the self-isolation diaries #2

As self-isolating locations go, this idyllic pastoral spot is not bad at all. I like it particularly because it’s where I live. How lucky am I? We are fortunate to be able to walk quite long distances within the confines of the estate, often without seeing anybody at all.

At lunchtime I walked with Timmy across this lovely place, and we were closely followed by five lambs who seemed to think that Timmy was a new playmate. But we saw nobody for nearly an hour, until reaching Bob Keeley’s cottage and he was outside, servicing his Yamaha motorbike, cleaning off the rust. He clearly enjoyed his kitchen gig last night. In Saturday’s post I mentioned that he was doing a gig from his kitchen to earn some money. He had a hundred and sixty people watching at one point, and at last viewing had raised over three hundred quid. Tidy.

This is the beginning of the really difficult time in this pandemic. We are told that a full lockdown begins at midnight tonight, so if there is anything we are without, we’ll just have to get by. But there is still no flour to be had, so we must ration our breadmaking, and use our initiative with other areas of food preparation. It will be the season of the flat bread.

We could be here for twelve weeks, in this state of austerity. But our neighbour, Chantelle, who moved out today before the lockdown kicked in, left us a lovely food parcel that she’s unable, or unwilling to take with her. We are well provided for.

In the meantime, I am relying on the internet for nearly all of my social contact. When friends post messages on Facebook I find myself responding with a ‘heart’ rather than a ‘thumbs-up’, and I avoid the angry emoji as much as possible. This is surely a time for positivity.

the self-isolation diaries #1

To begin, the condition of isolation is not altogether new to me. This is not because I’m totally friendless, oh no. It just happens to be how and where I earn my living. This is my studio, or perhaps you call it ‘work station’. Whatever. This is where I spend my days. All day, every day.

So, my life has not become dramatically changed by the current appalling situation. Yet.

However, I do recognise in myself a creeping sense of unease, like a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce. And in others? Well, there is a palpable impression of fear out there. It’s visible most clearly around the Friday Street Farm Shop, where extra long queues are forming, although artificially lengthened by the additional space customers are leaving between each other. People are stocking up on sacks of potatoes (little knowing that these will already be chitting by now) and stripping the shelves of flour, including bread flour. Is everybody a newly converted disciple of bread-making, I wonder? Or will that flour stay in the cupboard until the panic is over and then hit the bin?

And many of these customers look suspiciously like Londoners, escaping from the epicentre of the virus to their second homes in the country, possibly bringing Covid-19 with them. They are also, for whatever bizarre reason, scurrying off to packed coastal towns to press themselves together in ice cream shops as though it were a bank holiday. Very odd. Local MPs all over Britain are asking them to stay away, but the stampede continues.

Less than a week ago, I was unconcerned by the approaching menace. It would surely be weeks before it reached The-Land-That-Time-Forgot. And anyway, it’s only flu, innit? So, on Monday, I happily worked my regular shift at the White Horse in Sweffling, fully prepared for there to be no customers at all. But they showed up in healthy numbers, and I was quite moved by their determination to see out a sociable evening. Much encouraged by this bulldog spirit, I took myself to The Crown here in the village the following evening, to lighten my spirits with a cleansing ale or two. Here I was much taken by the reassuring sight of twenty or so like-minded regulars demonstrating their solidarity and determination not to become downhearted.

There remained little sign on these shores of the invisible peril pervading the rest of the world, so I blithely carried on my usual routine, and even boasted about it on Facebook. Friends gave me hearty thumbs-up and posted supportive comments, until a couple of my grandchildren stuck angry emojis up there, and some wise friends pointed out the folly of my ways, and I came down to earth. Ouch.

So, since Wednesday morning, Mo and I have been bracing ourselves for a lengthy spell of confinement, stocking the larder as best we can, and yesterday, even manage to get a bag of bread flour, as Friday Street were limiting customers to one bag at a time.

Now I’m cloistered here, writing this diary and thinking of a few friends who are already getting hit. My mate Bob, a singer, and his son Joe have had all of their gigs cancelled. But they are giving online concerts, and we can drop a few quid into their PayPal tips box. A friend in the village, Sasha, who runs a B&B, has had a major booking blown out, and none coming in for the foreseeable future. Richard and Cheryl who have been told to close the Crown, Boz at the Rendham White Horse and Mark and Marie, whose pub, the wonderful Sweffling White Horse, is now dark.

But mostly our son, Paul, and granddaughter, Felicia, both have ‘underlying conditions’, and our daughter-in-law, Modupe, who stands with them, big, big love. And our daughter and family in America, with whom we are able to chat on Facetime, will bring us up to date with the situation over there.

I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the first case is recorded here, and that will be when reality strikes. There will be people we know coming down with the virus. It may be us.

People in the village have organized themselves into volunteer groups to do shopping and dog walking for the elderly or unwell. Maybe the legacy of this awfulness will be a much-strengthened community. It’s lovely to see.

Now it’s the vernal equinox, the beginning of spring. The sun is shining, daffodils and lambs are on the park. We should be feeling full of optimism. So far, nothing has arrived to shake that optimism. May it stay that way.

Take care, and stay healthy xx