By Johnny Sandelson
As is so often true in life, the things we think we want, aren’t always the things which are good for us.
I’ve previously mentioned about my pacing. I have a runway at the head of my new room of seven clear meters. Given my height, that’s seven steps. This is no carefree amble, it’s a precise dance. When walking there is never a time to relax for fear of a sprained ankle as I prepare my pivot, or a concussion should I miss the rotate spot.
In London, although my target each day is 10,000 steps, my average is probably 6500. In here, for the sake of Charles’ well-being, I am limiting walking to 30 mins a day. So here’s the question? How many lengths do I walk of my room? My Today programme quiz of the day.
What do you imagine the impact of caffeine would be on those stats? What could be more insane than requesting a coffee machine in a room of almost 200 square feet. I never thought that I would end up writing a blog, but it’s comforting to know that at least this readership has a deep understanding of my
room size.
Many of you in the ‘alternatives space’ will be weighing up the comps. How many students, or seniors, or urban dwellers could you squeeze into that, and what occupancy and cap rate? Well let me tell you this place is rammed, and did I mention? Nobody is allowed to leave.
I do need to mention a call from the British Embassy requesting details of my next of kin for them to contact in the event of my incapacity, their subtext being they’d need this information for arrangements for returning my body to the UK.
Their contact was clearly designed to offer comfort, but it had been a slightly unnerving event on Day 2. They also informed me that I ought to alert my insurance company as the government would not be paying for my stay. I doubt I’m covered, but thank God I’m not in NYC.
My new fantasy is a morning walk in Holland Park. In Spring the air is cool and fresh, and the sun is warm. This would be followed by a very significant Sunday lunch at The Belvedere.
As I told you in earlier posts, I have a complicated mix of simple pleasures, wrapped up in bouts of extreme luxury. But If I had to make the choice today, the walk would suffice.
To return to events in the hospital, I rejected the therapist. Over the years I have had enough of that, and it’s pretty clear to me what the issues are. I don’t require any deep investigations into why I was distressed about the delivery going awry. My ‘Dustin Hoffman Moment,’ is an entirely rational response.
I also rejected the therapy sessions because when the doctor sat at the end of my bed in his full bio protection kit, and compassionately took my hand in his blue plastic surgical glove- I have a pet hate of plastic -
I realised that it would be difficult to share intimate thoughts with a man in a Hazmat suit. Finally, how could I talk freely, whilst being only separated from my roomie Charles by a yellow plastic ceiling tracked curtain.
They are so kind and professional here. The facility was opened 18 months ago, essentially as the result of carefully integrated plan by central government for how to respond to a pandemic. The staff doctor was explaining to us yesterday that they have been in specialist training for an event of this magnitude for years. Everything is process driven, from their bedside manner, their quick analysis of results, down to their observations of each team member.
By way of an example, he noticed that one of the nurses ‘in the pool,’ had lingered a finger too long on the keyboard, this was seen as bad practice.
As I said it would be hard for me to accept therapy through medical suits, but can you imagine how hard it is for doctors to fufill their daily work whilst hampered by a sealed mouth mask, just the talking, and restriction on breathing, must be a challenge.
I am a proud British citizen. I also have vicarious credentials.My father always taught me that when travelling abroad the most precious possession was my passport. I travelled to Moscow to support the English team at the World Cup, to Brazil for the Olympics, and to Lords for the World Cup. You don’t have to be a Brexiteer to have a deep respect for Britain’s processes, culture and traditions. I trust the legal, and State institutions of my country to protect me, free of the bind of corruption, or tyranny.
I can afford to be honest in my criticism without it being seen as a slur. Seven years ago Singapore had medical conferences planning for the risks of a pandemic. The consequence of which is that their entire state infrastructure is trained and prepared for an event which most economists and scientists have been predicting for years. They have specialist hospitals and protocols which are akin to a major sporting tournament. They’ve been in planning and training for this event with as much gusto as LONDON prepared for the 2012 Olympics.
Remember when I wrote of those underground car parks which looked like a scene from a disaster movie? They were not thrown together on a whim, but built as a result of the most carefully articulated and orchestrated plan. Singapore has been rehearsing for Covid-19 for years. As the doctor said to me yesterday, ‘in training we have been talking to empty beds for a long time.’
Sorry I digress. Once the hospital had witnessed the distress caused by denying me access to my ‘delivery’, they relented almost immediately, and within an hour my pillow and coffee machine, tea pot and various condiments arrived. The coffee had me bouncing off the walls. But I do derive pleasure from my teapot and cup and saucer. There’s a bedtime ritual now, Charles and I play backgammo , then we watch Test on Amazon Prime, a really great cricket documentary following the Australian cricket team from the disgrace of sandpaper tampering at Cape Town, to the retaining of the Ashes at Old Trafford last summer.
I was lucky to be present at some of those matches. Watching the Headingley Test match with my youngest son, and brother, we were completely disheartened when Australia’s bowlers destroyed us in the first Innings. So
when I watched the documentary, and received a first-hand account from their dressing room, I realized last summer I had lost perspective. Although disappointing for England, it was an extraordinary bowling achievement. The Aussies had basically planned every ball, every batman’s weakness has been analysed, mathematicians from Melbourne University had been recruited to run models to strategise our downfall. Too often in life I forget to see all sides of the script.
In the spirit of seeing things from another’s point of view, I can afford to cheer and celebrate Singapore’s efficiency in preparing for this virus attack, not as a snub to Britain’s obvious complete failure to plan, but as a celebration of their skill.
After the batting collapse, we left Headingley and went in search of my grandfather’s grave . After scaling the walls of the Jewish cemetery we eventually found it, and by custom we placed a stone to remember an eminent man who had died very young, almost 80 years earlier.
My then 15-year-old father had been told that his father was gravely Ill whilst studying at Clifton. A wartime train journey from Bude to Leeds and he had the chance to kiss him goodbye. A day later he passed away.
We stood in the graveyard and spoke of how lucky we were in the postwar generation. We might be rubbish at batting, but long life and prosperity were now almost guaranteed by the State. There was no imminent threat of any war or disease.
The threat of Labour’s anti-semitism was to be crushed at the December General Election. There was collective relief, particularly by the Jewish community, to witness first hand Britain’s total abhorrence of this form of racism. Yet, only six months later, and I’m hearing the Prime minister in his daily press conference, it seems that we are indeed again at War.
By the by, I was involved in a transaction last year, which thankfully we aborted in the autumn. It turned out that the counter party were underhand in their dealings. They were caught red handed and were dispatched back to Toronto. The things that we often think we want most in life, like Canadian pension funds, and even coffee capsules , are often the things which are bad for you.
As I write I receive my daily phone call that I am still reading Covid positive. I’m unlikely ever to be released, and even if I am, transit back to the UK will likely now be a challenge. I let out a loud sigh, Charles would say it was louder than that. This is becoming really tough, but now it’s different, almost two weeks from first diagnosis.
Everybody has their own story of disruption.
Through the eyes of my 16 year old son whose GCSE exams have been extinguished, he is dumbstruck, there’s no cheer or relief. Like most 16 year olds he has been working hard at this syllabus, what is left is a confusion at the loss of his opportunity to prove his standing. It is the theft of a valuable rite of passage.
For my brilliant daughter whose last three months at university have been cancelled, she now has no chance to say goodbye to her friends, her professors or tutor groups, and there will be no fanfare of a graduation. It’s a theft of a celebration of her excellence.
Then there is my ambitious elder son, forced now like so many into self-isolation, whilst having to watch from afar the effects of this virus on his first major property development, and the financial impact on his tenants, listening to him trying to understand the impact on his carefully constructed financial model.
Everybody knows that in the property business there are only two Excel boxes that really count, how will Covid-19 impact‘income’ and what will it do to ‘cap-rates’.
I tell him that it’s too early to tell, but I do know from experience that it’s definitely going to be outside of the margins.
My only advice to him is to refrain from a single action which could be seen as exploiting this event. It’s not the time for hard ball - it will be misconstrued as taking advantage of this pandemic. You don’t want to be remembered like the guys who traded on 9/11.
But I also know that what he learns from this time will stand him in good stead for the future.
To bear witness to ‘an event’, is character building. No one will never look at a business plan again with such certainty, unforeseen events don’t have a line in any cashflow, but they do happen. And sadly, when they happen, any contingency plan is likely woefully under resourced.
I start to hear through the daily radio bulletins of the deep disruption to British society. Even if people keep their jobs, their income will fall, living standards will drop, business dreams will be curtailed.
There must be a possibility of civic unrest. (Nobody ever talks about the looting during the Blitz). Society is now under a real threat, and the true horror, and headline event of the loss of life hasn’t yet been calculated.
I have started writing this private blog in response to many work colleagues and family who kept asking about my wellbeing. I might even keep writing it for myself.
Alongside my companionship with Charles, the writing has helped keep me sane. From my busy Inbox I can tell it has caused much interest. I want to extend a big thank you to partners past, present and ‘pending.’ Your thoughtfulness and kindnesses are deeply appreciated.
I’d like to thank the good nature of all my colleagues whether they work in my shop, art business or property company. They are tolerant of me when healthy, and now they have to deal with my daily ramblings.
A particular thought for Caryn and her team, by keeping focused on the business at hand is an enormous encouragement. There has never been a more relevant time for Senior Housing, a product which protects our elderly from isolation, and delivers that demographic, care and hospitality.
And to those people have said that I should take up more writing and do less property deals, I can’t figure out whether or not that’s a compliment.
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