Sunday Twelfth April. The Coronet Diaries.

When April with his showers sweet with fruit 

The drought of March has pierced unto the root 

And bathed each vein with liquor that has power 

To generate therein and sire the flower; 

When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, 

Quickened again, in every holt and heath, 

The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun 

Into the Ram one half his course has run, 

And many little birds make melody 

That sleep through all the night with open eye 

(So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)- 

Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage,  (Chaucer Prologue to the Canterbury Tales)

There will be no pilgrimages for anyone today. I woke up in sombre mood. Bell wants to have an Easter Egg hunt and insisted last night that I write riddles for everyone. I am not a riddle-writing person but complied because I don’t want to disappoint her. Earlier she confided that she hated her freedom being taken away and wished something she couldn’t imagine wishing that she was back at school. (The truth is that she goes to a wonderful school and loves every minute of it. Almost. They don’t even have homework until they are in Middle School.) Later, last night Alex reported she had had a melt down at bed time about the lock down and Alex – who takes a circumspect view about all the propaganda and corona hyperbole – thinks nothing will change for the better until a reliable vaccine is produced and the medics know more about how to treat the virus. I was made more sad when I heard him speak almost to himself that he wished his children had not been born into this terrible time. This morning Bill Gates has contradicted the Oxford Team and said in his view no reliable vaccine will be available in less than eighteen months. What is with these research scientists they are worse than squabbling if not lying children.

My mood is dark and sombre. I will have to dissemble treasure hunt pleasure. I can see that the hypothetical as yet ‘traffic light system’ of releasing lockdown might be a solution. An unwelcome consequence would be that for the foreseeable future the over seventies will remain in permanent lockdown. The division might even come at sixty. Hypochondriacs will probably self select to join us. It will feel like being forced to wear an unspeakable yellow badge equivalent to signify that I am past my sale by date. Trump is seventy three and Joe Biden is seventy eight, they still feel fit for service. . I am anxious that when the children go back to school our household will have to return to self isolation. We have turned our living area into a spacious playroom with trampoline and climbing frame. If Zac is banished upstairs again he wont understand why.

If the geriatric US politicians are allowed to continue their careers why can’t I? I have never been coy about my biological age. My last book declared it on the first page but few of the people who consult with me read my books, at least not while they are in therapy although several have given permission to appear in them. A few weeks ago when I was still in my treetop palace of a consulting room overlooking Marylebone roof tops and the Post Office Tower, one man leant forward, he had been talking about whether he wanted to retire or not, and asked me, ‘What are your own thoughts about retirement Jane, will you retire when you are sixty?’ I was bemused but decided not to enlighten him and replied that I would retire when any of my five senses abandoned me.

Anyone else looking for a sombre mood like Peter hunted for his shadow might do well to read the following report on A National Scandal. A timeline of the UK Government’s Wooful Response to the Coronavirus Crisis. You need to scroll down for the link.

If you really want to see all the catastrophic #COVID-19 UK government mistakes in sequence. Here they are

‘A National Scandal’: A Timeline of the UK Government’s Woeful Response to the Coronavirus Crisis https://t.co/dBYR024Vtm— Peter Jukes (@peterjukes) April 11, 2020

perms

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