Maybe it is a form a dizziness, or something comparable to the “white wipe-out” in the Antarctic when the blizzard blurs everything, whereby the sky becomes the earth in such perfection that the odd wanderer gets lost (as everyone knows, a lawyer is fully qualified to quote Antarctic events;  we all go there every week, between Court sessions, don’t we?).  Anyway, whatever it is, it ends up just the same: with the lockdown, one loses the sense of days. Is it already Day #9?! Really?! It can’t be… Perhaps the unfortunate souls living in a small flat feel the opposite, bemoaning as they read this, feeling like it’s Day #894, and they can’t stand the bloody thing anymore. I don’t know.

What is certain is that keeping a diary under “Covid-19 law” is much less fun than what Samuel Pepys experienced in his day, although I wouldn’t want to risk a comparison too far on the matter. After all, he suffered the Great Plague of London, the Second Dutch War, and the Great Fire of London. It’s anything but nip and tuck with what we are going through at the moment. Granted, he could visit taverns, brothels, theatres, and socialize like mad. And he did cheer down the pub with mates more often than not. We can’t. But I’d rather stay cooped up another few weeks than rub my shoulders against the Great Pleague or fight a war against the Dutch (I love the Dutch!), never mind London (or Paris) being reduced to ashes.

And days fly by… By now, the firm’s landline isn’t ringing much anymore. Phone calls have died out gradually. After the frenzy of the first few days, things are quiet. Maybe parents have locked their kids away and spouses have accepted their fate, ie being stuck with “the other one”. Maybe… But I doubt it. A crust of daytime boredom and resignation has built up, sure enough, but down beneath, boiling acid is simmering. Right now, medics and paramedics are doing a tremendous job to help the ill-fated against this evil-like bug. But once all this is over, the pressure-cooker will spill out all it’s long constricted bile, and it won’t be nice.

I have read that divorces soar in China and that spouses seek proper counselling in the UK and Ireland. There’s no element of surprise here. Every family lawyer knows that after the summer break, or the Christmas holidays, a surge in divorces and separations happens, it plummets about a fortnight later. We laugh about it professionally, just as doctors along the Atlantic coast expect their share of extra-work when, in summer, mobs of Germans and Dutch (what, again ?!) take to the golden sandy beaches of Gironde or the Landes, firmly believing they all swim like Ian Thorpe (except they’re more like the sunken ship than the torpedo..).  In fairness, they do not know what a “baïne” is (neither do the Brits, but at least, most Brits prefer to roast inland, rather than on the coast, so they are less at risk). You don’t know either what a “baïne” is? Well, drop a line to say so, and I’ll explain it when we reach day #125 of our confinement…

But I don’t want to think of a surge in divorces. I want to think of the “baïne” festooned coast which is only miles from where I am… I want to think about the coming of summer, and the tingling of glasses during evening parties in a mild sunset… I want to think of Spanish thunderstorms leaping over the Pyrenees on a hot summer’s night. I want to think, too, of fresh air lifting the daisies on the slopes of Skiddaw, of Luccini’s icecreams on Cinderdale Common, where the 99 Flake has no rival (was that 40 years ago already? Never mind, the memory is so sweet…).  

I want… I want, but I can’t. A bug decides it all. So far, so good. That’s the essential of life, isn’t? I think of that family, in the UK, whose daughter passed away aged 21, with no underlying conditions, just because of that bug. How do you survive that as a parent?

So far so good. That’s about it.

The “baïne” can wait.

Jerome CASEY, © 2020, all right reserved.

News

22/04/2020

14/04/2020

08/04/2020