The Piper (Part 3)

Friday April 24th

So here’s the final part of the story of “The Piper”

You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

I turned towards the voice.

We looked at each other in silence.

The voice belonged to a youngish man – late twenties, maybe early thirties – with short cropped hair and a wild, young man’s beard. Soft, brown eyes looked at me steadily out of a face that clearly spent a lot of time outdoors. A substantial backpack lay on the ground next to him.

“Water?” offered the youngish man.

I nodded.

He reached down to his pack and passed me a large metal bottle. The water was tepid, but welcome for all that.

“I’ve been watching you,” said the youngish man as I drank.

“For how long?”

“A few days now. You’re not from here, are you?”

“No, I’m from back east. And you?”

“I was born here.”

He looked me over carefully.

“You take photographs?” he asked, nodding to my camera bag.

I nodded back.

“For business or pleasure?”

“Both, business mainly.”

I decided to offer him a bit more.

“I used to shoot documentaries, but business dried up, so now I shoot photographs.”

He nodded silently.

“And you?”

He looked at me, his soft brown eyes hardening a little.

“What do you do for a living?” I prompted.

“I survive.”

“On the streets?”

“In the country mostly. It’s easier. People round here…”

His voice tailed away into a shrug.

I waited.

“So what do you do with your photos?”

“If I’m lucky, they get published – along with whatever I write to go with them.”

“People or places?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you photograph mostly people or places?”

“People mostly – and the places they live.”

We eyed each other in silence.

“Why did you come down to the river today?”

“Not quite sure. I wanted to see how the town looked from down here – maybe get a different perspective on things.”

“And how does Hamblin look from down here?”

“Young.”

He looked at me steadily. Nothing showed on his face, but I could feel him reaching into me, testing me.

Then he moved abruptly. Turning away from me, he picked up his pack and hoisted it onto his shoulders. He turned back towards me.

“So do you want to take my photo?”

“Sure.”

“Come on then, let’s find somewhere cooler that doesn’t stink so much.”

I followed the young man as he climbed up the river bank onto the bridge then headed out of town towards the low hills that lay to the south of Hamblin.

After about twenty minutes he turned off the road and headed into the woods. It was much cooler in the deep shade of the trees. The air smelt green.

We continued to climb then suddenly we were at the edge of the woods, looking out over the countryside. The young man slipped off his pack and sat down looking out towards the town, laid out beneath us.

“Looks pretty normal from here, doesn’t it?” He spoke with an educated accent, with just a faint hint of the local, midwest drawl.

“OK if I get my notebook out?” I asked.

“Don’t you want to take the photo first?”

“Can’t do that until I’ve heard your story.”

The young man nodded.

“See that big, low white building over there? That’s a pharmaceutical lab, biggest employer in town. Independent outfit, run by an old, local family, the Pfeiffers – smart people, but sharp.

“When the virus was getting closer to us, old man Pfeiffer went to see the Mayor and put a proposition to him. If the town council paid his lab a million dollars he would use Hamblin to test the vaccine they had developed. Everybody in town would get a free shot. If the vaccine worked, then the council would have to pay Pfeiffer labs another four million.

“The Mayor agreed straight-off. Everybody in town got a jab. It worked. Not a single person in Hamblin got sick. Nobody died from the virus.

“But when old man Pfeiffer went to see the Mayor to get the rest of his money, the Mayor refused to pay. He said the lab would make a fortune from the vaccine now that it was proven. He said it was Pfeiffer who should be paying the council for letting him use the town as a test bed.

“Old man Pfeiffer was furious. He threatened to close down his lab and move it elsewhere, taking all the jobs with it. The Mayor just laughed at him and called his bluff. He reckoned Pfeiffer couldn’t afford to shut down and relocate. Now they had a proven vaccine, they needed to get it out onto the market as fast as possible.

“The folk in town generally agreed. People are pretty tight with their cash round here.”

The young man fell silent, apparently lost in some memory.

“So what happened?” I prompted.

“For a while nothing much. Then the old people started dying. They’d go to sleep one night and the next morning they’d be found dead in their beds. It happened real fast. Within a week there was nobody over 60 left in town.”

“So that why when I walk about town…”

“You get some pretty strange looks right?”

I nodded.

“People blamed Pfeiffer, but they couldn’t prove anything. The doctors said the old folk were all dying of natural causes.”

“It’s been like that for years now. Hamblin is a town without old people. Sometime after your 60th birthday you go to sleep and don’t wake up.”

“My God, what’s that like?”

“What’s it like? It’s hell, that’s what it’s like. Nobody talks about it, but the heart has been ripped out of the place. Everybody just lives in the here and now. There’s no…”

The young man looked at me searching for the word that eluded him.

“Wisdom?” I suggested.

“Yeah, right – that’s it,” he said. “There’s no wisdom.”

The Piper (Part 2)

Thursday 23rd April

So here’s the second part of the story of “The Piper”. You can find Part 1 by scrolling down or clicking here. The final part will be with you tomorrow – provided I can finish it!

It took me a week to work out what was wrong with Hamblin (Pop 55,000).

Late one evening, I was trawling around the web, revisiting sites about the town that stubbornly refused to reveal anything to me. The webpage for the Hamblin Herald had been updated that day to reflect the new edition of the thin freesheet I’d seen lying in neglected piles in various shops.

It was the usual diet of small-town news – predictable and unengaging, unless you knew the people involved.

And then it struck me.

I clicked back through previous editions. More of the same: the endless debate on whether the town needed another bridge across the wide river that ran on its southern side, an ambitious tree planting scheme, the ups and downs of local sports.

I started to see a pattern.

I hopped across to the page for the town council and scanned the directory of local services: kindergartens, schools, health clinics, parks, rubbish collection. A well-run, well-resourced community; photos of smiling faces, flushed with civic pride.

But no photos of older people. No care homes. No seniors clubs.

The next morning, I walked the streets with new purpose. I knew what I was looking for now. Where were the old people in this town?

I headed south, wandering through streets I had never been down. This was clearly the poorer side of town: warehouses, small workshops, car breakers’ yards. I kept going till I came to the river. In the distance I could see the one bridge leading into town. I decided to walk along the river bank towards it, thinking it would give me a different perspective

It was a hot day and down by the river the air was heavy, with a strong smell of rotting vegetation. By the time I got to the bridge my shirt was clinging to my back. I stopped to wipe my neck and looked round me. A familiar scene – empty beer cans and bourbon bottles. Cigarette butts and roaches. The remains of a fire, the stones around it still warm to the touch. A smell of piss in the air.

I retreated into the shade of one of the bridge’s concrete pillars and sat against it to rest. The cloying, heavy air pressed down on me.

I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke, I felt stiff and uncomfortable. Standing up was a slow, painful process.

“Hot day,” said a voice behind me.

To be continued…

The Piper (Part 1)

Tuesday April 21st Lockdown Day 29

People seemed to like The Vanishing Man – so here’s Part 1 of another story.

It may not have been quite my last assignment, but it was certainly the strangest.

“Make it personal,” the commissioning editor said, when we talked on Zoom. “Let us know what life feels like out there now. What people are thinking in your average small town. Look around. Take your time. Find somewhere really average, then bring it to life – the way you do.”

I did some research, slung my bag of cameras into the car and headed west. In the old days, before, I probably would have taken a plane and been in and out of there in three, maybe four, days. Now I had a three-day drive ahead of me before I even got there.

When I’m driving a long way, I don’t listen to music or the radio. I like the silence, the sense of solitude. It gives me time to think.

I thought about how lucky I had been. When the documentary business dried up, I thought I wouldn’t work again. A 60-something with hard-to-define skills producing films that nobody was commissioning any more.

And then an up market online magazine accepted one of the photo essays I’d been touting around. “New York Stories” became a thing. Portraits in words and photos of people trying to put their lives back together. People didn’t want to do interviews on camera, but they seemed happy enough to talk to an old guy with just a notebook and a camera.

As I drove west, I passed through a lot of small towns that seemed to fit the bill. But none of them felt quite right.

Hamblin (Pop 55,000) was different. As soon as I drove past the city limits I could sense something special about the place. Main Street looked bustling and prosperous – it was like stepping back in time. I noticed my car with its New York licence plate was attracting stares. That decided it for me; you get the best stories from people who don’t want to talk to you. But I can usually get them to talk. It’s not so much about actively persuading people as quietly showing them that you’re there to listen.

But this place was something else. I did the usual things. I walked around the city centre to get a feel for the place. I hung around in cafes and bars. Like a patient angler I laid my ground bait then dropped my hook into the water. But not a bite, not even the faintest nibble.

The people were friendly enough – as shiny and bright as the SUVs and pick-ups that cruised up and down the city’s streets past the well-stocked shops offering impeccably tasteful goods and services. They seemed happy to chat in a superficial way, but nobody took up my unspoken invitation to reveal how life felt for them.

I took to walking further afield into the suburbs. No surprises there. Deceptively large houses, set in well-tended gardens. Two, three or even four cars in the driveway. Basketball hoops and trampolines. Kids on bicycles and dogs on leads.

But something wasn’t right. The way people looked at me for just that bit too long, before turning away as if they hadn’t seen me. I’ve been to enough places as a stranger to know that most people like to take a long, hard look at the unknown newcomer wandering into their neighbourhood. It’s an unspoken challenge, they’re waiting for you to look away, to submit to their authority, to show some respect, to show that you understand that you’re on their territory.

Usually it’s not a problem. I look away respectfully. It’s hard to see much threat from a scrawny, silver-haired guy with slightly stooped shoulders and a stiff-kneed walk.

But these people always looked away first. Time and again I sensed doubt, maybe even a flash of guilt, as their eyes slid away from me.

What was wrong with this place?

(To be continued…)

The Vanishing Man

Wednesday April 15th Lockdown Day 23

Today’s blog is a little different. It takes the form of a story. I hope you enjoy it.

“So Mr, ah, Blake,” said the Doctor looking down at his notes to remind him of his patient’s name. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Oh, you’re new aren’t you? Is Dr Gupta on holiday?” said Robert.

“No, I’m sorry didn’t you know? Dr Gupta has retired. I’ve joined the practice to replace him.”

“You’re very young.”

“I’m older than I look Mr Blake and I assure you I am fully qualified and experienced,” said the Doctor with a note of weary patience in his voice.

“Fair enough. Well I hope you won’t think I’m being daft, but it I think I’m starting to become invisible.”

“I’m sorry?”

“People don’t seem to be able to see me anymore. Not all the time, just some of the time. But honestly some people can’t see me any more.”

“Really? But I can see you fine Mr Blake.”

“But then you know I’m here.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s rather hard to explain. When people know I’m there they can see me. But if they don’t know I’m there, if they aren’t expecting to see someone, I seem to vanish. People can’t see me.”

“Can you give me an example of this?”

“Well this morning, walking to the health centre I was crossing the road when a young man on a motor scooter nearly ran me over. He obviously didn’t see me.”

“Well now Mr Blake I hardly think that shows you’re invisible does it? I think what it shows that is that there are some very irresponsible scooter riders out there.”

“And then in my local the other day I tried to get a drink at the bar but the bar staff didn’t seem to be able to see me.”

“Was the bar busy?”

“Fairly. I was standing there with a note in my hand, but they kept serving other people ahead of me. I gave up in the end.”

“Didn’t you say anything?”

“I tried, but it was noisy. I don’t think they could hear me.”

“Well Mr Blake I can’t see how that shows that you’re becoming invisible. Everybody has trouble getting served at a busy bar.”

The Doctor glanced at the clock on the wall.

“What I suggest is that if you still feel this way in a week’s time come back to see me again? And please, take care when you’re crossing the road OK?”

The Doctor smiled in a kindly way, but it was clear to Robert that the consultation was over. “No point in arguing,” he said to himself.

“Right ho Doc. I’ll come back another time.”

Once he was gone, the young Doctor updated Robert’s medical record then called in his next patient.

It was a straightforward enough case: a young man with a heavy cold and a cough, concerned that he might have an infection. After listening to his chest and finding no worrying signs he sent him on his way without the antibiotics the patient had been expecting.

“If it hasn’t started to clear up in a week come back to see me again OK?”

The patient left and the Doctor began making a few notes in his medical record. Suddenly he heard a voice.

“I know it’s not been a week, but I thought I would come back now.”

The Doctor looked up to find Robert sat in one the chairs facing his desk.

“Mr Blake!” he said in a shocked voice. “How did you get there?”

“I came in with the last patient. That is a nasty cough he has isn’t it? Are you sure he hasn’t got a chest infection?”

“What do you mean you came in with the last patient?”

“I just followed him in.”

“But I didn’t see you!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“You mean you were sat here all the way during my last consultation?”

Robert nodded.

“Mr Blake, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but that’s a flagrant breach of patient confidentiality!”

“Sorry, but it was the only thing I could think of. I shan’t say a word. But you see my problem now?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said the doctor sounding both angry and confused.

“Well let’s look at the facts shall we? When I first came in you were expecting to see someone and so you could see me. But when I slipped in behind your last patient, you weren’t expecting to see me, neither was he. And so I was invisible to both of you.”

The Doctor looked at Robert steadily.

“You haven’t come across this before? There isn’t a name for it?”

“Not that I know of,” said the Doctor.

“What a shame. I was hoping there might be a name for it. I always feel better when I have a name for what’s wrong with me. And at my age, I can tell you there’s quite a few things wrong with me.”

“Remind me Mr Blake – how old are you?”

“I’m 86.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Doctor. “I wonder…”

“Yes?” said Robert expectantly.

“Just give me a moment will you?”

The Doctor busied himself at his keyboard. Several minutes passed.

Eventually the Doctor looked up and turned to Robert.

“Well now I can’t be sure Mr Blake, but I think I know what the problem might be.”

“I’ve been looking in the database where doctors like me note unusual cases. The idea is to try and spot new problems that are emerging. There are reports of two cases similar to yours.”

“In both cases the patients, who were over 85, presented with a complaint that they feared they were becoming invisible. Like you they reported that, in certain situations, people had difficulty in seeing them.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Not yet, but one of the doctors has suggested it should be classed as a syndrome – that’s to say a group of symptoms that together are characteristic of a specific disorder. The main symptom is an inability on the part of younger people to actually see older people.”

Hidden Figures

Sunday April 12th Lockdown Day 20

A statistic is like a camera. It never lies, it just tells the truth very, very selectively.

I have dual French British nationality. In more normal times I live in both London and Paris. So I’m in the habit of keeping an eye on the news in both France and the UK.

Amid all the grim reading, I have noticed something rather worrying about the official figures for the number of lives this cursed virus has cut short.

On Saturday the headline UK death toll, as quoted in the British media, stood at 9,875.

In France the headline death toll, as quoted in the French media, stood at 13,932.

The UK figure is based on the number of people dying in hospital with the coronavirus.

The French figure is arrived at by combining two dreadful figures. The headline figure includes not just 8,943 deaths in hospitals but also 4,890 deaths in care homes.

I’m afraid that means that, in reality, the UK headline death toll is probably higher.

But the French total may also be an underestimate.

On Friday, the INSEE (The National Institute for Statistics and Economic Studies) released some new figures comparing deaths in March 2019 with deaths in 2020.

Among the troubling figures, one in particular, triggered some alarming (and frankly alarmist) headlines.

In March 2020 the number of deaths at home in France compared to March 2019 rose by 9%.

That rise was much higher in the areas hit hardest by the Coronavirus, that is the Paris region and the East of France.

In the Hauts de Seine, where I live when I’m in France, deaths at home increased by 75%. In the Haut-Rhin in eastern France deaths at home increased by 97%.

Of course, many things may lie behind the surge in those headline figures – not all of them can be attributed to Coronavirus. In the midst of a pandemic, people continue to die from other causes. And tragically they may not be seeking, or getting, the timely medical intervention that might save their lives.

But it is a reminder of just what a formidable threat we are up against.

And never forget that our focus should be less on the absolute numbers (deplorable as they are) and more on the trend. In France there are signs that the daily death toll is plateauing and may even be on the way down. In the UK there are signs that terrible curve is starting to flatten.

Social distancing and staying at home are starting to work. We are making progress in our journey across Corona Country.

Brief Encounter

Tuesday April 7th Lockdown Day 15

I usually enjoy my lockdown-compliant walk. This evening it left me with a lump in my throat and on the verge of tears.

You see I’m stuck in my flat in London on my own. My wife is stuck in her home in Paris. Usually, we go to and fro on Eurostar.

We talk, at length, every day. Thanks to the miracle of Facetime, I can even see her, as we chat. I’m also regularly in touch with my beloved family and many dear friends.

But I haven’t actually met anyone I know, in the flesh, for getting on for three weeks now.

Until this evening.

Walking a slightly different route from usual, I saw someone I knew standing at a corner.

David (not his real name) was looking the other way. He seemed pre-occupied, a little bewildered. I wouldn’t say I know him well, but we have known each other, casually, for some years. David lives on his own, as far as I know.

I stopped a safe distance from him and called out: ‘Hello, David.’

He turned and recognised me.

And at once we both welled up, just staring at each other.

We had both got so used to seeing only strangers on the street, skirting around them in that peculiar way we city dwellers do now, that to see a familiar face in the flesh was quite simply overwhelming.

I sensed that like me, he was struggling with that old, familiar urge to shake hands and catch up on the other’s news.

We tried to make a little conversation, but it’s hard to chat casually when you’re struggling to control your emotions, plus you’re standing 2 or 3 metres apart -particularly if like David and me, your hearing isn’t what it used to be.

As Joni Mitchell sings, it’s a shame we don’t seem to know what we’ve got till it’s gone.

Yet all this will pass, and we will meet again.

Just don’t be surprised if you find we’re both in tears when we do.

21st Birthday greetings

Monday April 6th Lockdown Day 14

A good friend of mine asked me to send a message to his son who is celebrating his 21st birthday today far from home. This what I wrote:

I thought I would drop you a line for your birthday – after all, a 21st is something rather special.

It’s a long time since I celebrated my 21st (very nearly 40 years!) but I can still remember a rather jolly party and rather too much drink. Please don’t be downhearted that you won’t have a big celebration this year, just think of it as being postponed rather than cancelled.

Lots of stuff is having to be postponed at the moment – without Covid 19, my wife and I would be in Japan right now on our long-delayed honeymoon. My wife is using the spare time she has to start teaching herself Japanese, so when we do eventually get there she will be well prepared!

21 is quite a milestone. You now have the right to hold an airline transport pilot’s licence for an aeroplane, helicopter or gyroplane; you can apply for a provisional licence to drive a large passenger vehicle or heavy goods vehicle and you could, if you felt so inclined, apply to adopt a child.

But seriously, I think 21 is important because it’s round about then that the world really starts to open up to you in all its peculiar glory.

There are lots of possibilities but also many uncertainties and, of course, doubts.

I think that compared to many 21-year-olds you are very fortunate in that you know what you want to do. You have found your path. Many 21-year-olds have no idea what to do with their lives. I think I was lucky because by 21 I knew that I wanted to work in journalism.

Of course, you’ll face many obstacles on your road to becoming a doctor, but I believe in your ability to overcome and win through so that you can fulfil your vocation to care and heal, whatever you end up doing for a living. Have faith in your conviction and your ability.

Just at the moment, the world seems filled with uncertainty, but try not to let that worry you too much. Life is always full of uncertainty. The trick is how to respond to it.

Most people see uncertainty as the enemy of happiness – something undesirable and problematic. But it’s far better, if you can, to see uncertainty as your friend – a strange misshapen friend, but a friend for all that.

Because uncertainty opens up possibilities. If things are uncertain, it means that all manner of things might yet happen. For those who work hard, for those who watch and listen carefully, for those who keep moving forward with boldness and a spring in their step, there are great opportunities to be seized.

Be strong, be kind, be cheerful.

Like they say in the SAS: “Who Dares Wins”.

Trust me?

Sunday April 5th Lockdown Day 13

It’s hard to work out which journalist actually came up with it – but the advice is sound.

Anyone listening to a politician should ask themselves “Why is this bastard lying to me?”

The caustic words of Louis Heren or Claud Cockburn are usually interpreted as a cynical dismissal of all politicians’ pronouncements.

But for my money (what’s left of it) they shouldn’t be. What that quip gives us is a valuable tool to help understand what is really going on.

We shouldn’t be wasting our time trying to work out to what extent we’re being lied to (“Is this bastard lying to me?”).

Nor should we waste too much time trying to pin down the exact nature of the lie (“How is this bastard lying to me?”).

No, the thing we should focus on, is the motivation driving the deceit.

So, what is going on when yet another politician insists that supplies of PPE are on their way or that 100,000 tests a day will be carried out by the end of the month? Why do they continue to spout these half-truths and evasions?

Are they just trying to avoid looking foolish and incompetent?

Call me naïve, but I don’t believe that. Most politicians are pretty thick-skinned beasts (with the notable exception of the 45th President of the United States). They’re used to looking foolish and incompetent.

Over my years in television, I’ve spent a lot of time around politicians. More recently, I’ve also spent rather too much time around doctors – particularly oncologists.

I’ve come to the conclusion that doctors and politicians operate in pretty much the same way. They both work on the principle of gradual disclosure.

If doctors told you straight out everything they knew, or suspected, about your case and what’s going to happen to you, it would scare the living daylights out of you.

Doctors tell you just enough, in as positive a way as possible, to get you to sign the consent form for the procedures they know will give you the best possible chance of survival.

Doctors have the advantage over politicians though because they’re usually talking to just one patient and their partner. They can calibrate their message carefully to what they think the patient will understand and tolerate. They can build a relationship of trust. (Provided, that is, that they are any good at communication, which sadly, some of them are not.)

Politicians have to talk to much larger audiences where it’s well-nigh impossible to get across a nuanced, carefully calibrated message.

Doctors also have the advantage that they have dealt with hundreds of cases like yours before. They can run accurate diagnostic tests. They have a pretty good idea how things will progress. They know what treatments are available and what the likely success rate will be.

Politicians, particularly at the moment, often find themselves dealing with situations where nobody knows what is really going on or what is going to happen.

So should we trust politicians as much as we trust doctors?

That’s for you to decide – I can’t sign your consent form for you.

 

Room Without a View

Saturday April 4th Lockdown Day 12

Today’s photo isn’t very interesting is it?

Unfortunately, it’s the view from my window.

You see, just before the lockdown started, some long-awaited and much needed external renovation and decoration works on my block of flats finally got underway.

And now the works have been suspended, so, for the next, however many weeks this is going to go on, that’s what I’ll be looking at.

Usually it’s a rather pleasing view. I can see trees, I can see the sky and I can see, and hear, children playing in a little playground across the road.

I used to enjoy their cheerful screams and squeals, before Corona hushed everything. (The only time I’ve heard London like this is after a heavy snow fall.)

And as my window faces Southwest, I used to rejoice in the sunlight that would pour into my little 3rd floor flat.

Not any more.

Not surprisingly I felt a bit glum, seriously unlucky, hard done by.

‘Why should this happen to me? Why did this have to happen now? What rotten luck!’

And then I paused. I recognised those feelings.

It was just what I felt, with brass knobs on, when I was diagnosed with cancer five years ago.

It was just what I felt, with gold plated knobs on, four years ago when tests showed the surgery to remove the tumour had failed and the cancer was beginning to return.

It was just what I felt, with solid gold knobs on, when I was told I would need seven weeks of daily radiotherapy with the risk that this would leave me permanently incontinent and impotent.

So I rummaged in my emotional memory bag and found the right psychological tool. It was a tool that I used a lot when I was having radiotherapy.

No matter how bad you think your situation is there is always somebody worse off than you.

I went back to that old blog and it was just as true now as it was then.

So what, if you can’t see out of your window? You have somewhere comfortable to live. You’re not out on the street struggling to get by. You’re not an Indian day labourer, out of work and facing a walk of 100, 200 maybe 300km to get back to your family.

Count your blessings, all of them, one by one, and keep walking.

Maybe even with a little spring in your step – after all, the radiotherapy worked, so why shouldn’t we make it right the way across Corona Country?

Less is more, more or less.

Wednesday April 1st  Lockdown Day 9

Seeking a little light relief, I have finally got round to reading something that has been languishing on my Kindle for a very long time.

Have you read “Three Men in a Boat” by Jerome K Jerome?

If not, I recommend it as a charming, piece of escapism. It’s dated (published in 1889), but a little gem for all that.

And for a comic novel, the humorous tale of the adventures of George, Harris and J (not forgetting Montmorency, the dog) , as they row up the Thames includes some lyrical passages of quite breath-taking beauty – and some finely crafted insights.

Consider this little passage slipped into the humorous account of the three men trying to decide what to take with them on their little boat:

“Let your boat of life be light , packed only with what you need – a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing.”

For many of us journeying through Corona Country, life has become a lot smaller.

I venture out for a brisk 30 minute walk every other day. I tend to follow the same route through some reassuringly quiet streets.

It’s not the most interesting of walks – the same houses, the same cars, the same shuttered shops.

Yet walking the same route every couple of days, I’m finding it more and more fascinating.

Because there is apparently nothing new to see, I’m forced to look more closely. And the closer you look, the more you see; the progress of a particular cherry tree as it bursts into blossom and then fades into leaf; the way today’s London Standard has been left carefully folded over every gate by a newspaper struggling to keep its readers.

In other words – less is more. Or it can be, if you can squeeze every last bit of pleasure and interest out of it.