Fewer than Six Degrees

It's raining and I finally get round to doing some DIY. It's going well, but I then realise I need narrow wooden beading to hide a join.  Just time before supper to pop into the Brico store in town and get the job finished.

The man in the queue in front of me looks familiar.  He thinks he knows me as well and we exchange "Bonjours".  As he chats to the cashier I finally recognise him - Monsieur P.  We bought our Godin wood burning stove from him years back when he still had a small treasure-trove of a hardware shop in the town centre.  At the time he gave us a wrong estimate for the installation.  He'd undercharged us but refused to accept any more money.  In France a signed estimate is a contract, so that was the price.

Having sorted that out, I begin to listen to their conversation (not always easy with the regional accent).  They are talking about Coronavirus - isn't everyone - when Monsieur P cheerfully informs the cashier that his son's family has just flown back from Venice and voluntarily are now in self-isolation for 14 days.

I'm grateful that all we did was exchange smiles and greetings from a distance. However he did touch the cashier's hand, and the cashier touched my cash card. I wash my hands thoroughly when I get home and discuss with Tod what to do.  It may seem unnecessary, but I've decided to avoid our photo club meetings for two weeks and no Alexander classes.

Better safe than sorry - and my proximity to someone who has Coronavirus feels uncomfortably a lot less than six degrees of separation.

In the meantime, I'll do more DIY and some gardening.  Friends are offering to leave food parcels at the gate.