lockdownjournal

[lockdownjournal]

Day 79

Wednesday 10 June

Working from home again, so I have little to tell. The days that are most affected by the lockdown are those when you are least able to observe it.

I’m left to brood on the day’s grim news.  The OECD says the UK economy will plummet by 11.5% in 2020 in the rosiest scenario, and by 14% in the worst. 

The last time Britain went through this type of contraction was in the early 18th century, at the height of the war against Louis XIV’s France. 

But I wonder if the OECD’s worst-case scenario might still be too rosy.  Forty percent of the workforce will have been idle for best part of the year.

At least our household will do its bit to spur output: we’ve got quite a bit of furniture to buy.   

[lockdownjournal]

Day 78

Tuesday 9 June

I’m working from home.  The laptop is fully functional.  I set myself up in the spare bedroom, which one day will double as a proper office.  It’s still a bit of a mess but will do for now. 

I spend 10 hours processing copy, with a break at 16:00: a walk with Anthea around the prettier bit of the neighbourhood.  Meals are brought to my makeshift desk. 

[lockdownjournal]

Day 77

Monday 8 June

My removal leave ends today.  I was supposed to work from home but the corporate laptop refuses to log me, on so I have to dash across London and get to the office.

It's 07:30 on a Monday and the Underground is still eerily quiet – 10 people per carriage at the most.

There have been changes at work in the week I've been away.  Going through temperature scans in the reception area is now mandatory.  I easily pass muster (36.2C), but colleagues later tell me that they've set off a beep by carrying a cup of coffee or after sitting in the sun. 

Inside the building a labyrinthine one-way system has been set up.  Every door is either in or out, every staircase up or down.  Elevators are for going up only.

Each room is paved with arrows that are supposed to guide your steps.   But I find them impossible to follow, first as I deliver my faulty laptop to the technicians then return to my team.  In the end I ignore the signs and go straight from A to B.  Everyone else seems to.  

Another new rule commands that only one person at a time should use the toilets.  I hear one employee exclaim as she prepares to enter the female facility near us: "Am I supposed to shout - is anyone in there?"

During my lunch break I find out that the main entrance is just that – an entrance.  To leave the building you have to go through a warren of passages to an adjacent building.  I get lost and in the end stay in.  The canteen sandwich is overpriced but as good as any.

It's still pleasant to be at work and talk to colleagues, but I feel this corporate health paranoia is draining the office of whatever life it still holds.

After the George Floyd affair, coronavirus is back at the top of the news agenda.  New Zealand is ending its lockdown – although air links with the world beyond Australia are still cut.  

The British government seems just as intent on destroying the travel industry: from today people coming into the country have to self-isolate for two weeks.  We'll be stuck on this island for a while.

I return home with a functioning laptop.  Carine has invited her boyfriend Jon for dinner - it's against the law but we don't mind.  He's a good kid.

Jon compliments us on the flat.  He tells us that his apprenticeship as an electrician has been kicked into the long grass.  His prospective employer has no work for him.  Stacking supermarket shelves, on the other hand, is a viable proposition.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 76

Sunday 7 June

The apartment is starting to look vaguely like a home. The corridors are clear, we can move around the bedrooms.  Dinner can be cooked.  The books are stacked on shelves for sorting later.

In the afternoon, Carine goes to her first group activity - and her first trip to London - since March.  She and her group of teenage friends are joining a protest outside the US embassy.  They feel very strongly about the death of George Floyd, but I doubt they would have bothered to register their anger on the street – as opposed to Twitter – in normal times.

We tell her to wear a mask and stay close to demonstrators who do.  We also warn her about people who don't care about police violence or racism in the US but are just there to create mayhem – yesterday's protest outside parliament yesterday ended in chaos.  She knows all that.

Meanwhile Anthea, Gamma and I stage our own march – around the neighbourhood.  The park is beautiful, even on a cold, overcast day.  We can't say the same of the nearby portion of the high street.

Those shops are all closed.  None of the people they normally employ are working from home. The tattoo artists, barbers, second-hand dealers and betting shop assistants must all be among the 9m on "furlough".  But the government can't pay them for staying home for much longer.

The furlough scheme is due to end in October.  By then I suspect most of those shops will still be closed – how do you maintain social distancing in a massage or tattoo parlour?

On the other hand, the Co-op grocery store on our block is doing well.  It is certainly on message.  Co-op has stretched the definition of heroism further, to include not only those who risk their lives to save others but also those who don't put other people's lives at risk.

Carine is back by 16:30.  The protest passed off peacefully.  She doesn’t seem fired up, and only stayed a couple of hours.  At least it got her out of the house.    

[lockdownjournal]

Day 75

Saturday 6 June

After completing the transfer of boxes from the hallway to the basement cage, Carine and I make for the commercial zone about a mile away.

As is often the case just after a move, we find we require a variety of needful things: an over-door hanger, a TV cable, rubbish bags...  To familiarise ourselves with the area we choose to go there on foot.  The 25-minute walk through rows of terraced houses and a housing estate is, shall we say, interesting.

It is a huge expanse where all the big retailers are represented: M&S, Next, Halfords, New Look, B&Q...  For food, we have the choice between Asda, Sainsburys, Aldi, Lidl, and probably others. Like trees in a jungle, the stores rising from the fertile group try to outdo each other in size.  The Primark is particularly impressive.

Many of those outlets are still closed, which adds to the sense of pointless gigantism.  We find some of our requisites, and buy food for diner.

The lines of customers outside the shops are not very long. I wonder if that might change as shopping reopens in the coming weeks, and how long the general tolerance for queuing will last.

Retracing our steps, we pay close attention to the socio-economic gradient scaled from one area to the next.  In the housing estate rag-and-bone men sift through piles of junk: Carine determines that these are for the poorest of the poor.

There is no contempt in her voice: some of her grammar-school friends live in such places; she knows that many residents are transients who will find something better.

The terraced houses are for the upper working class.  Some particularly neat ones suggest middle-class encroachment.  Our apartment block, I have to admit, is for the comfortably-off.  Unlike the leafy suburb we've left, this area reminds you of your privilege and how much you owe that position to chance.

Back at the flat we find neither of the over-door hangers Carine bought at Home Depot (or was it Home Bargains?) fits our doors.  We’ll have to return them.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 74

Friday 5 June

We make great progress on unpacking.  But the corridors and bedrooms are still piled with stuff that needs to be stored in the basement cage that we cannot access.  I email Nigel-the-super and his management company to say we need that unit NOW.

I also mention a variety of niggles that need to be fixed – such as extractor fans that don't work and doors that don't close.

The other main issue is the broadband.  I call BT several times.  They don't know why the courier has not delivered the router.  One helpline advisor sends me a free voucher for BT's Wi-Fi hotspots: a nice thought, but as the nearest hotspot is 1km away it's no use.

I also pester Parcelforce.  I've decided that it's a matter of life and death after all: if we don't get the internet today, we'll be cut from the rest of the world through the weekend.  And what will I do on Monday, when I'm supposed to work from home?

The Parceforce assistant says a redelivery will be attempted at some point today.  I ask when but she can't be specific.  In the end, in between emptying boxes, I resort to going to the balcony and watching out for red Parcelforce vans.

During the course of the afternoon, I spot two of those vans from our sixth floor: I run down on both occasions, but by the time I get to the concierge office they're gone.  No parcel has been left.

The second time, though, I chance on a breakthrough on the storage front.  A locksmith has just arrived, rotary cutter in hand, to open our storage cage.  I tag along as the concierge takes him to the basement.  The lock is destroyed in a hail of sparks within seconds and I get a replacement one.

Carine and I can at last take things down while Anthea continues to put things away.  By the end of the day, most of our corridor is clear of boxes.

In the excitement I've forgotten about our internet problem.   But it is resolved when a courier buzzes from downstairs.  The package he brings includes a router and sundry pieces of related equipment.  I find it all very baffling but Carine doesn’t.  She gets the broadband up and running in minutes.

The lesson I draw from our installation so far is that the post-covid order is both ruthlessly efficient and painfully slow.  Everything is run on a shoestring, without any built-in redundancy.  With resources and labour scarce, if something can wait, it will.

Some may find it a better, less wasteful system than the on-demand system we've become accustomed to.  Things work - eventually.  I suppose our spare keys, the extractor fan and the non-closing doors will be sorted at some point.  But it's a frustrating world in which, if you try, sometimes you just might find that you get what you need.

In the evening we have our first home-cooked meal. The sunset is beautiful.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 73

Thursday 4 June

We slept on mattresses and used cardboard boxes to cover the windows.  The place is a bombsite.  Now the hard work begins.

The main challenge is parking the books.  Despite a cull in recent months we still have well over 1,000.  But to put away the books we need to free up space, and to do that we need to access our storage cage.

I go down and try to collar Nigel the manager.  He's looking even more harassed than yesterday. There's been a leak in part of the building.  Dozens of flats are flooded and he's got only a temp concierge to fix it.  He's trying to call a plumber.  Even on his "last-come-first-served" modus operandi, I can't get to him.

Another challenge is getting online.  We have account details to change, appliances to register, local authorities to notify, etc.  We've arranged for BT to send us a router today but they send me a text saying they tried to deliver but there was no one.

I'm not sure what happened.  The temp concierge may have been running around trying to fix the leak when the courier turned up – but then why didn't anyone call me?  I try to phone BT but don't get anywhere.

Next I try the courier company, Parcelforce, but the message I get is not helpful either: "Due to the current emergency, the helpline is only open to if it's a matter of life and death.  If not please hang up.  Thank you and stay safe."

Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, we manage to empty half the boxes.  The corridor is wide enough to use as temporary storage.  We put up a bed, as well as shelves to stack books onto.  In the end, we turn a bombsite into a mere mess.

We also manage to use the kitchen/living room to cook and consume microwave dinners.  We feel a sense of achievement.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 72

Wednesday 3 June

Moving day starts with one last trip to the "reuse and recycling centre".  As was the case last week, my carful of discards ends up in the "non-recyclable" skip.  I wonder if that's not what happens anyway.

Maybe the only difference Covid makes is that we don't have the luxury of ceremonial sorting – the appointment system makes speeds a priority, and distancing rules makes to-ing and fro-ing between the bins impossible.

Going to the dump has been reduced to a lean-and-mean operation: the same result without ritual or pretence.

From 09:00 the removers load our belongings into a truck while we clean up.

The double move – our buyers into the house and ours into the apartment – is tightly choreographed.   Each step is given the go-ahead by solicitors once the money has been transferred.  At 10:00 we are told that our house is sold.  But we won't vacate until 13:00, when the removers are ready to go, and we hope our apartment has been bought.

The buyers' removal truck shows up way too early.  It parks across the street for two hours, as if to say: when will you guys clear off?

Our removers are done by 12:45 and drive away.  There is an awkward moment few minutes later when, after a final inspection, Carine finds six boxes we'd forgotten about in a closet.  We phone the removers: they come back without demur; we all leave for good at 12:59.

There is another awkward moment when we're technically homeless. But as we're driving the solicitor calls to confirm that our purchase has gone through and the apartment is ours.

We're there in 30 minutes. We are handed the keys by Nigel, the "estate manager" – I suppose in America we would call him a "super", except that he's looking after a complex of 500 flats.  

He explains that the lockdown has meant they operate on skeleton staff.  They normally have two in-house concierges: now they have one temp.  I suppose it’s difficult maintain such a big estate while working from home.

He tells us that we won't have access to our basement storage cage until tomorrow. The key to the lock is missing, for some reason: a locksmith will come to break it and provide a new one.

He also explains about a system of fobs that give access to various parts of the building. Nigel looks harassed.  It occurs to me that he works on a “last-come-first-serve” basis.  He was in the middle of something else when we showed up.

But he’s managed to impart useful information before another emergency claims him.  We have our keys - only one set, though.  We’re supposed to get three: it will be sorted tomorrow, along with the storage cage.  

It takes five hours for the three removers to empty their truck and pile all our stuff into the apartment.  I give them beer afterwards.  Carine orders two gigantic pizzas for dinner.

The tradesman who was refused access on Monday comes round after dinner to measure our windows.  We give him a piece of pizza: that's the least we can do as he doesn't leave until 21:00.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 71

Tuesday 2 June

This is our last day in what that has been our home for two decades.  The removers come to box the kitchen stuff; we finish packing all the rest.

We also complete the administrative formalities of moving home.  Most of it can be done online, but some utilities and insurers require phoning.  Anthea and I spend hours stuck in mazes of automated menus.

One of the great innovations of the 21st century – the 24-hour call centre and its army of friendly, underpaid voices – has been turned back.  And when I do get through, the tense exchanges remind me of telephone interactions with bureaucrats circa 1978.

For instance: I call our landline/broadband provider to stop the service, the woman tells me they needed a month's notice so it won't be switched off until 2 July.

"When I phoned last month I was told to cancel nearer the time," I object.  "No one mentioned giving notice!" "The terms of service you signed did.  It also mentions a £38 early termination fee." "So the landline will be on for another month after we move out!"

"Yes." "What happens if the new owners use it and rack up bills?"

The answer, in effect, was: not our problem.

The woman from the building management company, on the other hand, is helpful: she assures me that when we get there tomorrow, someone will be able to give us the key.  That's reassuring.  I don't what we would do if they refused to let us in.

We're dead tired when we go to bed.  Then Carine comes into our room crying.  She's suddenly very emotional.  For us this is another upheaval, but for her it's the end of a world.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 70

Monday 1 June

Morning: we continue packing.  Afternoon: I go to work.  As there are no trains today I take a minicab, for which my employer is kindly paying.  London traffic has increased to the level of a quiet weekend.

It's another busy news day, with the protests spread across America and Trump saying it is a plot by antifa terrorists. 

On a wander during my break, I note another sign of corporate virtue: London's bike-sharing company has made its electric bicycles available to "key workers" for free.

The man who's selling us Venetian blinds was due to take measurements at the apartments today.  But Anthea calls me at work to tell me that it didn't work: although the company that manages the building had been notified and allowed the tradesman access, the concierge could not find the keys.

Anthea phones me to apprise me of this mishap. She's found out that the management company is operating on minimal staff, and the concierge was a temporary worker.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 69

Sunday 31 May

We pack our lives into boxes, big and small.  We throw some of it away – too much for my taste, too little for Anthea's. 

As far as Gamma is concerned, none of this activity bodes well.  He has his tail right down and does not eat.  We walk him in the woods, for probably the last time. 

Carine's boyfriend Jon comes to help us pack.  By late afternoon, every room in the house is full of boxes. 

It looks as though we might be ready to move by Wednesday. We relax by having farewell drinks with our neighbours Arkin and Tamara in their garden.

We tell them about the hassle of selling and buying property during the lockdown. They tell us about the ordeal of applying for British residency.  If they don't pass the test next week they will be kicked out when Arkin's short-term contract runs out in October. 

Jon stays for dinner and leaves around 21:00.  We are all tired.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 68

Saturday 30 May

For our household - never mind a locked down household - we get an inordinate number of visitors today.

The first to show up are a father-and-son team of removers. They've come to deliver packing material and to take away large items we no longer need.

The pair destroys our bed base to carry it easily down our narrow staircase.  God know how it ever got up there.  Our mattress will rest on the floor for the next few weeks.

The removers are clearly not worried about covid-19: no face mask, no gloves; they gratefully grab two glasses of cold water we give them.

Our next guests are three of Carine's friends (the same trio she met in the park last week.)   They turn up after lunch, and start with the best social-distancing intentions: they access the back garden through the side gate, and sit well away from each other.

The gathering is quite legal, but in two days’ time it will be (6 people will be able to meet outside, provided they stick with social distancing).  So it can be seen as a minor infraction.

But as libations escalate, caution is relaxed.  Glasses change hands, food is served.  The girls ask if they can use the toilet.  With the amount of rosé they drink, it would be cruel to refuse. There's a continuous procession in and out of the WC through the afternoon.

When the wine runs out, the girls repair to the shop as a group to buy something stronger.  They're not bad kids, just English teenagers.  What concerns me most is the noise.  Their music gets louder and louder; they shriek and sing.

I have to play spoilsport and ask them to pipe down several times.  I'm thinking about the neighbours - or rather about what the neighbours will think about us.

Around 16:00 – before the bacchanalia was in full swing, thankfully – our buyers come around.  They've got questions about the equipment, the utilities, the recycling, the neighbours, etc. We have coffee and a chat in the garden, well away from the adolescents.

The couple's three-year-old daughter is delighted with the playhouse.  We give the family another tour of the house.  They parents are very happy too.

When they leave, after half an hour, Anthea and I resume our packing while our garden party moves through the gears.  By the end of the afternoon the girls are plastered. The boyfriend of one of them joins them for an hour - no social distancing between those two.

The merrymaking ends around 19:00. I calculate that 12 people have been in the house at one point or other during the day (two families of three, two removers, four adolescent guests). 

A study by the Office of National Statistics published this week says that 7% of the British population had been infected by coronavirus.  So in a random sample of 12, there's a 90% chance that one has had it.

As the infection almost certainly happened a while back, that's good news: one small step towards herd immunity.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 67

Friday 29 May

I'm working very early, but waking up at 05:00 is not a problem. I've had plenty of practice in the preceding few hours.

A busy morning at work keeps my mind off the real estate business.  There is a lot of news, and none of it is about coronavirus.

Rioting is spreading across the US over the killing of an African-American man in Minneapolis; a black CNN reporter covering the event is arrested live on air; Trump adds fuel to the fire by threatening to shoot the looters, and in the process escalates his fight with Twitter.

As our team relates those events, I occasionally glance at my watch wondering when I might get a call or an email about the exchange of contracts.  I decide the time to worry will be early afternoon.

At 10:00 Anthea calls me at work: our internet has gone down. I take a break from the news to try to contact our provider.  Of course no one picks up.  Eventually I realise that the outage is making the national news: 30,000 reports from TalkTalk customers have been logged across the UK.  

The connections are soon restored, but this does not help calm nerves.  During my lunchtime break I take a walk.  Hero worship is in full swing. Empty Oxford Street is bedecked with tributes to medics.

Boots, Britain's main drugstore chain, is thanking "key workers" and has launched a social media campaign to express its gratitude (#prescribekindness).

O2, a phone provider, says it will serve the heroes of the hour ahead of anyone else entering its stores. 

But as the stores are all closed, the practical significance of this proclamation is unclear.

Wherever you turn the NHS is being thanked.  On every bus stop the NHS is being thanked – by itself.

I'm back at my desk by early afternoon. It's time to worry - until Carine calls me to say the contracts have been exchanged.  We can now breathe a sigh of relief: the move will happen, and it will happen next week.

I return home by public transport.  The underground is getting positively busy: at 16:00 there are at least 10 other people in the underground carriage.  I haven't seen such a crowd for weeks.  People are passing me on the escalators even though they're not supposed to.  Pretty soon I do the same.

I get home by 17:00, time to celebrate.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 66

Thursday 28 May

For better or worse, we're moving.  The agony of decision has been lifted.  Hopefully the agony of waiting will soon be over too.

This is supposed to be the day when contracts are exchanged: then, and only then, are buyers and sellers committed. That's the way property transactions work in England: nothing is done until everything is done and that time is upon us.

The lawyers involved have everyone's signatures, down-payments and bank account details.  The chains of deals will be sealed at the click of a mouse.

But a wee problem arises.  Our solicitor calls: she needs the title deeds for the apartment before she can go ahead with the click.  She contacted the Land Registry yesterday and is still waiting.

In other words it's only just occurred to her to check that the developers are the rightful owners and that the property is theirs to sell.

"How long is it going to take to get the title deeds?" "We usually receive them within 48 hours.  We should be ready to exchange tomorrow."

That woman does not inspire confidence.  We're left to wonder what else she's forgotten.

All the parties have paid large bills, taken leave from work and lined up removal teams for next Wednesday.  But our construction seems as robust as a Mikado assemblage, and we're dependent on the clumsiest player to put down the last stick.

All we can do is wait.  Anthea and I go to the woods for another walk of the paths not taken.  We do our best to keep calm but do not sleep well that night.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 65

Wednesday 27 May

They say the stress of moving is on a par with that of bereavement or divorce.  Moving during coronavirus feels like all three.

We're panicking about the cladding.  The response from the developers makes clear they expect us to pick up the tab for any work.  And we know there's a potential problem because a fire-safety firm has been hired to carry out an inspection. We just don’t know how bad it is. 

So we need to make a decision now: either pull out while we still can, or venture into the unknown.  What are the chances that the cladding will need replacing?   How much is it likely to cost?

At 05:00, I'm woken by bad dreams, like Gregor Samsa. I find myself scanning the internet and reading horror stories about people whose high-rise apartments have become worthless because of cladding issues.

I spend the morning trying to call anyone I can think of who could shed light on the risk we're taking: the local authority, the company carrying out the report on the cladding, our solicitor, the local fire safety department, an association for cladding-afflicted residents, the building's managing agent, and more...

With half the workforce idle because of the lockdown, I don't get to talk to many people.  And those who are available can't tell us much.  Least helpful of all, perhaps, is our solicitor.  When we try to confirm with her that the developer's answer means what we think it means, she does not seem to remember what it said.

In the end, none the wiser about the risks, more out of exhaustion than calculation, we take the leap.  If we don't move now we never will.  We don't want to go through this again.

Once the decision is made we act quickly.  The papers are signed, the signatures witnessed by the neighbour, and the lot posted to the solicitor.

All that's left for her to do is collect similar documents from the developer and the people buying our home and exchange binding contracts.  That should be done tomorrow.

I notify my editor Andrew – my voicemail and email – that I won't be coming in next Wednesday because we'll be moving house. And is there any chance I could also skip Monday and/or Tuesday?   Next week's rota will have to be reworked.  Not only am I stressed, but I'm spreading my stress wide.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 64

Tuesday 26 May

While we wait for the solicitor to come back to us, we continue to prepare for the move.  There's a lot to do and, with any luck, not much time.  I spend most of the morning helping Carine sand the bed frame, which is next on her painting list.

 By lunchtime we still haven't heard from the solicitor, so we leave a message on her voicemail.  Then we have an appointment to choose blinds for the new apartment.

The man at the shop – which has just reopened - proves even more helpful than anticipated.  The question of blind is important for someone who does the occasional night shift. It's also a notoriously complex one. There is bewildering number of systems, and considerations of cost, simplicity and transluscence must be weighed. The man helps find the right one.

It will take several weeks to be made, which prompts the question: how do we cover windows we do in the meantime?  Anthea and I have a dozen moves between us but can't remember facing this problem.

"What people do is turn the removal boxes into cardboard sheets and use them as screens," the guy says.  Genius.

This question settled, we drive home and collect the dog who needs his daily walk.  Carine stays behind.  Our stroll through the English countryside at its lushest provides a pleasant interlude. When we return we find our daughter painting the bed frame in the garden.

When we return the solicitor finally calls.  We press her on our obsession: if there's a problem with the cladding on the building, who will pay for repairs?   She's still waiting to hear from the developer on this and other questions we have raised.

This worries us.  Are we still on track to sign by the end of the week and move in eight days' time? She's vague, like someone who's got too many things on her mind.

Later in the evening we receive another communication from her, passing on some replies to our queries from the developer.  It's a copy-and-paste job.

But amid all the raw, unprocessed information, one sentence stands out: "Usually any works on the cladding would be divided between the lessees as per their service charge share." That means us.

[lockdownjournal]

Day 63

Monday 25 May

I wake up feeling wretched from the paint fumes. Sumatriptan works for a bit.  The property business, on the other hand, does nothing to alleviate the headache.

We need to respond to the solicitor's bundle of documents, and impress on her a sense of urgency she hasn't shown so far.  If we're not ready to move by 3 June we may lose our restless buyer.  

Anthea and I write to the solicitor to say we want the developers to commit to pay for any work on the cladding.  Clearly we haven't been explicit enough on this issue.  Today is a public holiday: we hope she'll pick up her messages anyway.

I feel more and more rotten as the morning goes on - even after the painted table and its effluvia have been consigned to the garden shed.  Lying down for couple of hours over lunch helps.  So does a walk with the dog afterwards. 

We may not have many more wanders through these woods, so make a point of going down any unfamiliar path.  Although we've lived here 19 years, there's a surprising number of them.  It also helps with social distancing: we don't encounter many people.  It's the walk of the roads not taken.

As we looks up, for the firm time in many weeks we see several plane trails in the sky.

Late afternoon: we have arranged to visit our friends and neighbours Jim and Helen.  By now I feel fine and look forward to chatting and drinking Marlborough wine in their garden.

We've brought our own glasses, but as Helen keeps refilling mine this is purely virtue signalling on our part. We also have no problem going inside the house when Dominic Cummings gives his much anticipated news conference.  We all watch it together.

Cummings is unrepentant: he did nothing wrong by driving up north when the rest of the country was cooped up at home; he and his wife were sick and wanted to protect their child.

His account gives a human side to the story of the moment, but he clearly broke the rules.  I understand the outrage but don't share it.  We too have broken the rules in what we felt was an emergency.

And you might say: "Ah yes, but you're not a government minister.  You don't make rules for other people." This is true, and Cummings deserves all the flak he’s getting.

But then the double-standard argument being used against him and the government must be turned on its head: if there one set of rules for those in power and another for the rest of us, the former is the more stringent one. No ordinary person has lost their job for being out and about when they shouldn't be.

I want to hear about the effect of the lockdown on our hosts' professional lives.  Jim is not worried. He works for a company that employs 1,000 people: 30% are on furlough, including all the sales force.  But business is picking up, and Jim thinks the vast majority will be back at work; only 5% will be made redundant.  

As for Helen, she's going back to teaching infants with special needs on Monday.  She hasn't been told know to keep five-year-olds with learning disabilities occupied without plastic toys, play-dough or books.  "We'll just have to get on with it," she says.