It starts tomorrow.
The R numbers. The hospital admissions. The cases. The predicted mortality. The need to save the NHS and to retain capacity for scans and essential healthcare that is not COVID related. The furlough scheme. Stay at home.
But this time the Premier League continues. I have work. Great. I could do with a month of duvet days. Rewriting essays days. Hiding like a hermit days.
Oh the misery of queues at supermarkets and panic buying.
Oh the misery.
Schools stay open. Universities too. Education, education, education.
Maybe the roads will be quieter again and that would improve my life a little.
Nicholas Cristakis says we won't be through the worst of masks and restrictions until 2022. He says 2024 will be like the swinging twenties, all sex and drugs and rock and roll. Those of us who make it through til then.
What can I say?
Oh, here's an irony or ironies. I watched our Prime Minister, a man for whom I claim little respect, and I felt encouraged by him. Cared for. The popular appeal worked on me. I liked him. I trusted him. What kind of fool am I?
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