Geneva, Monday 6 April 2020

She had invited her boss to dinner. He, his CEO. The invitation list included high-flying partners and a scattering of supposedly brilliant personalities. It had to go well. They had decided on Beef Wellington as a nod to their British mettle. And for entrée? Something that made manifest their eclectic and cultured tastes despite the Brexit they had voted for. Snails? Oui! Escargots!

With elegant ease he tied his bow-tie. She put the finishing touches to her eye make-up. “Darling, are the snails still in the fridge?” she enquired. “The snails? I don’t know. You were going to order them!” Piercing exchange of eye-daggers as the awful truth sets in. Pas d’escargots! A snail-free soirée loomed. Merde!

“Listen,” she said, flustered, “Just go down to the riverside and grab snails, any old snails. They won’t know the difference. They’re English after all.” Feeling that it wasn’t really his fault, he put aside this minor injustice and complied. He pulled on his wellies, grabbed a bucket from the kitchen cupboard and headed off into the fading light.

His bucket was half full when a young lady came past on a bicycle. Intrigued by a man sporting at once dinner suit and wellies, she stopped to ask him what he was doing. Noticing that she was really a most attractive woman, he fired up his most winning smile and gabbled something about gastropods. She giggled. His heart melted. “Well,” she said “I live in that cottage down there. If, when you have filled your bucket, (another giggle) why don’t you come in and have a glass of wine?”

It is no coincidence that the last rather common little snail dropped into the bucket just as he found himself before the goddess’s cozy little home. He knocked on the door. She opened it having changed into something very, very comfortable indeed. He gaped like a netted cod. She offered him a glass of cool crisp Sancerre that he downed in one mesmerized gulp. “Another glass? Well, why not? Hmm… delicious! But I must head off soon. Ah… well…. I’m sure I can help you finish the bottle. Really, I must get going. Ooh, you’ve got another bottle. Smashing! I must buy a case of this. Champagne? Pomerol! Abso-bloody-lutely! Bring it on, Babes!” It can be of little surprise that, after chanting “Amo, Amas, Amat it again!” midnight found our sozzled hero making sozzled love to his sozzled hostess.

The sun rose over the cottage and its first few rays shone through a gap in the curtains. He woke. He surveyed the passion-crumpled bed with Her Loveliness not yet awake. Despite a sand-paper tongue, he felt total serenity and joy for a second or two and then blind, gut-wrenching panic took over when reality hit a home run. He kissed the dozing beauty, pulled on his clothes, rapidly retied his tie, leapt into his wellies and sprinted out  grabbing the bucket on passing. At least the slippery little suckers were still alive and well!

He raced up the path to his front door. He tripped. The bucket fell to earth scattering its contents over and around the door step. He was face down, arms spread and groaning when his wife – never far from eruption at the best of times – opened the door trembling with rage. “Good morning!” said Vesuvia with a rock-splitting edge to her voice. “I trust you have a very, very, very good excuse for this.” He looked up at her. He looked down. He looked up at her again. He looked around at the snails who, in their newfound freedom, had started to slither hither and thither and in his most whiny voice he pleaded “Come on, babies! We’re nearly there! Daddy wants us all home soon!”

Blogger’s note: Looking for a connection between this story and the COVID-19 lockdown might prove a disappointing exercise.

Geneva, Sunday 5 April 2020

One year ago to the day, we were at the summit of the magnificent Greenstone-Caples track in New Zealand’s South Island. Who would have thought…..

We’re now three weeks into the lockdown. European countries may be reaching the peak of their slice of the pandemic. If so, I imagine we’ve got at least another three weeks to go. It will be longer before we can cross the border into France. Longer – maybe much longer – before we can take a flight. 

Yesterday we saw a couple sitting on the grass in the park; they were not two metres apart. Two policemen politely checked they resided at the same address.

The evening clapping at 21:00 has transformed into a more riotous noise and lasts longer. There’s whistling, singing, rock music, trumpets, the bashing of pans and of course home-made bagpipes. The spirit has changed from a heartfelt outpouring of appreciation for essential workers to the whole community showing solidarity and a determination to see this thing through. 

This morning, the kitchen was all a-clatter. Brunch was a wonderful surprise: chorizo, feta and egg shakshuka with, as centre piece, a loaf of home-made ciabatta bread. 

Domestic life has changed radically. We try to keep busy but moments of idleness are deliciously guilt-free. Obviously, with being here all the time, there’s more cleaning, cooking, washing and dishes to do. There’s more refuse to go out. Rarely opened cupboards have their contents scrutinised and thinned out. Keeping the apartment tidy is an ongoing and circular process.

The kitchen has a new sourdough starter on the go called “Boris.” (For non-bread makers, setting off on this traditional approach to dough really is like keeping an unruly puppy in a jar; it has to be fed, watered and relieved of its excrement!) I noticed early this morning as I took my tea onto the balcony that my wife has planted rocket, sweet peas, chives and chilli seeds in pots that would all normally hold flowers. On the second day of lockdown, we subscribed to Netflix. Being newbies, we have come late to and enjoy the fast and tense Spanish production “Money Heist.” Guess what the good-bad guys theme song is….  Bella, Ciao!

Another victory on the putting matt. I won 2 and 1. (Stats: He 15/17 – 88%; She 13/17 – 76%) That’s now 11 games to 5.

Hoping you are all well and safe.

Geneva, Saturday 4 April 2020

Here’s some reason for hope. The number of new COVID-19 cases per day in Switzerland seems to have levelled off. 

However, it’s too early to say for most other European countries and, regrettably, the USA is still booming upwards in its position as the third “epicentre.”

I believe the figures generated by Johns Hopkins. Most people do. But even though public health science and medicine are believed in and are generally trusted, there’s a lot of space in peoples minds for an overarching spirituality with respect to their well-being. Many would listen attentively to the public health experts, change their behaviour appropriately and, nevertheless, find comfort in praying to whichever deity they believe in. The interface of health and faith is as complex as it is fascinating.

Many years ago, I was working in an ICRC field hospital on the Thai-Cambodian border. I operated on a man with a perforated intestine. The following morning, I found my patient seemingly well but having smoke blown into his face by a shrivelled little guy wielding an enormous herbal cigarette. In addition, Shrivel was burning the patient’s chest with the glowing tip of the cigarette. I also noticed that taped against the patient’s forehead was a small glass in which a captured wasp buzzed angrily on the skin. (I learnt later that smoke, burning and stinging are used there as traditional medicine for a variety of ills.) “What’s going on here?” I asked, rather haughtily. “Doctor Robin, this is traditional medicine!” replied our Cambodian nurse-helper. “OK, but this man has had a great big dose of western medicine including safe surgery. Why does he want traditional medicine as well?” There was a minute or two’s discussion. “Ah, Doctor Robin, he thanks you for your western medicine. He thinks it is good for his intestine problem. (Too right, it is!) The traditional medicine is to get rid of the bad karma that gave him the intestine problem in the first place.” I didn’t have an answer to that. I thought it was a big load of old billybolony. But then, I reflected…..whatever floats your boat! 

Our friends, Phil and Michelle who live in Chamonix, have taken lockdown golf to a different level. “Par Wars – the quarantine edition!” Love it! (They have a great B&B up there, so go and stay when all this is over.) Our comparatively unimaginative balcony putting continues but nevertheless, is taken very seriously. Today, I won 2 and 1. That’s 11 games to 5.  

“Doctor, I’ve got a strawberry stuck up my bottom.” The doctor replies “Do you want some cream for that?”