It’s the new year, and thoughts turn to those of health and happiness in the months to come. I think my blood pressure is OK, a little on the high side perhaps but nothing really major to worry about.
The tour of Scotland, or at least, the eastern-central part of that country, continued with a visit to “Scotland’s Secret Bunker“, which until 1992 or thereabouts was maintained as the home-to-be of government in Scotland were that country (and presumably the rest of the UK) ever to be taken out by a couple of dozen nuclear missiles. It says a lot for the managerial mindset that a significant amount of money was spent on building and maintaining this place, with its various dormitories, a broadcasting station, two cinemas, a canteen (still in use, for visitors), state-of-the-art air conditioning and fire protection and various Monitoring and War Rooms (“Gentlemen! You can’t fight in here, this is the War Room!”). Plus a clinic, as pictured here with its touches of black humour.
That this is now open to visitors, albeit privately owned and charging a healthy price (£50 for the three of us), is some consolation but begs a natural question — where’s the current version of this? Or versions, as there were long-standing and fairly plausible rumours that another one of these sat up on Ashdown Forest in Sussex, near Crowborough where I grew up. And how much do they cost in terms of, say, nurses’ or teachers’ salaries? The place was definitely worth a visit, if only to invoke such questions in Joe’s mind.
I am aware that this is an extremely dull photo but sometimes putting up a really dull one is the only way of epitomising the day. The whole Covid testing racket is just such classic 21st century: the private sector creams off cash from us all based on claims that it’s the only way forward, there is no alternative, no dissent to be had. I pay £75 to be told I don’t have a virus that a) I’ve already had b) I’ve (twice) been vaccinated against c) I have no symptoms of. And before 8am, too.
Still, at least I have been given my official “UNINFECTED!” bar code, stamp on my forehead, tattoo, whatever. So I’m off to St Helena — a day later than originally planned, but I will be there from Tuesday. And then sat in quarantine for 10 more days, but that’s a whole other story that is still to come.
Being 42 