March 2020. A difficult month to write about. A month when, for a few mad days, I’d walk around pubs like this;
Actually, that pic is just to prove that despite having lived in the Fens for 45 years and only just escaping, I only have four fingers and a thumb.
March actually started as well as any month in retiredmartin history, with successful ticking raids into the Lakes, Galloway and Worcestershire.
I managed a rare City away game with James at Hillsborough,
and I finally gave Gloucester Cathedral the time and reverence it deserves.
But as I arrived in Worcester on the 15th, a week before pubs closed, life looked very different.
And then Lockdown happened and I was quoting Camus on the blog.
Within a week it was this or nothing;
And this was Tesco that week,
and the nation had fallen into a dystopian nightmare.
To be honest, that’s Wilburton. It always looks like that.
The isolation isn’t the worst thing. It’s Mrs RM continually asking;
“Are you going mad ?”
“I bet you’re not. I bet you’re going mad” etc etc.
I wasn’t, but it was a bit SCARY.
But I actually enjoyed some aspects of March. The (lack of) sound, the smells, the colours.
And I got to explore some of those bits of the Fens that folk who don’t have to live there rave about.
Oh, who am I kidding. It’s dreadful.
I spent hours catching up on Netflix, mainly this;
And at least there was music.
Maria McKee’s astonishing album, previewed late in 2019, finally appeared,
and prompted my post on melancholia that at one stage threatened to be my most-read of the year. And probably would have been, had pubs not returned. But not for a while.