You are my hope for a winter’s end. I do not care for the way we have been both separated and thrown together. I would like a choice in the matter.
It is a matter of time before I am complaining about long lines at the bar, in the airport, on the tube, before I am paralysed by choice. I haven’t been sick but
The cherry tree in my garden has grown a weeping cavity in the bark of its trunk. Long before the flowers grow, it will die, and then someone will have to chop down the cherry tree, or lie about it, or both.
90% of what I plant in London soil dies. That seems to be a fact of life, but
Can I draw your attention to these twelve daffodils with nodding heads and yellow crowns? They are testament to something delicious in the dirt.
Come summer we will all be deliciously dirty. We will picnic in the park and raise cans to the stars, there will be no end to the blue skies:
Inject this feeling into my veins. Or, better
I will tattoo Pfizer on my forehead for a fiver, less. I will drink a Moderna martini with three grass-green olives.
If the antidote to apathy is hope, then Covid-19 is me, slumped on a couch with unwashed hair and a lead heart, and the vaccine will sweetly kill me.