As astronauts from the International Space Station prepare to return to Earth, what a change they’ll see. Major cities that used to be cloaked in pollution now have pure atmospheres and empty highways. Wildlife that used to be killed and maimed by vehicles and pesticides is now flourishing, skies no longer criss-crossed by grey aviation plumes, oceans and rivers at long last refreshingly clear from man’s wanton destruction. Was our planet heading for certain destruction then, the only possible salvation an urgent intervention from above? And if so, how can man be prevented from returning to the same old ways again once this pandemic is finally over? We mourn those who have succumbed to the deadly virus and do our utmost to stay healthy by remaining at home. So many imponderables this Passover and Easter Sunday.
Life in lockdown. As we are both what the government calls vulnerable, we are in lockdown for the foreseeable future. First problem: how to get home delivery of foodstuffs. It took weeks to get registered as vulnerable with our local supermarket and then a further week to access delivery slots. But, the good news. The first delivery to our doorstep is scheduled for tomorrow night. I chose that slot because for some reason it had the cheapest charge. Even I can afford 50p. Meanwhile, life outside is eerily quiet except for the boy racer who even now roars and revs past our house on his souped-up motorbike. Don’t know where he lives as we’re never quick enough to catch sight of him. FB is crazy at present, full of self-opinionated people spouting self-righteous comments about all the other ‘stupid’ people they see. Truth is we’re all having to make judgements on how to keep to government guidelines, none of which is precise enough to accommodate each individual’s personal situation. If you’re not coughing, take a deep breath. These are crazy times, but this too will pass.
To lighten the gloom a little, here’s an exclusive extract from my current No. 1 best-seller (click on cover image above.) Hope you enjoy it:
“Rome, 1660
Rome was a pot-pourri of the centuries, tiny colourful fragments from the beginning of time heaped one fragrant layer upon another. It was old but so so beautiful, full of rainbow colour and elegance. There was no other way to describe it but a decayed sort of beauty.
The streets were narrow, the thoroughfares roughly hewn. And down the centre and along the sides, butting up sharply against the houses, ran open sewage channels where residents would tip their chamber pots every morning – and woe betide any unfortunate passer-by who happened to be walking below at that very moment.
At intervals along the street there were wooden posts strung out to separate the main carriage-way from the narrow space left for passing pedestrians. Each side of the street was an odd assortment of dwellings and shops, each leaning towards each other as if to embrace, their windows shuttered to keep out not just the heat but the dust and foul smells from the street below.
In a shop slap bang in the heart of the Rome commercial area, a young man was slowly dusting the shelves in a rhythmic, but dreamy fashion. His exertions caused a thick flick of black wavy hair to fall forward over his broad brow. In an unconscious gesture, he elegantly brushed back the wayward tendril to reveal clear olive skin.
After finishing the dusting, the boy whistled tunefully to himself as he willingly stacked yet another pile of spruce, willow and maple in the back storeroom, ready to be fashioned into beautiful musical instruments. Along the inner walls of the shop were already a small selection of guitars, violins, violas, cellos and a large harp resting in the corner.
The boy absolutely loved his work. He was yet only sixteen, but he could imagine no finer occupation in the whole world.
‘No, no, Antonio! Not like that!’ shouted Signor Amati, who had come down to Rome especially to supervise Antonio’s new venture. It was Signor Amati, or Nicolo as the boy called him, who had taught Antonio all he knew about making musical instruments. But it was always the violins which Antonio loved the best, a love which had blossomed ever since he first heard Signor Amati play.
Antonio’s dream was to set up in Nicolo’s home town of Cremona, but first he decided to move further south to Rome. ‘There are not enough rich people yet in Cremona. I want to make and sell violins, and where better than in the great city of Rome,’ he had cried to his mentor.
And Nicolo could only agree. The boy had ambition and undoubted skill, he had to admit. Never could he have imagined that someone so young could be so very talented. From the first time that Antonio had watched and then copied him as he fashioned the supple wood, it was clear that this was no ordinary boy.
This boy was a veritable maestro in the making......”
“Rome, 1660
Rome was a pot-pourri of the centuries, tiny colourful fragments from the beginning of time heaped one fragrant layer upon another. It was old but so so beautiful, full of rainbow colour and elegance. There was no other way to describe it but a decayed sort of beauty.
The streets were narrow, the thoroughfares roughly hewn. And down the centre and along the sides, butting up sharply against the houses, ran open sewage channels where residents would tip their chamber pots every morning – and woe betide any unfortunate passer-by who happened to be walking below at that very moment.
At intervals along the street there were wooden posts strung out to separate the main carriage-way from the narrow space left for passing pedestrians. Each side of the street was an odd assortment of dwellings and shops, each leaning towards each other as if to embrace, their windows shuttered to keep out not just the heat but the dust and foul smells from the street below.
In a shop slap bang in the heart of the Rome commercial area, a young man was slowly dusting the shelves in a rhythmic, but dreamy fashion. His exertions caused a thick flick of black wavy hair to fall forward over his broad brow. In an unconscious gesture, he elegantly brushed back the wayward tendril to reveal clear olive skin.
After finishing the dusting, the boy whistled tunefully to himself as he willingly stacked yet another pile of spruce, willow and maple in the back storeroom, ready to be fashioned into beautiful musical instruments. Along the inner walls of the shop were already a small selection of guitars, violins, violas, cellos and a large harp resting in the corner.
The boy absolutely loved his work. He was yet only sixteen, but he could imagine no finer occupation in the whole world.
‘No, no, Antonio! Not like that!’ shouted Signor Amati, who had come down to Rome especially to supervise Antonio’s new venture. It was Signor Amati, or Nicolo as the boy called him, who had taught Antonio all he knew about making musical instruments. But it was always the violins which Antonio loved the best, a love which had blossomed ever since he first heard Signor Amati play.
Antonio’s dream was to set up in Nicolo’s home town of Cremona, but first he decided to move further south to Rome. ‘There are not enough rich people yet in Cremona. I want to make and sell violins, and where better than in the great city of Rome,’ he had cried to his mentor.
And Nicolo could only agree. The boy had ambition and undoubted skill, he had to admit. Never could he have imagined that someone so young could be so very talented. From the first time that Antonio had watched and then copied him as he fashioned the supple wood, it was clear that this was no ordinary boy.
This boy was a veritable maestro in the making......”
I struggle to understand, in this new dystopia we live in, why all the adverts - without exception - show everything we can’t do. People are mingling and socialising; we’re urged to buy frivolous, non-essential goods; there are numerous, expensive, adverts showing celebs enjoying luxurious cruises; and there are even ads giving the delights of Andrex loo paper! I could go on. All these advertisers must have spent a fortune on these TV ads and all are a complete waste of time. Will they get their moneyback, I wonder? Doubt it. And why aren’t the commercial stations themselves stopping these at the present time? Surely they should be banned, for fear the ignorant amongst us actually do/buy the pleasures shown in front of us?
What a surreal time we’re living in. In the old BC* days, reality was what we did all day. When we switched on the TV, we were transported to an imaginary world. And now? Exact opposite. Can I have my old life back soon please?
*BC = before Corona
Sitting in self isolation at the moment, wondering what to do?
We all have different stories to tell about the effects of the virus. When our second child moved to the US last year, we consoled ourselves that we could visit them both every summer. However, the virus has put paid to that and Virgin Atlantic won’t refund our money. But we can change the date to the winter. Yeah, the snowy season in Maine at our age. You can forget snow boarding, snow shoeing, snowmobiling etc.
Oh well. At least my US family memoir is FREE today and tomorrow, so you can read more about how America has affected the whole family over the years, right from the 1929 Wall Street crash era up ‘til today.
We all have different stories to tell about the effects of the virus. When our second child moved to the US last year, we consoled ourselves that we could visit them both every summer. However, the virus has put paid to that and Virgin Atlantic won’t refund our money. But we can change the date to the winter. Yeah, the snowy season in Maine at our age. You can forget snow boarding, snow shoeing, snowmobiling etc.
Oh well. At least my US family memoir is FREE today and tomorrow, so you can read more about how America has affected the whole family over the years, right from the 1929 Wall Street crash era up ‘til today.
Download it now for FREE by clicking on the image on the right of An Englishwoman in America.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
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