The Coronavirus Diaries 29th March 2020

Coronavirus suddenly seems closer with my friend and neighbour Bridget’s brother hospitalised, and one of he nieces unwell too. Some music just works at these times, and for me Bob Dylan, someone who I like but I wouldn’t say I was his biggest fan, somehow hits the spot. Currently listening to Hard Rain which I have been thinking about since Celia and I were caught in a small hail squall during our constitutional today and Shelter from the Storm from that album began to go round my head. Perhaps a taste of the April showers due to start next week.

Not sure what MasterB was up to while I was out, but he seems unaccountably tired right now. That’s just tired, not knackered. Celia said she was knackered as we neared home. It was a good walk though. I anticipate that we shall shortly be confined much more strictly due to the number of people still behaving as though somehow the current restrictions do not apply to them. With that in mind I suggested a walk to the City so we would see the Thames and St Paul’s. Just typing that makes me realise how much of a Londoner I have become.

We saw both. We also did some shopping. Now for you who don’t know London, the City is the oldest part where the financial centre is, but it has a very small residential population, so at the weekends it is always quiet. Today it was even quieter. We gazed upon empty streets, upon empty buses and buses carrying at most two passengers. Our walk from our homes brought us few sightings of other people. The market at East Lane was closed. Unthinkable for a Sunday.

Empty East Lane

Equally empty in this direction

We crossed an empty London Bridge and looked at a Thames devoid of pleasure craft.

Empty River

I mean, really empty

My friend Nadia, who I visited just over a year ago in Wellington, NZ, used to work in Adelaide House, an office block on the north side of the bridge opposite Fishmongers’ Hall. There’s a little Waitrose next door. No queue. I went in, Celia having said she’d like some milk. I was after bread. We have now perfected our shopping technique. Celia stays outside so as to avoid accidental contact with shoppers who appear suddenly round the corner of an aisle. I collect the things she has asked for plus anything I think she might like and return to the entrance where I hold each one up for inspection. I explain to security staff what I am doing. Celia signals yes or no, and the items either go into the basket or back on the shelves.

I waved some hand sanitising wipes at her. Thumbs up. How many? I asked. Two? Her face was a doubtful question. We are being restricted to buying items in ones or twos. They have loads, I said. She held up four fingers. At the till I asked if they has cleaning products as I hadn’t seen any. I knew Celia was after washing liquid. I was directed to a corner of the shop I had avoided on my first sweep as there were people there. I returned to the window with washing liquid and kitchen rolls. Both went into the basket. Buoyed up we continued our walk.

I wondered aloud if M&S on Cheapside might be open. It’s my favourite to place to shop for food if I am working in the City at the weekend. We walked down Laurence Pountmey Hill and gawped at the house that sold a few years ago for £6 million or so. The lights were on. That was my first Property Envy spot on this walk. Only the cost of curtains and carpets consoles me. Though I suppose if I had £6 million I probably shouldn’t be too worried.

The Making of a Militant Vegetarian

I’ve been a vegetarian, the ovo lacto variety, for most of my life, since I was twelve years old. So that means quite a few decades.

Mother thought i should be a member of the Vegetarian Society. I don’t know why I resisted, maybe she was expecting me to stump up my own membership fees out of my meagre pocket money. I think that must have been it, or otherwise she would have just signed me up anyway. But whatever the reason, I never joined.

I had a look at their site a while ago and thought it looked quite good, but couldn’t see any advantage in becoming a member. That changed on Saturday evening. I’d been working in Westminster and at the end of the day I was in Parliament Square. So were lots of other people. There had been a demonstration that ended in a rally. Corbynistas, anti-austerity protesters, anti-Theresa May protesters, and probably people who regard themselves as affiliated to other causes and groups were, by the time I was there, singing and dancing along to Bob Marley songs. Good for them. It all seemed very good natured and well behaved. I am all in favour of peaceful protest, of people taking to the streets to express their views. Had I not been working, who knows, I might have been there with them.

Best Dress

When I was little I had a Best Dress. It came from Marks and Spencer and was, I believe, a gift from my godparents.

It had almost mythical status in my sparse wardrobe, and I wore it for several summers until it was rather shabby and frayed.

I remember wearing it to some May Day celebrations at the local church. The vicar’s daughter was the May Queen and I was her attendant, despite the fact that she was younger than I was, and it was my birthday.

Some things still seem unjust.

For some reason, it survived the culls that Mother ruthlessly carried out and I have it to this day.

A while ago I started to wonder what to do with it. Talking to a neighbour who works for M&S, I learned that they have a museum of clothing.

I contacted them about my dress.

They want it.