Isolation Thoughts (2)

Morning is a song-feast of blackbirds and sparrows. May this sun last. Hurry up, trees.

I’m trying to remember the single sharp moment I realised things were actually going to be bad. It could only have been two weeks ago, but I can’t. Gone, the way I can’t remember the moment I realised my dad’s accident was life-threatening, back on that summer’s day in 2003.

I’ve always been a worrier – scratching over unhealed scabs. It’s painfully weird to be editing a novel right now in which a pandemic has happened in the characters’ past. Even if Covid-19 is nothing like as deadly. That is one comfort for me. This will prepare us for something worse. Because something worse will come. Maybe this virus will be our saviour.

I am exorbitantly lucky compared to so many other people. I’m writing this from the comfort of my parents’ house near Chichester, with a view of water. Quiet lanes to walk. A cat for company. Lucky. If I hadn’t decided to apply for a Canada visa so late in the year, I wouldn’t have till October this year to activate it. I would probably have already been there, and if there’d been time to get a job before all this, then I would’ve lost it or had to abandon it to come back to the U.K. anyway. My next chapter’s on hold, but I can still run with this one.

In the afternoon, the sun still bright, I stood up from my desk and looked out to the water. A single lone woman had walked out to the end of the long pebble jetty.

It was so brief, I could have missed it – the moment she raised her arms and spun herself around.





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