Vita would have us in lock down in the kitchen ...

...   All of us.  All the time. Where she can keep an eye on her pack and the food at the same time.

She's quick to pick up on our moods and we are probably both saying "I'm fine" but really walking round with an undercurrent of anxiety.  It makes her restless. She wants to be with both of us at the same time and even Bertie is looked for.  So one of us elsewhere in the garden isn't good enough - her sight and hearing these days not helping much in her search for us.  She resorts to solitary "woofs" in the hope that we will come to find her.

A quick trip into town yesterday lunchtime for a food top-up meant that, despite the warm sunny day, I was wearing gloves.  A woman leaving the shop, likewise attired, smiles at me.  We exchange conspiratorial glances. There are two new clubs in town: those who wear gloves (who obviously feel superior) and those who do not.

The car park is virtually empty - cars parked away from each other as if distancing extends to the vehicles themselves. Inside, staff are wearing masks and a perspex screen has been installed in front of the self-service help desk.  The baskets are being wiped down between use, but I prefer to stick with my own bags.  The few customers wandering round remind me of our early days here, twelve years ago, when the French still largely viewed the two hours from midday as a time for lunch. There is no panic buying any more and even pasta is coming back onto the shelves.

I duck and dive around the shelving, avoiding the other shoppers as much as possible, until I approach the organic section (the pre-packaged rye bread in my sights) when an elderly gentleman with a trolley appears from a parallel aisle with, it seems, the same intent. Seeing me, he politely backs away and disappears. I take my bread - two packs - and turn to come face to face with him again, coming from the opposite direction.  We smile, give each other room and go on our separate ways.

It occurs to me we are playing "Ring a Ring of Roses" with each other and then regret the thought, as I associate the rhyme with the Black Death - though Wikipedia tells me not.  Whatever its origins, our modern day "Pockets full of posies" are gloves, masks and a thorough washing of hands.