I can hear the flap of birds’ wings. The crunch of gravel underfoot. Gone, though, is the chatter and scraping of chairs in cafes
As I write, it is week four – possibly five? – of the coronavirus-induced lockdown. I cannot measure out my life in coffee spoons, as I do not have one of those fancy espresso machines, but nevertheless there are the daily routines of tea and biscuits, stroking the cat, ignoring emails and then, finally, working. Usually after I have found and considered random things around the house: a lanyard that belongs to the past; a book I hated, stuffed under a piece of furniture.
At some point in the day, I make my escape. I head towards space that is open and green; towards water, which knows nothing of the interruption to ordinary life. I live near a park with a small boating lake – more of a puddle with airs and graces and pedalos; a baseball pitch, which if it could talk would be in a faux-Boston drawl; a running track; and an outdoor gym, which is currently taped off. It’s not a gym as such, more pieces of metal for men with equal-sized egos and biceps, but that’s OK. I sort of miss them now.
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