Local roses.Benedict Ambrose has gone to the hospital for a routine x-ray. It’s simply the most dangerous thing either of us has done all year, more risky than going to Tesco. He put on clothes that can be washed as soon as he gets back. He took the packet of tissues I offered (for coughing in). He took the almost-empty last little bottle of hand sanitiser. He took an issue of The Spectator I hope I’ve already read. He took the letter informing him he has this appointment. I kissed him good-bye and begged him to stay six feet away from everybody. And that’s about the best we could do.
This just in: B.A. has called from Stockbridge to say that it is sunny and nice and reminding him of the (Scottish) Sundays of his youth: almost all the shops shut and almost nobody around. As he is very early for his appointment, he thinks he’ll go for a coffee in Waitrose if he can face standing in the queue. (Anyone around is in the Waitrose queue.)
Also, I have just received a photo from my beloved Pretend Polish Daughter-in-Law of the small Sunday dinner party we attended the day after my Goddaughter’s baptismal celebrations. PPS looks, as usual, as if he stepped out from early 1939, which is very apropos, given that our lives will be divided between the pre-pandemic and the post-pandemic eras.
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