There was a cool wash in the clear air this morning. It unmistakably hinted at approaching autumn weather – an anticipation of frost on the patio wooden railings, an azure dome above and a provocative stir among the leaves. Attired in my synthetic black jersey, T-shirt and shorts with the zippered side-pockets I sailed along the shaded promenade cheerfully thanking the young bearded landscape workers for their remarkable transformation of the pathway. Again and again I am reminded of the fortuity of being confined by the pandemic to the County of Lanark. Perhaps our international quarantine will be abandoned by next spring. For the time being there is no digestible proposal for change.
The pandemic has created a border about us that never existed. The daily repetition of cycling, writing, reading, eating and sleeping – while normally perfectly tolerable throughout the summer and leading up to the autumn – is becoming tarsome not because the ingredients have lost either their desirable appeal or purpose but because the enforced limitation of variety has become a challenge to daily diversion and future hope and anticipation. Everyone thrives on hope and anticipation. And butter tarts!