June 18

It is a cold, brittle day.  As I drive into town, the streets are deserted except for a rather half-hearted petrol queue.

I go to pick up some money from World Remit.  Already the queue is long, despite the early hour and the cold.  I am worried I will get to the top of the queue and be told the money has run out. The lady in front of me tells me that the coronavirus is a terrible thing.  A man asks the security guard on the door if he can withdraw money using his Visa card and is told that he has to write a letter, explaining why he wants to withdraw money and what he's going to spend it on.

Thankfully, I am able to collect the money that has been sent to me.  As I leave, I think a man in the queue says something to me, but he is singing along to the lyrics of a song playing on the radio. I go and fetch my trousers from the tailor's.  She asks me if I tried to come into town on Tuesday when the army was sending everyone home. She tells me how everyone except civil servants was turned away.  Doctors and nurses were allowed to go to work, but sick people weren't allowed to go to hospital.

It's Thursday so it's out mammoth washing day - or night, I should say, as the municipal water only comes back on at 5pm and will be off by about seven tomorrow. The young man in our cottage does not bring his laundry up and is still out by the time we go to bed. I have sent him a few messages and John says it's his own fault if he doesn't get his washing done.  He has to learn to be responsible.