November 8

Well, I can never say outings with “The Writer” aren’t exciting. Today, we walk towards the cenotaph, hoping to see whatever curtailed Rememberance Day activity might be visible around it. In the event, we are met by a line of police blocking entry to Whitehall, backed up by several armed units, rifles at the ready.

We acknowledge ourselves beaten (unlike someon I could mention today) and opt for our usual park walk instead. Now you might think that was enough excitement for one Lockdown morning but I have to tell you, the real drama hadn’t even begun.

It was on our way home, nearing our apartment, that we embarked on a fairly regular homecoming conversation that goes something like this.

Me : “Salad for lunch, then?”

The Writer ” Yes, that’s what we planned this morning. Why, is there something else you’d rather have?”

Me: (vaguely) “No”

The Writer: “Are you sure?”

Me: (faintly) “Yes. Why, is there something you’d rather have”

The Writer: “Not really”

then after a pause

” There is the salt beef place”

Me: “Mmm”

The Writer “We could have a salt beef sandwich?”

Me: “Mmm”

The Writer: “Salt beef now and salad for supper?”

By this time we have drawn level with the salt beef bar and slowed, nonchalantly, to an amble, as though by accident. The writer stoops to re-tie his shoelace, then stands and we both happen to glance inside at the succulent beef, lined with ribbons of ivory fat, sitting in its tray.

Time passes…………

Both: “Go on then, let’s have a salt beef sandwich now and salad for supper”

The writer dives into the salt beef bar, then dives straight out again.

“One of them’s not wearing a mask”

“Oh”, I say, “Does that mean we’re not having the sandwich then?”

I witness a struggle of Biblical proportions going on behind the writer’s eyes until he turns on his heel and strides back into the shop.

Peering through the window I see him waving his arms about vigorously in the direction of an alarmed-looking shop assistant. The other assistants adopt the sort of firm stance – feet planted wide apart and arms crossed in front of them – that tells me they are not going to be messed with by an old, masked, man, who, for all they know, might be about to rob the till.

After what seems like an hour, I see the unmasked girl gingerly move her mask from its fetching position under her chin to its more useful one over her face and “The Writer” emerges, triumphant, with his carrier bag of sandwiches.

As we sit at the kitchen table enjoying the delectable salt beef, a little cold after we have disinfected the door handle, then the door keys, then the carrier bag, then the greaseproof wrapping around the sandwiches, then our ‘phones and spectacles and, lastly, our hands, “The Writer” pauses his chewing and grows pensive.

“Do you think I’ve caught it from staying so long in there persuading her to put her mask on?”.