The tune of Amazing Grace has been running through my head all week. We have been singing it with the Great British Home Chorus, along with We Shall Overcome, as a tribute to Black Lives Matter. At least I think that is why Gareth Malone chose the song, assuming that it is a gospel song which can trace its origins back to black churches in the Southern States. Nothing he said suggested that he knew the real story behind the lyrics.

As far as the music is concerned, he referred to “this traditional American melody”, and indeed the beautiful tune we use today is called New Britain and was already in use in churches across America before it was matched with the words in 1835. Its name implies that it may have had origins in Britain, but I can’t find any definitive roots in my exhaustive searches through Wikipedia.

Once the lyric and tune had combined to give the song we all know today, it became very popular across all Christian traditions, although it works particularly well in gospel style. But I wonder how many people who sing it today appreciate the poignancy of the text.

The shocking thing is that John Newton, who wrote the original words, was a slave trader.

I had a real adventure today – unlikely as it may seem, it was a visit to the dentist.

Back in April a crown dislodged itself, leaving me with a rather poor bite on one side of my mouth. I knew that dental treatment under lockdown was strictly limited to emergencies, so I kept the crown safe and waited. I didn’t attempt a repair myself, as some people have done.

At the time, local dentists were, I think, able to prescribe painkillers and antibiotics remotely but, for understandable reasons, were unable to work on teeth directly. Regional Urgent Dental Care hubs were set up but they could only do extractions. Drilling was considered too dangerous.

My biggest fear over the past few months has been that I would develop the kind of toothache that takes over every thought in my head. The last time it happened was about a year ago when a tooth became infected. I sat up for the whole night, moving from one painful minute to the next, just waiting for the 9am appointment. I had never been so pleased to see my dentist.

I thought it was happening again to me three weeks ago when I developed toothache in a molar on the other side of my mouth. It only hurt after eating, and then only for a few minutes, but it was pretty painful. With both sides of my mouth compromised I found it quite difficult to eat, and the steak I had bought had to be stored in the freezer. Paracetemol before each meal did the trick.

Then we heard – oh joy – that dentists would be re-opening on 8th June. I phoned my dental practice, explaining that it wasn’t an emergency but that I would appreciate an appointment at some point. By this week, somewhat to my embarrassment, the molar had calmed down, but the crown was still, of course, not in place.

Some of the newspapers today are excitedly headlining the news that grandparents in England can hug their grandchildren again this week. It’s not easy for the many grandparents who are still not allowed to do so.

The BBC carries a more nuanced version of the story. From this weekend any adult who lives alone or with children under 18 (but no other adults) can form a support bubble with another household. While continuing to live in two homes they can interact as if they live together and don’t have to observe social distancing (although they must all self-isolate if any one of them develops symptoms). This does make a lot of sense and will help to counteract loneliness suffered by many people who have lived through lockdown on their own, whatever their age.

But crucially many grandparents are excluded from these arrangements. If they live with a partner they cannot form a support bubble unless the other household has just one adult. That would work for some intergenerational families, but not all.

And from my perspective, the sad truth is that no-one who is shielding may join a support bubble.  Many grandparents, like us, are shielding.

When we first moved to Chessington it was synonymous with the Zoo. Anyone who lived in the area was used to being asked the, supposedly original, question “Do you live in the monkey house?” when we gave our address.

We liked to take the boys during the winter months when it was much less crowded – and free – and the animals looked quite pleased to see visitors. It wasn’t much of a zoo, though, and we weren’t too happy about the way the animals were housed, especially the large mammals – elephants, giraffes, lions, tigers and primates, even polar bears.  But I do have a few tales to tell from those times.

One winter’s day we went to say hello to the tigers. As we stood by the wire fence one male tiger came towards us, turned round, lifted its tail and sprayed me. I think it may have mistaken my striped faux fur coat for a potential mate. It stank! I had an awkward conversation with the dry cleaners the following day, but the smell remained and I had to throw the coat away. Years later the site banned animal print clothing.

I taught for a while in one of the local secondary schools and one year I spotted that a girl in my third year (Year 9) tutor group had an address at the Zoo. I knew there was housing for some of the animal keepers on site so assumed her parents worked there. I discovered my mistake when we went as a family to see the circus that was permanently sited at the zoo. I recognised her as she spun by her teeth from the roof of the big top. Her parents were acrobats not zoo keepers.