Sunday 29th March, 2020
Woke up unusually late, 7.30, feeling rather seedy. A surfeit of The King’s Ginger more likely than coronavirus. Unlike me, my iPad remembered the UK had changed to British Summer Time.
Robert took Bertie out for a bracing walk in a cold wind with a smattering of snow. I stayed tucked up in bed watching The Andrew Marr Show. He interviewed Michael Gove standing outside his house in Brook Green. Dominic Grieve is a neighbour but I doubt they are chummy these days. Andrea Leadsom was interviewed later in her constituency home in Northamptonshire. When in London she lives down the road in West Kensington.
In the afternoon I took Bertie to the cemetery and found a clump of wild garlic. It should be good mixed into spaghetti with olive oil and seasoning.
I know I should polish off The Barchester Chronicles but I’m re-reading Patrick O’Brian’s great saga, starting with Post Captain, the second in the series, as I’ve read the first recently. It should be ideal escapism but …
”Aye?” said Stephen. “I am looking for the captain.” He peered inquisitively under the empty chair. “I have news that will interest him; it is of interest to us all. The Lascars are suffering not from the buldoo-panee of their own miasmatic plains, whatever Mr Parley may maintain, but from the Spanish influenza! It is whimsical enough to reflect that we, in our haste, should be the cause of our own delay, is it not? For with so few hands we shall no doubt see our topsails handed presently.”
”I am in no hurry. I wish this voyage would go on for ever,” said Miss Lamb, arousing an echo in her sister alone.
”Is it catching?” asked Jack.
”Oh, eminently so, my dear,” said Stephen. “I dare say it will sweep the ship in the next few days. But I shall dose them; oh, I shall dose them! Young ladies, I desire you will take physic tonight. I have made up a comfortable little prophylactic bottle for you both, and another, of greater strength, for Major Hill.