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Proust’s Toast to Madeleine

For Marcel it was the little Madeleine cakes that evoked such strong memories. Cold buttered toast does it for me. Emerging confused and vague out of the long dark tunnel of heart surgery it was NHS cold buttered toast that welcomed me back into life's embrace. Nothing tasted finer. I savour its taste still.

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Cave

Setting fire to G5 masts because they help transmit coronavirus. We haven't moved out of the cave yet, have we.

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Self-isolation

My symptoms are now unavoidable.  A continuous and growing sense of feverish fury.  A persistent cough of incredulity. A desperate  anxiety of realisation that this is the team that must lead us out of the nightmare.  The hapless waffle and blather cyphers. Only part human. I recognise my despairing, rasping groan on hearing another fatuous, evasive burst of verbal flatulence and flubbery resulting in an almost overwhelming need to throw something at the telly, or the radio, or to hurl the laptop across the room come coronavirus Number 10 update. Every day.  A cloned calvacade of the talentless...

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Beard

What did you do in the great lock down daddy? Why son, I grew a beard. My first ever in my whole, long life. It is all salt and pepper. Ragged but bold. I have taken to stroking it, idly. Makes me look like a hippie surfing dude. I kinda quite like it. Why? Maybe because it makes me feel a different dude to the one I was before.  And we could all do with a little bettering.

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Priti Justice

Our bone head, stone-hearted Home Secretary refuses to waive the fees charged to NHS workers coming to us from overseas. The very workers who are saving so many and facing so much and sacrificing themselves to help us all. There is a special place in hell reserved for Priti.  I suspect she is already there.

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