had a dance off with three locals who were very impressed by my moves, I’ll have you know. I seem to remember us being taken to a swanky hotel bar one night, one of those where you have to know where you’re going and it’s literally a door with no signage, on an unassuming street. I remember another long room with high ceilings and steps, all down one side, which we sat on and quaffed our drinks. I recall with horror their cocktail menu with a dreadful concoction called a cunt-pump listed on it. This delightful beverage was a vodka based drink with tomato juice, garnished with a tampon. Needless to say I didn’t try it. 

Looking back, more than twenty years later, it all sounds very New York and my first time there was lots of fun. We should probably have stayed for four days rather than seven but you live and learn and besides we had a week in Florida to look forward to and of course the horror of missing the flight back home. But that’s for another time.

We went back to New York just once more, in May 2001, with friends. I’d love to go again, it has changed so much, but if I’m honest I don’t think I can afford it now. Back then I was happy to rack up credit card debt and say I’ll pay it off when I’m older, but now I am older, comparatively I earn less money than I did, I don’t want to be in debt again, and I’ve got my ISA to think about. Leave Manhattan to the wealthy and the young adventurers. 

Long live 1999.