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Family

Vicarage End, Kitchen, 1985
We are urged, by strangers who have reason to know, to get in touch with our nearest and dearest, and say - what? That we love them. That we're sorry about that argument. That we wish them well.  We should be dusting out our Wills, documents for Power of Attorney, listing our bank account and online account passwords. Seriously. 

People (on FB or Twitter or something) say they took their dad or mum into hospital, very ill, expecting to be able to visit in a day or so, but that is either forbidden now, or it's all too late. That deposition is in fact the final farewell.  People are starting to die. They say, be prepared. Maybe giving the patient a mobile phone is a good idea.... that might be the only means of connection. The last hours and days may be purely in the hands of careworn and exhausted ward staff.

These same staff, or their colleagues, are appearing in videos urging people to stay inside. They really are on the front line.

We are all in a sort of nether-world now, or approaching its borders.  We have to retreat to old ways of doing things.  The internet which offers a myriad clever ways of substituting for 3-D activities is both a blessing and maybe a curse. We end up sitting down, staring at a screen. It is a good thing to get up and actually do something - laundry, gardening, carpentry, hoovering.  At the weekend, thousands of people flocked out to parks and beaches, soaking up the sun, enjoying the crowds, like going on a Bank Holiday outing - but that was not a good thing.  Being close to other people is bad. We have to keep a corpse's length distance from everyone else.  

Yesterday I went out to look for real ginger. Should I have done that? I stayed away from everyone I saw, and I was glad to see them, with my own eyes.    I also disposed of a box of jams from a cupboard upstairs - old, undated, mostly crab apple or damson jelly - all put out on a table on the pavement and people helped themselves. 

Our lodger Nicole joined us as she often does for a drink in the evening, and supper.  I have no idea if we should be doing this, or even if I should kiss Andrew? The infection is invisible. Is my sore throat a symptom of the disease or just a normal winter thing?    We hear of X or Y being a bit poorly.... is it coronavirus?  We are all feeling perfectly ok, but we may be carrying a deadly disease. We have no idea how long this will go on.  I find I want to know the worst, have watched videos describing in horrible detail of how this illness progresses. And yet to share such information may be to add to people's terror. Personally I would really prefer to know the facts.    Recently retired NHS staff are being urged to go back into service. They are expecting an avalanche of overburden and distress.  Deaths in huge numbers. People are already not allowed to go to funerals, and there is no singing. Churches are closed, services being conducted online. 

Things can never be the same again. The planet is showing signs of gratitude - cleaner air, less pollution.  The canals in Venice are crystal clear and dolphins have been seen swimming.  Companies - shops and suppliers - all closing down. Work as such is evaporating. Train companies have been renationalised so they do not bear the cost of lost fares. The sunshine makes it all rather crazy - we are powerless, can do nothing. The streets are empty. We are all inside our homes, isolating. God knows what the politicians are doing.  There is a widespread and vocal loathing of Dominic Cummings - for his idiocy and bad judgement. Someone predicts he will end up as a radical pundit on Fox News in America.  That would be a win for us all.   The Yanks can have him. 

I will do some more work on my autobiography, and have urged my sibs to write their memoirs. We did have a funny life, odd.   Things were so different then. This new poverty and dis-establishment may bring a return of that slightly bohemian life... money will have different meanings. Stories will have to be different. I feel so disjointed.  

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