Now that Everywhere is on the Front Line ...

It's very quiet as I write this afternoon.  It may be the Friday afternoon rush-hour but, even living in an industrial part of town, it's very quiet.  The quietness is not just due to the absence of wind or traffic ... although these are both noticeable; I'm also aware of a distinct quietness within.

One of my friends posted on Facebook this morning that she has worked from home for several years, so self-isolation would be no problem.  Technically I worked from home when I was driving for a living and although, of course, the work itself was all over the country, within the vehicle, I was always in my own company.  Now that I'm retired, for much of the time the same status prevails and - for the most part - I'm not lonely.  But today, for the first time, I have noticed a distinct and different quietness ... and, somehow, it is lonely.

The news bulletins and social media convey news of events, gatherings and sports fixtures being cancelled or postponed so as to reduce the possibility of infection; and certain aspects of normal life are now banned until further notice.  While of course I realise the need for these restrictions, support the action being taken and will, to the best of my ability, comply - as much for my own safety as for that of everyone else - nevertheless, I resent the intrusion of the rest of the world into my own little haven, the way I've moulded my lifestyle into what's comfortable and ... well, mine!

It's not just the physical changes around me: the way sanitising hand-gel has appeared in virtually every place I look, for example, and the half-empty supermarket shelves.  I find my thought-patterns have changed, too.  Last weekend, I said to a friend "I just feel unclean all the while", and he readily agreed, implying that he was experiencing the same thing.  Now, as I look at the people around me on the few occasions I go out, I find myself wondering about their cleanliness; as I go about my everyday life, I'm more aware of things I normally touch without thinking, like door handles, keys, even this computer keyboard.

While many of these are things only I touch, it seems there's a greater need to consider with every move, whether there's a possibility that someone else has touched it as well ... and when ... and with what implication.

Meanwhile on the 'normal life' front, there's little going on, so little to comment about.  I finished the investigations into the family of John and Agnes (see last week's post) and now I'm working on his elder  brother William, who usefully married a woman with the wonderfully rare name of Fanny Hancer.  They had seven children, and I've still got three of them to occupy my thoughts this weekend.

My work at the hospice distribution centre has become more settled again, after a few weeks of upheaval and uncertainty.  When I joined their volunteer brigade almost eighteen months ago, I made it clear that I was willing to be a relief driver for their vans and have enjoyed a number of spells of holiday cover, sometimes the odd day and sometimes as part of a complex schedule to cover a whole week of absence.  With the end of the holiday year approaching, there have been more demands in that direction lately. 

In addition, there has recently been a complete re-think of transport patterns to cover the fact that some of the shops are open at weekends.  As a result, I now have a permanent slot in the programme to drive a van one morning a week, and then carry on with the work I have been doing inside in the afternoon.

Enough for now.  If all the precautions by me and around me are successful, there should be another bulletin next weekend!