We’re entering our 4th wk of lockdown in UK.
I love the early part of the morning when its just me in the kitchen immersed in silence and the smell of coffee, giving my oat biscuit full attention. This was my kind of meditation. This was the moment before I let the world in, let my phone lie lost under sofa cushion. I got my book out and sat reading for the next 30 mins.
News did filter in, later. Global Death had passed 1.85m. China was now reporting new cases again. And the desperation of low income workers was crying out from all over the world. The Guardian opinion page takes aim at the myth of British exceptionalism, the buoyant infallible pride in our national character on which our PM doled out some pretty dodgy healthcare strategy. If ever you needed a sledgehammer to bash out some fallacies from the system you can depend on a pandemic to do the job. Herd immunity beware going to the pub will not save you.
The dark tales podcast was on with breakfast. One tale ended with a young man being cursed to spend the rest of his life locked in his castle. Sounded like some grim prophetic announcement for us. I looked at my Pajamas and decided they would do we weren’t going anywhere.
Freshly mixed hues 