A friend tells me her mother is finding lock-down frustrating. She rails against her enforced seclusion; “but she’s nearly ninety and hasn’t been out of the house for years”.
I disagree. Although I enjoy going for walks with Bertie I’m happy sitting at home reading, chatting with Robert, tickling Bertie’s tummy and sometimes making or receiving a ‘phone call. We walked for 2 1/2 hours around Wimbledon Common yesterday and I’d like to share two pictures. They both breach the bloggers‘ code of conduct; they are not of cherry blossom or vernal leaves. This is above the entrance to the windmill on Wimbledon Common.
But let’s turn to another inscription on a fine war memorial on the Common, known to Robert and me as “the place where Bertie got lost”.
It is unusual, rather moving in its sylvan setting, and timeless in a way that a fleeting snapshot of Spring cannot capture. Bertie can’t understand why I stop to pay tribute to the men, probably, who died in two world wars. I can understand why he wants to sniff a special nettle for ages and then give it his mark of approval.
Our local Dry Cleaner is closed but there is one open not too far away. They have cleaned nine of my shirts but when it came to paying would only accept cash. Robert says, I’m sure he’s right, they have furloughed their staff pretending the business is shut down and are double-dipping. I don’t think I will use them again. The newsagent has delivered The Times ( Monday to Friday) for six weeks and has finally delivered his modest bill. I must pop in to thank him and buy a bottle of vodka. Here’s something you cannot do yet.