This morning a young friend of mine (not that she would think of herself as young, but she is twenty years younger than me) flew to Greece with her family. Next week, another friend takes off for Italy with her family, having just (like Noah’s dove) returned from a scouting trip, to make sure the waters had receded. Which they had. Italy is now a safe place to be.
Here, in London, R and I are trying on face masks for the first time . . .
None of the statements put out by our government carries conviction. As we are no longer useful to the economy as workers (being long retired), nor as consumers (a role we now amply fulfil without leaving the house), we feel entitled to stay locked down: a decision made easier by living near Hampstead Heath, precious substitute for the countryside which was once a part of our lives. The serenity of the ancient heathland – its undergrowth and dark stretches of water – helps as nothing else can to quieten the unquiet mind.
It was to the Heath that we went on leaving the house for the first time in more than two months, and these are some of the people who were also enjoying the still unaccustomed freedom.
In a world of their own . . .
Keeping their distance . . .
In a bubble of one . . .
Carpe diem . . .