At war with Coronavirus

We all have a sob story about the damnable virus ripping through the world. Mine is that one day I was able to photograph people I liked the look of and the next day I could not even see if I liked the look of them because their faces were covered. 

I dig out old stuff and write about the mostly happy memories of my subjects or the time I had with them. See my encounter with an enchantingly difficult girl  35 years ago that worked out well in the end.

In normal times I go out to restaurants to see who’s there, rather than for the good food found in a very few of them. I can get all the food I like at home cooked by me or Caroline. Not that sitting back and enjoying friendly, quiet and lightening service in restaurants is not very pleasant when it is done right. (But not too friendly: “And how are you today, my name is Gertrude and I am your waiter for tonight,” makes me want to get up and leave there and then.)

I walk down Main Street not for exercise but to scrutinize the people coming in the opposite direction. I go into shops seldom to buy anything but to see if there are faces that I want to see. Can’t do anything of this now.

Caroline used to go to things more than I did and has been responsible for finding me some of my favourite subjects. Book clubs, readings, painting lessons, wine tastings, visits to pharmacies and dog food suppliers etc. not to mention who and what she finds on –– I can hardly mention the words I have such an objection to them –– social media.

Now we come to the question of whether we are at war? Well, yes, we are, according to those you govern us and those who broadcast the thoughts of those who govern us. I was seven when World War II was declared. My mother and I were standing on the tennis court when she told me that there was going to be a war. “Will the soldiers come here?” I asked, not being sure if I meant our soldiers or theirs. Only ours came and hundreds of them, preparing for D-day.

Though plenty of enemy airmen came with their Stuka dive bombers, as we were only 20 miles from London and surrounded by fighter stations. Sometimes the German bombers dropped their bombs meant for the London docks on us, when they could not face the anti aircraft guns that ringed London.

             This is not a Doodlebug

1940 to 1942 it was conventional bombs dropping on us. Then a pause until 1944 when the doodlebugs (V1s) appeared. They just turned up with little warning, sometimes being chased by a Mosquito, Spitfire XIV or Mustang fighter aircraft. These rocket propelled bombs, launched from Nazi occupied France, were timed to cut their engines as they approached the outskirts of London, silently gliding to the ground which they hit in a terrifying explosion. There was little you could do if one appeared in the sky and its engine cut. Just watch and hope it would circle away from your area. Or run like hell to the nearest air raid shelter.

              Not a Spitfire ace

Skilled Spitfire pilots could upset the giros in the V1s and send them spirelling to the ground by flying alongside them and tipping their wings. To be effective the spitfire would have to engage the V1 as it passed over the coast of Britain and across the farmland of Kent and Sussex where it would do least harm when it hit the ground.

Now we have the silent enemy of Covid -19 with whom we are at war, doing its best to take us by surprise. We either take cover, or watch and wait for the infection to get someone else but not us.

We live in a house with a two acre field and woods stretching for several miles in three directions. We seldom have to leave this shelter, which almost guarantees us safety from infection. Until the all clear is sounded, this is where we stay––with our dogs, garden, books, keyboard, records, food and wine and each other.