Decades in a week.

6:08 am. Amorous cats are doing amorous things on the balcony. Sophie is infuriated. She emits her concrete shredding howl. Angus gets up. Sophie makes it quite clear ( the enormity of the situation is evident in her eyes ) that something must be done.The door is opened, Sophie hurtles off, shriek laden mayhem ensues. The amorous cats are long gone by the time the family diva makes it up the outside stairs to the balcony.  She is rated 0/10 for stealth.

We watch a dozen wrens flitting backwards and forwards across the village pond. They're building their nests in the bushes that grow on the far bank. How tiny but resolute they are. Their diligence makes me happy.  On our way home Sophie stops for a long, and somewhat precarious, drink from a drainage ditch.

The bayonet clip light bulbs are made in China. No shipments to the supermarket in a month. That's why they're suddenly impossible to get hold of.  This morning another sign of the times - the handwash has sold out. On the way back home in the car we hear the first public health advisory on the radio . It suggests that people don't shake hands or kiss strangers. Good luck with that. The French shake hands much more frequently than Anglos Saxons. The same goes - but more so - for kissing.  All gatherings of more than 5,000 have been prohibited. Presumably this is to prepare the populace for the imposition of further restrictions next week.

I tell Sophie that sometimes you live through decades when nothing happens and then you live through weeks that upend decades. She looks at me knowingly but is clearly much more interested in going to the cafe for a morning croissant.