April 19

On the day Lockdown was extended for another three weeks (at least), crowds of people left their homes and crammed together, barely inches from one another, let alone feet, on Westminster Bridge, to clap for the carers – many of whom will shortly be looking after them when they end up in hospital. I discover I’m becoming judgemental and dogmatic as the lockdown goes on, pronouncing on the actions of people about whom I know absolutely nothing and laying down the law to the government as to how they should be handling this crisis, by shouting at the radio and television.

My husband gave me a most beautiful anniversary present. It was our Crystal anniversary and he found this wonderful piece of Apophyllite, Stilbite and Chalcedony.

Apophylitte is supposed to “help develop faith and trust in the Divine”, Stilbite “emanates unceasing joy”, as well as helping one make the right choices and sleep better. Chalcedony absorbs negative energy and promotes harmony and clarity – so it looks as though I’m well- equipped to get through the next period of Lockdown. I’m particularly keen on the Stillbite. We could all do with some unceasing joy.

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London’s Mayor, Saddiq Khan, has said he wants everyone in London to wear face masks when we are finally allowed out of Lockdown. Trouble is, there’s too much choice. Do we buy the flimsy white papery ones? But shouldn’t they be three-ply, or is it 2-ply? Oughtn’t they to have a valve? And, if they do have a valve, what’s it for and do we have to change a filter? Or should we go for one of the sinister, black, gas-mask variety that make people look like Darth Vader? And is it true that they’re only useful if you’ve got it? Or is it true that it might protect you if you haven’t, but only a bit? Who knows? The only absolute certainty is that, by the time we have to have them, there won’t be any.

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After much angst, we decide to risk a takeaway meal. That momentous descision having been made, brings an avalanche of others in its wake. “Deliveroo”?, or not to “Deliveroo”? Or should it be the new ‘Supper’, which boasts only the most prestigious restaurants on its list? ‘Deliveroo’, we reason, has been doing it longest, so is the most experienced, which might make it safer. On the other hand, its bags have also been around longer so might be less hygienic. But ‘Supper’ is so new, maybe it doesn’t yet know what precautions to take. On the other hand, its bags are newer and it seems to send its drivers out in little cars, which might be more hygienic than “Deliveroo’s” motor cycle gear. Back and forth we go before eventually deciding, after much rational argument and employment of the finest logical deductions, on “Supper” – Smarter logo probably swayed it.

We order a divine feast at one of our favourite restaurants featuring Rotabaki Cuisine. I’ve never really known what that is, only that its flavours are ones I can never hope to reproduce in my own kitchen. We select about ten little dishes of exquisitely spiced delicacies.

Given that it’s such a special occasion, we both put on actual clothes – that’s to say, ones that don’t have elastic round the waist – and set the table with new Lockdown chic.

The doorbell rings and mayhem breaks loose. We shout through the intercom for the delivery person to come up to the sixth floor and we wait, peering through the spy- hole to see when he arrives.We are still waiting when he rings the bell again, having gone back downstairs, unable to find us. He comes back up, we wait for him to leave, then open the door. Outside are two plastic carrier bags filled with innumerable cardboard cartons of food. First, I sanitise the bags, then each carton in turn, handing them to my husband, who can’t work out whether, at the moment of receiving them, he should be taking off his surgical gloves or keeping them on, so stands, paralysed, by the door. We take the many sanitised boxes into the kitchen, where I re-sanitise them as I can’t remember which ones he carried and whether he had his gloves on or off. Finally, we plate up our dinner, look appreciatively at the first meal we haven’t cooked for four weeks, raise a glass to each other and begin on the divine, celebratory, and very expensive feast.

The food is, of course, by this time, cold.