Pigeons like chicken and sweetcorn

Thursday 9 April 2020

 

 

We ran out of fruit and vegetables yesterday evening, which was a problem this morning when the night staff came off shift. They staggered in, dark blue bags under sunken eyes, and wrinkles as deep as crevasses. Most were barely making sense. It seems unfair that they should work all night and then see nothing of benefit by the end of their duty. After a team meeting, we decided to keep some goodies aside for the night staff as of tomorrow morning.

Despite warm weather being forecast it is actually quite cold outdoors. The supermarket is on the shaded side of the hospital, so receives little, if any, direct sun. Even with three layers on, thermal vest, woolly shirt, and duvet jacket, I was still frozen. I felt sadly pathetic, being wrapped up so warm, when everyone else appeared to be in shirt sleeves. Maybe I am sickening for something, I thought, although I had not started coughing. The hospital is a Covid centre, so anything is possible.

The marquee in which we are working is divided into two portions. There is the supermarket side – that is me. The other side is where they normally keep the staff uniforms. They call them scrubs. However, the scrubs have now gone missing. It seems that staff members have been coming down and taking away four sets of scrubs at a time, so now there is none left.

“How am I meant to work on a Covid ward without scrubs?” asked one nurse, when she came to the marquee for her clothing.

No one, least of all me, could satisfactorily answer her question. By the look of things, it is going to be quite some time before scrubs arrive anyway. The hospital has now run out and the staff members who have commandeered the original supply are unlikely to hand them back.

The police on duty, and there are plenty, thanks to the Prime Minister still being in the hospital, have undergone a gender change today. There were several policewomen rather than policemen. I joked about it as I walked past.

“You look different today,” I said.

“You don’t say,” said the policewoman with a wicked grin. “I can’t think why.”

The coppers are good company when they are around us, although do not appear especially busy. Mind you, I am not about to test them, as I wager they can react in a blink.

As this project progresses, I worry that social distancing is becoming a problem. Each day is worse than the day before. Team members are becoming too relaxed in each other’s company. It is perhaps the one problem with a tight ex-Services team. Everyone is so friendly that it is easy, almost natural, to draw too near to one another and think nothing of it in the process. Sadly, the only way to behave these days is to assume that everyone, without exception, harbours Covid-19.

I worry about the hospital staff as well. They may be working at the frontline of a new disease, but it is difficult for staff to socially distance in a hospital. Most healthcare establishments are designed for staff to keep their distance from patients, but not so much from each other.

Quite spontaneously today, some good friends made a donation to Team Rubicon. I do not know how much, and would love to know, but am certain I will not be permitted to do so. Anyway, it is just me being nosy. I will simply have to be certain to keep them informed with what the team is doing, so my friends feel their donation has been well spent. Team Rubicon is very much a personal charity and seems to get things done in a way that escapes so many of the larger organisations. You do not feel weighed down by over-administration, which is often the trouble with other agencies. For a “can do” philosophy, it is difficult to beat Team Rubicon. Mind you, as it becomes larger, things may change, and I suspect the organisation will become larger very quickly indeed. It is certainly very popular.

I did not dare go into hotel breakfast today, after yesterday’s performance with Covid patients around me. At least they looked to have the disease although I have no hard evidence they actually did so. It seemed easier not to eat this morning and spare myself both risk and agony. Despite my worry, the hotel has distancing well sorted in its restaurant. Even though breakfast is a buffet, it is not an actual help-yourself. There is a waiter in mask and gloves who fills your plate and does not look astonished when you seek a fourth helping. Yet however good the waiter, he cannot control the Covid patients sitting in various corners, so I decided not to eat.

Although I am already hard at work in the pop-up supermarket, the NHS has finally been in touch to say that I have now been processed. It does make me sound like a type of cheese. They have told me that I can expect to hear from someone, at some time, to do a job as yet unidentified, in a hospital as yet not located. I can see why so many NHS volunteers are frustrated. I am not persuaded that it is keeping its volunteers either properly informed or employed. I sense I am not alone.

I sat outside at lunch today, eating a sweetcorn and chicken sandwich and downing a plastic bottle of orange juice that could not decide if it was flat or fizzy. Unlike the main hospital, and its corridors, the supermarket branch in the building’s concourse does have social distancing down to perfection. The checkout chap behind the till is masked and goggled, and contactless payment is demanded, so there is no exchange of cash. There are large labels on the floor saying where you should stand, and which keep you a good two metres from anyone else. The supermarket is probably the safest place in the hospital.

I had a long talk with my Age UK contact today. She is putting any money she receives in Dettol, before handling the cash. I said that although this was a good idea, it was not new. I then told her the story of Eyam village in the UK’s Peak District during the Black Death, and Maupassant’s Well. In those days the traders, who delivered goods to the quarantined village, took their money from a bowl of vinegar placed beside the well. For vinegar then, read Dettol now, but the principle was identical. Times rarely change. It seems sad that despite all our so-called modern advances, we are using similar techniques today to those used for centuries. The plague, or Black Death, in Eyam was in 1665, slightly more than 350 years ago. We clearly think we are cleverer than we are. My Age UK contact was interested to learn about this.

As I munched my lunchtime sandwich, two things struck me, apart from the glorious sunshine. The first was that in the background I could hear the more or less constant sound of ambulance sirens. There were many people being rushed to hospitals all over the capital. The second was much less serious. I learned that London pigeons enjoy my chicken and sweetcorn sandwiches just as much as I do. One pigeon flew directly at my face and tried to peck my sandwich while I was eating. I swotted it away, clipped its tail, and it came crashing to the ground. It looked offended, as was I, and the bird then hobbled away to recover. I have never been an enthusiast for London pigeons.

We had a team photograph today, suitably socially distanced. It was taken on the grassy, fountained area just outside the front door of the hospital. The first photograph was taken traditionally – serious gaze, arms folded, as we looked determined, with intent. The second was more liberal and we were asked to raise our arms. Being good ex-Service folk, we did as instructed, save one of our team who had a false arm. I believe he lost it in a mine incident in Afghanistan. His reaction was predictable. He simply took off the arm and raised it in the air with his intact hand, smiling broadly as he did so. I had to admire him.

The good news is that the Prime Minister has made it out of intensive care but is still being kept in hospital. One wonders how much rest he can truly get. I understand he is in good spirits. His deputy, Dominic Raab, is doing a reasonable job of standing in, although does not have the same charisma as the head honcho. At the moment, Raab is exhorting the public not to ruin the lockdown process, as otherwise the Government will have to be more heavy handed. They are already warning about Easter, as the weather is forecast to be good and the public is bound to want to go outdoors.

The UK public may be ill-disciplined, but the European Union is no better and is not making a perfect display of unity. Italy has already warned that the EU could fall apart once the outbreak is over. That would not surprise me.

PPE is still proving to be a problem, exacerbated by the death of a 53-year-old urologist at London’s Homerton Hospital. Three weeks ago, he had personally exhorted the Prime Minister to ensure staff had proper protection. That was before Boris Johnson was smitten himself. It sounds as if the urologist’s own protection failed him.

If I ever need to be reminded of the severity of today’s situation, I look no further than the sad, online memorial to the healthcare workers who have died from Covid-19. The site is updated regularly and is presently sitting at more than 400. It shows no sign of stopping.

I dread how many deaths there will be by the end of this crisis, but healthcare as a profession is about as exposed as it is possible to be.