Архив метки: Self-isolating diary

Stay Young & Avoid the Vaccine

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 483 [10 July 2021]

Published: 10 July 2021

Growing old is an occupational hazard of being born, but by staying young forever you can avoid untested vaccines and serious complications from catching Covid-19.

Just when I was absolutely certain that I would soon be certain about changing the name of this series of diary posts from ‘self-isolating’ to something more applicable to the lifestyle I am leading, like what?, along came the Delta variant, the call for bars and restaurants that do not have outside seating areas to close, renewed attention to maskee wearing and a rallying cry for mass vaccination, which has as its masthead the controversial word ‘mandatory’. Thank heavens for that, I thought: self-isolating it is and thus it will remain.

An inveterate worrier, and a professional at that, who is more worried about not having something to worry about than worrying about something, lately I have done a lot of introspective soul-searching as to why coronavirus has not bothered me as much as it should, and in the process have asked myself the questions: Is it because I have adopted a reckless and cavalier attitude? Have I been turned by the myriad conspiracy theories? Or have I just dropped out of the panic circle by living one day at a time and by allowing the news that I can be bothered to read to simply wash over me?

Not much news is good news and no news even better, but if you have ever tried avoiding mainstream media, along with the gabbling gibberish of social media, you will inevitably have discovered that it is not that easy. There always seems to be some well-meaning soul on hand to replace the valve in the radio that self-preservation removed.

Dropping out is a great feeling, truly emancipating, and what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about, but bad news like coronavirus itself has an aerosol effect (at least, I think that is the right word for it), and when I turned on and tuned in I discovered that in the UK Matt Hancock had left his post, disgraced but lustfully happy, that the man who had replaced him, Mr Sajid Javid, the brown man with a bald head, was calling for ‘F’ Day and that western media was adopting an ‘I told you so’ attitude to Russia’s latest Covid predicament, eagerly using words like ‘forced to play catchup’ and ‘caught on the back foot’ to describe Russia’s clamour to get as many people on the vaccination bandwagon and in the shortest time possible as the Delta variant stalks the land.

Our World in Data ¹ states that 18.5 million people have been fully vaccinated in Russia, representing 12.8% of the population, compared to 48.2% fully vaccinated in the United States and 51.3% in the UK. So, perhaps the phrase catchup is not as undeserved as it first might appear.

From The Moscow Times² I learn that the Delta variant is surging ~ now, where did I put that maskee? ~ that someone in Moscow has been detained on suspicion of selling fake coronavirus vaccine certificates and that Moscow’s first criminal case against someone has been opened for allegedly purchasing a counterfeit QR code, which could be used to grant the perpetrator access for indoor dining in Moscow’s restaurants. It is times like these that make me feel glad that I am a beans-on-toast man.

So, does this all mean, taking into account the ‘success story’ of the UK’s vaccination programme, that jumping onto a small boat and heading to the Sceptered Isle would be strategically fortuitous. After all, if I was to set off now I might arrive just in time to celebrate Britain’s big ‘F Day’.

And yet, there is no confusion like coronavirus. Google News UK throws up any number of articles claiming that the virus can be spread and caught even by those who have been fully vaccinated; that thousands of Brits are destined to catch coronavirus once restrictions are eased; that ‘breakthroughs’ are happening all the time (that’s not victims breaking out of lockdown but coronavirus infecting people who have had the vaccine); that Brits are being told to carry on social distancing and wearing masks even when they have had two jabs; that booster jabs will be needed … etc

The Mirror³ reports, for example, that the UK can expect 100,000 cases per day as restrictions are eased. Another Mirror⁴ article tells us to watch out for Long Covid, and identifies 14 symptoms that could be signs of Covid, from insomnia to earache. Looking down the Mirror’s list I thought, “Well, I’ll be buggered, it looks as though I may have had Long Covid since I was 14, or even before”.

Then there was this report from the BBC⁵ which informed me that due to escalating cases of Covid that the NHS Covid contact tracing app used in England and Wales must be made less sensitive to take account of the hundreds of thousands of new cases that will emerge after ‘F Day’, which, in case you are in any doubt, means Freedom day. I had to back-track through the news and read up on what exactly this app is and what it does. Apparently, it detects the distance between users and the length of time spent in close proximity, which is currently 2m or less and for more than 15 minutes. In doing so it seemed as if I had stumbled upon the latest chapter in How to make your life technologically unbearable and become neurotic in the process. But then, what would I know? I do not have a mobile phone.

On reflection, I do not think that I will travel to the UK after all, although given the inconvenience, costs of tests and what have you, if I was to go I would most likely go by small boat across the Channel, as thousands of illegal migrants can’t be wrong.

Stay young & avoid the vaccine

So, back to taking the vaccine, or not as the case may be.

It occurred to me that instead of taking any vaccine and exposing myself to any number of unknown, possibly critical and censored, adverse side-effects, I could try getting younger, as the incidence of coronavirus cases in the young is relatively low as is the risk of developing serious illness and dying from it.

But whilst the young may feel good about this now, unless they do as I am doing, which is getting younger, they too will eventually grow old, which is not advisable, given the depressing prediction that coronavirus may never go away. All of which points to the unsettling conclusion that growing old is becoming a far more risky business than it was and always has been.

After serious consideration, I think we could do worse than to take a leaf out of Charles Aznavour’s philosophical song book. Asked about ageing, the acclaimed singer/songwriter reputedly said, “There are some people who grow old and others [like me] who just add years.”

Seems like the only way to go.

References
1. Our World in Data [https://ourworldindata.org/covid-vaccinations?country=OWID_WRL] [accessed 9 July 2021]
2. The Moscow Times [https://www.themoscowtimes.com/2021/07/09/coronavirus-in-russia-the-latest-news-july-9-a69117] [accessed 9 July 2021]
3. Mirror Online [UK records 29,000 Covid cases in worst day since January – with 37 more deaths – Mirror Online] [accessed 9 July 2021]
4. Mirror Online [ Long Covid: 14 symptoms that could be signs of illness – from insomnia to earache – Mirror Online] [accessed 9 July 2021]
5. BBC [https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-57772515] [accessed 9 July 2021]

Image attribute
Cute Baby: http://clipart-library.com/clipart/pi58ypdKT.htm

Hotel Tchaikovsky Kaliningrad is Nothing to Sneeze at

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 272 [11 December 2020]

Published: 11 December 2020 ~ Hotel Tchaikovsky Kaliningrad is Nothing to Sneeze at

Psychological problems resulting not from contracting Covid-19 but from the social prohibitions orchestrated and, in some instances, enforced in the name of spread containment and personal safety appear to have affected some people more than it has others. Indeed, scientists and health professionals alike, not to mention conspiracy theorists, postulate that ‘extreme measures’ such as lockdown and diminished social interaction have had and are having serious adverse effects on the mental-emotional well-being of a large cohort of people who feel that they have better things to do than imprison themselves in their respective homes playing John Wankerson’s Clueless for the rest of their unnatural lives.

Speaking for myself, the restrictions, self-imposed by ‘informed guidelines’ and/or edict, have left me bamboozled (What’s that? You’ve never experience it? You don’t know what you are missing? Vote Labour and find out!), the puzzle being, am I really responding as I perceive I should be to the exigencies of the pandemic or, as time goes by (good song that!), have I allowed my guard to slip?

Yes, I know, here I go again, getting myself into a mucking fuddle about whether my coronavirus precaution corollary justifies me calling myself a bona fide self-isolator. I would like to think that the ambiguity is simply a matter of semantics ~ self-isolator, social-distancer, reluctant mask-wearer, anti-social misanthropist using coronavirus as an excuse to hermiticise myself, whatever ~ but the crux of the question is, are divergencies allowed? Does one have to be an either/or? Either self-isolating or not self-isolating? Or can one be self-isolating some of the time but not others? A sort of part-time self-isolator or one on day release?

For example, given the reported rising tide of coronavirus cases, I am still inclined to err on the side of caution, and, in fact, I continue to do so by resisting all temptation to frequent the bars and licensed premises that I would normally have patronised a couple of times a month was it not for coronavirus. Whilst this inexcusable retreat is as injurious to Kaliningrad’s hospitality trade as the decision to close or restrict the opening hours of pubs has been to the UK’s equivalent, I have worked out, even with the handicap of a Grade 9 CSE in maths, that from a purely economic standpoint my bar-patronising reticence has put a smile on the face of my piggy bank.

However, as I have confessed in previous posts, my self-inflicted isolation falls somewhat short of perfect and, insofar as restricted social contact is concerned, I know of a number of people who are far holier than thy in their fastidious observation of the social distancing rule.

There are occasions when it is not impossible but is still difficult to swerve in the opposite direction to the norms and mores that bind us, where, just as it was in the pre-coronavirus age, we find ourselves obliged to proceed in a manner not entirely in keeping with our own convictions, and, at such times, are compelled, I am afraid to say, to throw caution to the wind.

Thus, it came to pass, a few weeks ago, that a strong gust in the form of a birthday celebration and the traditional expectations that such engenders, whipped my caution away like an unstuck toupée, and I found myself faced for the first time in umpteen Covid months with the arguably risky prospect of dining and drinking out.

Hotel Tchaikovsky Kaliningrad

The occasion was my wife’s mother’s 80^th birthday. We had discussed with her how she wanted to celebrate this milestone in her life, and she had shown great favour in the suggestion of going to a restaurant. The idea was that three other friends of hers, roughly of the same age group, would join us, all of whom at the outset expressed an interest in doing so. However, come closer to the day, as news began to percolate of escalating Covid cases, one by one these friends dropped out.

Admittedly, their example made me think that perhaps it would be best if we followed suit and instead of the restaurant settle upon a quiet celebration at home, but my wife’s mother remained unphased. She still wanted us all ~ what there was left of us ~ to go to the restaurant, and so the restaurant it was.

My wife, Olga, had chosen the Hotel Tchaikovsky as the venue. Hotel dining rooms tend normally to be less populated than restaurants per se, so I could see the logic in this. Of course, going anywhere without first strapping on our muzzles would have been so 2019 don’t you think? And as I had not dined in a restaurant for quite some considerable time, I found myself wondering how exactly one would be able to eat one’s food with a mask slapped about one’s kisser?

As my wife’s mother is in her 80^th year, walking, cycling or running to the restaurant were less obvious options than taking a taxi. I remember the time when travelling by taxi was looked upon as an innocent luxury as well as the best expedient, but in the coronavirus age taxis, as with every other mode of transport requiring third-party involvement, is where the risk-taking starts.

Hotel Tchaikovsky Kaliningrad

The Hotel Tchaikovsky is situated on a Königsberg street, which backs onto the city’s Zoo. It was a cold, wet and inhospitable evening, so my observations of the hotel’s exterior were minimalised by the need to get inside. There, it was light, charming and warm. Not only that, but there was something, whilst not exactly ‘decidedly’, vintage going on. In the hallway leading to the main reception, an impressive array of old suitcases had been stacked, two rows and several high, the uppermost cases garnished with clocks, and there was an upright parlour piano standing in the corridor. Vintage was going on at the same time as something almost antique, and also almost classical, as reflected in the reproduction 19^th century furniture, impressive walnut servery and glass chandelier-style ceiling pendants.

**Something vintage this way comes: the reception room at the Hotel Tchaikovsky in Kaliningrad, Russia**

Even with the threat of coronavirus hanging over us like the proverbial Sword of Damocles, I was still able to take this in, whilst applying disinfectant to my mitts from one of those pump-action dispensers, which had been strategically placed on a small console table prior to the dining-room entrance.

The hotel dining room consisted of two rooms, which was handy Andy, as between each there was a pair of glazed French Window-style doors, which kept things bright and airy whilst enabling the hotel management to comply quite handsomely with coronavirus distancing rules.

The first room had one engaged table, a family gathering, the adult occupants of which glanced apprehensively at us as we strolled in, passing within millimetres of their social distancing space. But they need not have stressed themselves. Two waitresses in regulation mask attire were ushering us courteously but firmly and swiftly into the adjoining room, where there was nobody else but us.

Since every table was unoccupied, it made the task of choosing where to sit virtually impossible. Each and every location was appraised and, by the time we had settled for the seats in the window, I felt as if we had sat everywhere else simultaneously.

The window seats turned out to be the perfect coronavirus cubby hole. They were literally seats, together with a table, placed inside the special dimensions rendered possible by a rectangular bay window, and being given to private corners of this type, I would have chosen to have sat here even if coronavirus was not half the threat that we have been led to believe.

So, we sat down, Olga’s mother done up to the nines, sporting her best jewellery and looking far more relaxed than we could ever be, even though every other table was only almost occupied by us and nobody else. We had no beef and Yorkshire pudding with that; only Olga’s mum seemed disappointed that the rest of Kaliningrad was not in the same room. I do wish that she had not said as we entered the restaurant, “There’s not many people here. It can’t be that popular”. But if you cannot insult the hotel management on your 80^th birthday, when can you?

It was about this time, as we were sat there, in the bay window, with only us and our reflections as company, that I heard the ghostly voice of my long dead auntie Ivy saying, “Hold hard, Michael!” (How I wished she could have used a different expression!), “What about the cutlery and glasses?” And she was right, we had not brought those antiseptic wipes with us for nothing! So, out they jolly well came, and yours truly set to with a vengeance wiping the wipes around the ends of the eating implements and around the rims of the glasses. That should do the trick! ~ none of us believed.

We were alone long enough for me to talk myself into the fallacy that I was still, technically, self-isolating, when a young waiter-me-lad appeared, wearing his mask in a Constructivist fashion. He took our order and scooted off to the kitchen. This was the real test, I thought: kitchen and kitchen staff coronavirus cleanliness.

It is quite frankly amazing how a couple of swift glasses of vino can transform melodrama into maladits (perfection!). By the time the waiter reappeared, bringing with him my vegetarian dish and Olga and Olga’s mum’s meaty options, apprehension had almost completely given way to restaurant rhapsody. The wine was excellent, if not a tad expensive, and we would soon discover that the food at the Hotel Tchaikovsky was crisp, fresh, first class and delicious.

With such culinary conviviality going down, and Olga having ordered three glasses of apricot brandy, which was sympatico, Covid, or rather the morbid dread of Covid, had been well and truly kicked up the arse.

Somewhere, at some time, during the indulgences, auntie Ivy had spoken again, and, in compliance, I had whipped out the wipes and shot them around the brandy glass rims, but no repeat performance was forthcoming as regards dessert spoons and later the shot glasses brimming with vodka.

Hotel Tchaikovsky Kaliningrad is Nothing to Sneeze at

Amidst all of this post-normal abandon and frivolity, a couple had come into the room and were occupying a table to the outside right of ours. They were over a metre away, so niet problem there then, but suddenly, with no warning, quite out of the blue, Olga’s mum developed a sneezing fit!

The first rendition had my head shoot round at a nervous pace. There was a pause, and there it was again, a second sneeze! I shot a glance at our neighbours. It was alright, they had not noticed it or, if they had, they had not reacted. I think they were secretly restraining themselves, preferring a diplomatic reaction to demonstrative rebuff. Then came another sneeze, then another and another, during which the potential recipients of this respiratory outrage had begun to look rather less comfortable.

At first, I had tried to placate their unease in that embarrassed way that we English do, by giving them an insouciant smile, which, by the second eruption, however, had tightened itself into a gritty-toothed grin. Meanwhile, Olga’s mum was holding a tissue to her nose, as if it was a white flag, but the performance was not yet over. There came a sneeze, and another, and within seconds ~ it must have been the wine ~ I was doubling up with a fit of the giggles. I did not know what to do. I would have put on my mask, but it was not big enough to hide behind, and yet I felt certain that in the current climate of fear and dread we would be frog marched out at any moment by several men in protective suits armed with pump-action spray guns and there, in the carpark, disinfected.

The crisis past, however, as crises often do, without further ado or incident, and the young waiter, who had obviously taken cover behind the bulky servery or piano in the corridor, now emerged not with the carafe of vodka that we had ordered earlier but with three of those nice tall glasses which hold a lot of vodka. It had been I who had suggested the carafe since the vodka was all for me, and I thought it would look better, would make me look less of a lush, presented in this fashion. But I ended up with three large glasses in front of me and the most surprised, amused and delighted look on the face of the youthful waiter ~ well, let us rephrase that and say in his eyes, as I could not see his face for one of those blasted muzzles!

I was just getting into my drinking stride when out came one of the senior staff to inform us that the witching hour was nigh. Apparently, coronavirus has got a thing about infecting you after 9pm, so they had to close the restaurant.

With about five minutes left at my disposal, I had to down three big glasses of vodka as if I was a real Russian vodka drinker, instead of a sipperoonee anglichanin.

Apart from the hurried exit, which was no fault of the management as they were just following orders, we all agreed that the service, fare and atmosphere had been top notch. It was a shame about the sneezing and Olga’s mum’s last words as we ambled off the premises, “There wasn’t a lot of people. It can’t be that popular.” Well, if you can’t say that on your 80^th birthday, when can you say it?

The toilets in the Hotel Tchaikovsky, Kaliningrad, are atmospherically located in the basement of the building. The arched red-brick ceiling and walls are exposed in all their original glory, and the loo interior has been sympathetically constructed to preserve and highlight its historic ethos. Note the copper-bowl washbasin, matching distressed-framed mirror and the reflection in it of the no-longer distressed Englishman, who had just downed his first glass of vodka.

For a self-isolating experience with a difference, including good food, good wine, good apricot brandy, good vodka (in tall glasses) in an elegant ambience and with good service, dine out at the Tchaikovsky Hotel, Kaliningrad.

Essential details:❤❤

Hotel Tchaikovsky
43 Tchaikovskogo Street
Kaliningrad, Russia

Tel: +7 (4012) 67-44-43
Email: reception@tchaikovskyhotel.ru
Web: https://ageevgroup.ru/hotels/tchaikovsky/

Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 141 [2 August 2020]

Published: 8 August 2020

‘You ought to get out more!’ Since the birth of coronavirus, the intentional irony in this off-hand remark has taken on a whole new irrational meaning. We know that we want to get out more, but we are told that we should stay in more, and even a patriot like Nigel Farage, who does get out occasionally to do nothing more obnoxious than stand on a cliffside in Dover watching the endless flow of boats coming in full of happy smiling migrants destined for 4-star hotels (they do get free face masks as well), is castigated by the liberal press for breaking UK quarantine rules when they know full well he is not.

That’s quite funny, isn’t it? One Englishman pursued doggedly by the UK’s liberal media for travelling down to Kent, whilst hundreds of migrants from every corner of the globe you have never heard of, and don’t particularly want to, are pouring into the UK like, er let’s say hard water through a Co-op tea bag, and on arrival, having been duly welcomed by our British Polite force, are then bussed to British hotels to reside in non-social distancing proximity at the expense of the British taxpayer. Hmmm?

Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer

Safe in the knowledge that, to use Mrs May’s expression, it was ‘highly likely’ that there would not be a train of migrant boats being dutifully escorted to the shores of the Baltic Coast, I decided that a second trip to the coastal resort Zelenogradsk was needed before second wave coronavirus potentially washes us back over the isolation threshold.

From Kaliningrad by car, the journey to Zelenogradsk takes between 20 and 30 minutes on the region’s modern road network (providing the crowds are not out!). As we zipped along in a friend’s car, I reflected on how long and cumbersome the same journey used to be just after Perestroika, bumping and pot-hole dodging the old German road within its crash-insensitive avenue of big gnarled trees.

Ahhh, Kaliningrad’s new generations do not remember those times, but for those of us who do, we are able to appreciate just how extensive and beneficial improvements in this region have been over the last 20 years.

Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer

It was another beautiful day in this priceless exclave of Russia as we drew in at the side of the road close to the bus park and rail station.

We had been forewarned by Zelenogradsk residents that we would find the resort exceptionally busy, far busier than it was when we last visited three weeks or more ago. To some extent, this was to be expected, as we were now further along holiday-period road, but our sources informed us that the tourist population had swelled as a result of the Russian government’s incentivisation to boost domestic tourism, which, with international travel limited and some of the borders still closed, appeared to be doing the trick. Apropos of this, I prepared myself for the game of spot the Muscovite on holiday. What I was not prepared to find was that bears (meeshkee) would also be taking advantage of the relaxed self-isolation rules.

There was one standing by the side of the road as we alighted from the car. Just to prove the western prejudice that bears really do walk the streets of Russia, I asked him nicely if I could have my photograph taken standing next to him. As you can see from the photograph, he was only too happy to do so.

As I walked away, however, I sensed that this particular bear was becoming increasingly grizzly. “Anglichanin! Anglichanin!” he growled (Anglichanin meaning Englishman). Looking back, I saw that he was standing with his right arm extended. His palm was open and he was repeatedly scratching it with his claws in a gesture that could only mean that he had a terrible itch. Poor bear, I thought. And then the possibility dawned on me that perhaps non-isolating meeshkee who consented to have their photograph taken expected to be remunerated.

Having crossed his palm with rubles, we dropped our travelling bag off at the dacha kindly lent out to us by a friend, and took a walk along the prom. Yep, the news was spot on, both the prom and beach were busy.

The frontside bars and restaurants were also busy, not full but far from empty. For the first time I caught a whiff of nostalgia. If anybody had told me six months ago that I would be shunning these essential establishments for health reasons I would have laughed at them. More shocking came the realisation that this was possibly the longest continual period in my life, at least from the age of 14, that I had not frequented a pub or bar.

To take my mind off this reprehensible milestone, we decided to take a brief excursion into the backstreets of the town.

What a delight these streets are. Architecturally, they provide the onlooker with an historical snapshot of the region’s social history, an evocative diorama depicting life from pre-war Germany, through the Second World War, across the Cold War period and into the present day.

Nostalgically, this pre- and one ardently hopes never-to-happen gentrification, echoes, for my generation at least, a time of natural realism now forever lost in the UK, but preserved in Kaliningrad and in its surrounding towns and villages in the overgrown verges, rough tracks, a seemingly inexhaustible inventiveness for recycled car and lorry tyres, vegetable plots neatly honed, vibrant cottage flower beds and an astonishing medley of makeshift sheds, lean-tos and little old barns. (See my later post, which I haven’t written yet.) I cannot remember the name of the street ~ I think it was Memory Lane.

From this enlightening excursion, we ambled back to the dacha, stopping on the way for some edible provisions and, naturally, a couple of bottles of beer. We were going to divvy up the grub and, making a picnic with it along with one of the bottles of beer, head off to the beach.

We had decided to walk away from the nearest, the most central point of the beach as this was where people would naturally be most concentrated, thus availing ourselves of a quieter spot whilst fulfilling our social contract to observe the one-metre rule.

Our plan paid off. We found a nice, white sandy stretch of beach with a convenient barrage of sea-breaker sandbags against which I could rest my back as I drank my beer whilst my wife, Olga, went for a swim.

Mick Hart Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer — Mick Hart chilling on Zelinogradsk beach, Baltic Coast, Russia

The water was gloriously warm, Olga informed me later, and my beer, which had been well-chilled at the outset, kept sustainably so parked between the sandbags where I had placed it at ground level. We were each so comfortable in our own right, according to our own pursuits, that we stayed put until evening and by so doing were granted a first-rate view of one of the Baltic Coast’s legendary sunsets ~ sublimity at its best.

Zalinogradsk Baltic Coast Russia, Sunset August 2020. Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk — Zalinogradsk, Baltic Coast, Russia, Sunset August 2020

Making our way back into town, we spent another lazy hour sitting on one of the benches along the central promenade playing spot the Muscovite before returning to the dacha for a nightcap with a blue elephant.

No, this is not the name of a Russian beer (as far as I am aware), and neither have I reached the intoxication level whereupon such manifestations are commonplace to me.

The blue elephant in question was a little elephant made from Plasticine. On our way back from our street tour earlier, we had stumbled upon some young entrepreneurs selling Plasticine models on the edge of the sidewalk.

We bought the blue elephant from them, upon which one of the boys exclaimed excitedly, “Great, we’ve now got enough money for three ice creams!” and when I asked them if we could take their photograph they were even more excited, “Enough for three ice creams and our photograph taken!”.

Olga Hart buying a Plasticine elephant from young Russian entrepreneurs Zelenogradsk — Olga Hart buying a Plasticine elephant from young Russian entrepreneurs, Zelenogradsk

I think when I get back to Mick’s Place (Attic Bar) I will allocate a special spot for this new drinking partner of mine, providing he keeps a metre apart and always wears his facemask.