’This will be a mercifully short blog’ think my regular readers but not a bit of it.  Brace yourself; once I get going I may well end up rivalling Hilary Mantel which brings us to reason Number One.  Always jaw achingly fashionable, my copy of ‘The Mirror and the Light’ popped through the letterbox on publication day.  (Not literally.  Obvs.  The size of it meant it had to come through the bi-fold windows on a wheelbarrow).  I’ve started it and even as possibly the world’s fastest reader, that is going see me through to the autumn.  Of 2021.  Minimum.

Moving on I am at least in solitary confinement; being locked in with anyone would be a trial.  No need to say ‘Especially  for them’ thank you, that boy at the back.     Selfless as ever, I have already sharpened my axe and offered it to married friends, along with an alibi.  You don’t have an axe?  I bet you were down to your last roll of loo paper when all this happened.  Be prepared, people.  How many times?  People of my age were reared by parents who had been through the war and if they taught us one thing, it was never to let supplies run low because you never know.  Well now you do, you with your single old tin of lentils and enough spaghetti for one in the cupboard.

Also, thank God, I am not locked in with children although today’s cohort would be perfectly happy just to be allowed to sit in front of a screen for 18 hours a day so the horror of having to entertain them isn’t an issue.  Why, oh why, weren’t iPads available when I was crossing the Bay of Biscay in the good ship Motherhood?

And so to the best news I had yesterday.  Visits to the allotment are still permitted and so I should think.  What else in the world combines exercise, mental well-being and organic food in one package?  Plus the opportunity to socialise at a plot-wide distance.  My broad beans will be making their way there this morning and my potatoes are chitting as we speak. (Look it up, for goodness sake.  You’re not exactly pushed for time).

Time, once as rare as unicorns, is now hanging on our hands.  Tasks that have been avoided for years are now cherished as a way to fill the morning.  I actually find myself saving up jobs for the next day – don’t want to rush the ironing, perhaps I’ll just concentrate on the dusting today.  Will we ever get up to speed again, post-plague?

There is time for conversation, albeit on the telephone.  Begone, damn texts with your arcane spelling and emojis, lets talk to each other.  And what a rediscovered pleasure it is, just to natter away, with the added bonus that you can ring people on their landline – they are going to be at home after all – and you can hear each other clearly.  Remember that? Bliss.  When this is over get one installed.

One personal low point has been the death of my little cat.  She was a gentle soul and not having had anything approaching a hard life, had made it to 20.  The vet rang me yesterday to say that her ashes were ready for collection.  Would I like to go round there or should they keep them for the next couple of weeks? ‘Hang on to them please’ I said, ‘I will pick them up later’.  Something to look forward to.