LETTER FROM LONDON MARCH 2020
As the trees blossom like flowers and the days become longer
it feels like a strange spring, nature unaware of the clammy disaster that has
invaded the city. We seem to be paused momentarily at the point just before the
contagion is about to devour significant numbers of the unwary and foolish, who
flock to the London parks, many who will soon be ill, while others fill their shopping
trolleys with kitchen towel, toilet roll, pasta and anything else they can find on the shelves in a daze of angry panic. The citizens will
not submit without a fight, albeit for the last pack of Andrex toilet tissue.
There are no potatoes, or indeed any fresh veg in Tesco. Where
once there were carrots, onions and purple sprouting broccoli in abundance
there are only empty pallets. I find some sea bass which fills me with joy as I
place it in my basket. In the freezer there is little to buy, bar ice cream, potato
waffles and chocolate cake. However, I do find some breaded mushrooms which I
can have with my sea bass.
I approach the self-checkout feeling slightly nauseous as I breath
in TCP fumes from my homemade mask, feeling like Jesse James fresh from the
dentist. But check out is a humourless process as I key in my pin, - soon I
will have to wash my hands again.
Portobello is denuded of many of its stalls and the tourists
look bemused, like they have been conned. But the streets are neither crowded nor
empty, just full of lost souls and the indifferent. I am one such lost soul,
robbed of the familiar and predictable. Only the blossom consoles.
Indoors I put away my spoils and go to scrub my hands.