Ken Tracey

27 March 2020 – Day 11

Once it was a status symbol to have a German car or two lurking on the drive, but now it’s a garage insulated with toilet rolls and enough long-life milk to float an ark. I recall that the shortages in 1974 (related to the three-day week) included toilet rolls, but my recollection is that the hoarders were singing from the wrong sheet. The shortages were fuelled by rumour and panic buying, as they are today.

Arrived at the supermarket at 8am to use the priority ‘slot,’ for the elderly. I wasn’t expecting celebrity treatment and this was confirmed by the packed car park. Hi Viz jackets at the doors were restricting the numbers entering. This kept enough space inside to observe the social distancing rule of 6 feet between persons. (The distance is 2 m for those shopping after the ‘elderly slot.’)

The queue outside ran the length of the superstore. Shoppers stood like tombstones two trolley lengths apart. I made for the queue’s end, but on reaching the corner of the building, I found it went through a passageway – out onto a main road – down the road and into the hospital grounds next door. I was right about, no celebrity treatment.

There were few smiles, unless there were some beneath the occasional medical-mask, as we progressed in surges along the main road. It was a relief to reach a sunny spot and melt the coldness from the shadows. A mere 45 minutes later and we were welcomed by the Hi Viz staff and the warm indoors.

We trolleyed around in comfort, an improvement on the usual crush. There was some white laminate to groan at, but most things I required were there for the buying. I guessed that the ‘crazies’ were still in bed, but noticed certain tissue and long-life products were restricted to two items per shopper. Over the public address system came frequent reminders, to keep the required distance from other shoppers and to pay by card, as cash could carry the virus. Yellow and black striped tape was stuck to the floor around the check-outs forming boxes to stand in and maintain the distance rule.

While I was loading the car, a man choking on an Arsenal scarf stopped near me. ‘How long’s this going to last?’ He asked. My new specs must have given me the appearance of a virus specialist or maybe Harry Potter. ‘A few months,’ I tried to be cheerful.
He shook his head. Then asked, ‘Do you know where I can buy some table tennis bats?’
What? Are they panic buying sports equipment now? ‘The sports shop is still open,’ I said.
‘Oh good. You see I’ve got two sons’ home from university and they’re driving me mad, got to keep them occupied.’

So, the old pastimes are being revived now to fill time. An ironic outcome maybe, that the survivors will come out of this, fitter than before.

26 March 2020- Day 10

Ten thirty on a weekday, is a late hour for neighbour’s cars to be cluttering their driveways, but most people have been instructed to work at home. The schools have been closed since Friday 20th with the threat, or promise, depending on whether you play on an Xbox or not, that they may remain so until the September term.

I mused about the long-term effect that these measures will have on our lives and concluded that a lot of things would never be the same again. People’s lives will be changed for the period and not all of them will return to their previous routines. We received the news yesterday that even the 71-year-old Prince Charles has the Virus.

On a more cheerful note, I’d run out of preservative after coating one side of just two trellis panels. So much for skimping. If I can’t finish, then I can’t fix them to the wall and the job is in limbo for the duration.
I drove straight out of my estate onto a clear main road. The sky was free of vapour trails and tree blossoms had opened to the sun. It reminded me of Enid Blyton land and walking to school in the 1950s.

Only one DIY store had not posted its closure, so I drove the tranquil streets and was relieved to see the car park half full. The automatic front doors refused to open and that’s when I noticed the small and now familiar notice taped to the glass. ‘Due to the Coronavirus outbreak …store closed until further notice… safety of our colleagues and customers…’ A half-done job is always hard to go back to, I must find preservative somewhere.

A nippy drive and I found a DIY shop open. I pulled down the baseball cap feeling a bit conspicuous about going were I had not trod before. Somewhere within the tall racks crammed with supplies, I found just what I wanted. A sign announced that cash wasn’t acceptable, (filthy lucre) so I paid the gloved attendant by touch card.

So, the job went on.

In the evening our young neighbours delivered a three-line whip to the FWFs (Fogies without Facebook), to be outside at 8pm. Annemarie Plas a Dutch lady living in Brixton had promoted a nationwide tribute to the hardworking NHS and care workers- ‘Clap for Carers.’ Shadowy figures in winter coats greeted each other from a safe distance for the first time in days. Others stood silhouetted at their bedroom windows. It reminded me of long-gone New Year’s Eves, when neighbours took to the streets to sing in the coming year.
At 8pm a few clapped and cheered, then it spread along the Close and up to the open windows and they cheered. Across the Green came more applause and a bugle joined in. Then the explosion of fireworks took to the air from the next street. A very moving tribute and all down to Annemarie.

The Coronavirus pandemic started to have an effect on my routine, with mass cancellations appearing in my diary, on St Patricks Day, 17 March 2020. So, 24 March is Day 8.

I’d decided that I needed to keep active, fit and well, so planned a small project to replace the 3 trellis panels supporting the climbing roses in the front garden.
Bought the panels the day before and decided this morning to ‘tosh’ them with some preservative, as they looked a bit bare after the factory process. I would not have done this but for the enormous amount of time bestowed on me by cancellations. I found two dented cans of stain in the garage. One half full the other with a little left. Felt good to be saving dosh by using up old stuff. Then I managed to find a dog-eared paintbrush that was still soft.

6-foot-high and 2-foot-wide (1.82 x .609 for the yoofs.) narrow timbers forming squares. Well, that’s a lot of narrow timber to coat with a one-inch brush. (.025) The first panel took over an hour and that was just the front side. It was a sunny morning and I was enjoying it.

I was contemplating a coffee break when my mobile rang. My Optician’s receptionist told me that my new glasses were ready to collect, but they were closing at 1pm for the duration of the Coronavirus outbreak. It was 11.45am, so no rush then! There would be no fitting, touching was out. Nor could she take the balance of the payment in the shop for fear of contamination, so I paid by card, there and then over the phone.

I set off, still in clothes marked by years of wrestling weeds and more recently, preservative stains. In Station Square, I actually saw parking spaces, this is rare as they are usually hidden beneath cars. I parked outside the opticians, ignored the pay and display requirements. After all, would they, at a time like this?
A sombre face appeared at the window of the bank next door. The Optician’s door was locked and when I caught sight of my reflection in the glass, complete with baseball hat, I resembled a bank robber rather than a short-sighted gardener. A tap on the window brought the receptionist up to the door. ‘I’ll put them on the chair,’ she mouthed. The door opened and she shielded herself behind it. Sure enough, on a straight-backed chair, were my specs, receipt and discarded lenses for my growing collection.
‘Any problems, come back in a month, we should have re-opened by then. Keep well from the Virus.’ She called out. ‘Keep well,’ I returned and she closed the door for the duration.

At least the street was clear of Parking Wardens, but at home my soft brush had turned hard.

You may not agree with the recent devious, delaying and deceitful deeds of our elected ‘representatives,’ in Westminster, but there is a spin off for writers. We always need material and what a wealth of plots they are creating. How many times have we heard the comment, ‘You couldn’t make it up?’ Well writers you don’t have to, they have done for you, and a lot of it may have been beyond your own imaginations.
It won’t be long before we see elements of this fiasco featuring in; TV dramas, sitcoms, plays, novels and stories. At least something creative will come out of it all.
Of course, self-interest and dodgy tactics are not new to our politicos. If we look back 100 years, the first woman MP, to take her seat in the British parliament, Nancy Astor, was up against it. 1 December 2019 is the centenary of this event, and back in Plymouth the home of her old constituency they are erecting a statue to her on the Hoe. Read more   https://kentracey.co.uk/articles-bio-2/ Lady of the House.

NASA plans to send a manned spacecraft to the moon by 2024. This will be the dawn of their ‘Moon to Mars’ Project, where the Moon will be permanently populated and become the spring board for a manned expedition to Mars. It’s good to see such staggering ambition in space exploration, after decades without the print of a space boot on the surface of another world.

It’s an astonishing 50 years this month since Apollo 11 astronauts, Neil Armstrong and ‘Buzz’ Aldrin, landed on the moon on 20 July 1969. It’s a mere 46 years since the last team; Eugene Cernan and ‘Jack’ Schmitt of Apollo 17 walked the moon. See Cernan’s story – https://kentracey.co.uk/articles-bio-2/

Time travellers like me can be back to that Sunday night in 1969 a lot quicker than Armstrong took to take his small step. I remember tracking Apollo’s journey over 4 days, to find that the moon walks, to be shown live on TV, were timed to suit American viewers and not us. This meant dragging our black and white TV into the bedroom, and after setting it up, losing a night’s sleep, so I could tell you and my grandchildren about it half a century later. (Hi, put Minecraft down and read this.) Well, I did see it as it actually happened, with only the time delay that the signal took to travel from the moon to my aerial in South Liverpool.

The slow progress and the primeval TV pictures sharpened our attention. On the Moon, caution was paramount, we’d been warned that our Luna walkers needed to be careful not to fall and damage their life support suits. Armstrong appeared florescent white when the sun shone on his suit as he clung to the module’s access ladder. Cautious steps took ages to lower him to the surface. By the time he got there, my eyes were full of moon dust and sleep had taken me, so I missed the historic words. Not that we expected them, the script had been kept secret. I was bleary eyed at work on the Monday morning when I could marvel at the words- ‘That’s one small step for man, and one giant leap for mankind.’

So, prepare for the 2024 landings; book the next day off work, and hang on to the astronaut’s name and words. You may be writing an article about it in 2074!

Writers seldom make a fortune from selling their stories and articles, so it is important to maximise fees in this competitive market. A degree of business savvy is required, a quality not always found in the creative.

When work is offered to a publisher (magazine or other) and they accept it for publication, they will pay a fee. The basis for making a binding contract must include these three steps known legally as; Offer, Acceptance and Consideration.

Another essential requirement are the contractual Terms. The writer will normally accept the contractual terms presented by the publisher and have no input into their drafting. However, terms should be scrutinised to ensure that they are acceptable to the writer. If they are not, then the writer’s concerns should be submitted to the publisher and agreement reached or in the event of no agreement, and the terms so unpalatable, the writer’s offer withdrawn. A tough decision to make in view of the infrequent incidence of success.

It’s within the Terms that the fee will be stated and payment details e.g. ‘Payment on publication,’ and precisely what the publisher is getting for his money. This commonly allows the work to be published once and perhaps the right reserved to republish later in a publisher’s anthology, special edition etc.

Less common are sales on an ‘All Rights Basis,’ this means that the writer surrenders his copyright and all moral rights. He will not be able to reuse his work or even be credited as the author should it be republished by the publisher. This amounts to a loss of income for the writer.

Writers can harvest numerous story and article prompts from the history of the World Cup. (Which needs no further introduction in June 2018!) It’s 88-year history is peppered with tales of; theft, money laundering, bribery and even some events on the pitch.

The much-travelled Jules Rimet Trophy was held by Italy during WW2. Afraid that the Nazis would steal it, the Vice President of FIFA secretly removed it from a bank vault and hid it safely in a shoe box under his bed. There’s no record of where he kept his shoes for the next 5 years.

Eventually thieves did get their hands on it just before England’s win in 1966, when it was stolen from a London exhibition. The FA Chairman received a ransom demand for £15,000, (when the pound in your pocket …) during the handover the thief was spooked, and the cup was not recovered but an arrest was made. Mysteriously a few days later, the cup was found by a curious dog named Pickles, in an Upper Norwood street, South London.

The trophy was stolen again during another exhibition, this time in Rio de Janeiro. Brazil had won the contest for the third time in 1970, and under the rules at that time, qualified to keep it. The cup has never been recovered.

Even on the pitch there was skulduggery, in 1986, England were knocked out by Argentina, when Maradona punched the ball into the net to score the winning goal. The linesman didn’t flag the foul and regretted it for the rest of his life.

The most extraordinary score was when Australia beat American Samoa, 31 – 0, in 2002.
There is no truth in the story that Australia’s extremely high score was due to Samoa’s goal keeper leaving the field to start his shift in the tuna cannery.

Already in 2018, we have reports from Moscow of BBC camera crews being under surveillance by the Russian authorities. A spy story with a World Cup setting would be good. Must be more to come.

Like many writers my fascination started with the school magazine. Being a failure academically (the pointed hat was reserved for kids brighter than me) the selection of my essay for the magazine was a major surprise. When ‘Elvis’ the English Teacher came into the room waving my scrawl covered pages, I thought I was in for another rollicking for poor work, but this was one of the few times when I received praise… and publication.

I was about 13 and reading a lot of Hemingway, so my modest success convinced me that the bell was tolling for me to be a writer. The essay was about stamp collecting, and of course…it didn’t get me anywhere! I won’t reveal the time it took to get my next piece published.

I was still a teenager when I sat on the sunny side of a bullring suffering post ‘Cuba Libra’ despair, to watch the methodical slaughter of six bulls. The ‘sport’ did not appeal to me, Ernest would not have been impressed.

I wrote postcards home, one informing my Trotskyist father that living in a fascist run country didn’t really seem too bad. When I affixed the brightly coloured stamps I kept a few for the collection.

Sadly, an outlet for short story writers has announced after nearly 30 years that it is to cease publication. The prestigious magazine, Glimmer Train, based in Portland, Oregon, USA will close after issue 106 in the autumn of 2019. Until then it’s submissions as usual, so writers still have the opportunity to be published. Glimmer Train seemed to be a caring organisation who paid writers well and uniquely accepted short fiction up to 12,000 words. Follow the link on the ‘Links’ page.