Dear Diary

If Samuel Pepys were alive today…


Samuel Pepys

February 1st: Up, and to the television, for news of the new Coronavirus plague. The Minister did tell us that we should wash our hands. I was troubled at the notion that people had not been doing so anyway.

February 4th: To the Orchard Inn, my local hostelry. I fell into conversation with the landlord, who did tell me that sales of Corona beer have fallen since the outbreak. Most curious, since people do still eat Spam, which causes one’s mind to fill with advertisements for fake Viagra.

February 13th: The name of the affliction hath been changed to Covid-19, because it is perceived to sound less horrid. Methinks they should change the name of the particles themselves to Angel’s Breath.

March 2nd: Officials this day did warn us of false advice upon the internet. I was not well in agreement with their argument, finding instead much common sense in the advisements arrayed upon that most respected source of information. By way of instance, eating only garlic will undoubtedly assist in avoiding close contact or kissing, whilst gargling with bleach will assuredly preclude perishing from Coronavirus, in the same way as would shooting oneself in the head.

March 7th: Up, and to the Ireland versus Italy rugby contest, to find that it had been cancelled. Though this vexed me, I am aware that the officials do forbid close contact, and I assume that a rugby maul is as close as one can get. So to the pubs of Temple Bar instead, where I am disabused of this assumption, as they are filled with disappointed supporters from both nations, in conditions far more cramped than a rugby maul.

March 9th: Up, and to Tesco, to find all supplies of toilet roll exhausted. I home instead with the Daily Mail.

March 10th: The Health Minister did give order that all St Patrick’s Day parades are to be cancelled. Since these are held in the open air the risk is not apparent to me. Cheltenham will go ahead today, though, because that is where the money is, and because nothing is more conducive to rude health than to stand in the rain, walk in manure and occasionally slap a horse’s rump with one’s bare hand.


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