It seems like a long time ago...

Well, things are moving so fast here that it is impossible to say where we will stand tomorrow... this little film was taken by Jeremiah last Saturday at Pia and Henrik's jolly  and delicious lunch before we all went off to see the Marriage of Figaro at the English National Opera- something which would impossible today since all theatres and concert halls are closed...
 Pia and I are singing what we can remember of a famous Swedish folk song Visa Vid Midsommartid and Henrik is accompanying us on my father's somewhat cracked old violin! For another version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vvgv5tZeBg

Last night a depleted  Dante group did meet up here, but we were missing a few very important members so it all rather fell apart and we ended up watching Jeeves and Wooster instead to cheer ourselves up...
We came to a decision regarding the groups continuation during this time of trial.. We will put the difficult (and in my opinion frankly, boring...) last part of the Paradiso on the shelf for a while, and start meeting once a week for as long as it is allowed. The new reading matter will be LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA.  For those in the group who want to stay at home they can still contribute by sending in recordings of themselves reading or commenting or emails with their chosen sections of the chapter we are reading- next Wednesday the first chapter...some will still want to come here, but will they be allowed to, or will the police start to enforce measures to keep people in?

I am still going to my gym for my afternoon swim, at least tody..I am still planning a Sunday lunch here this Sunday, but there is no doubt is is all closing in on us... Tomorrow by this time we may be ordered to lock down. People are out buying groceries to prepare for the lock down which seems inevitable.. The schools are closing this Friday.
Unprecedented, strange times of course...

but Hey! it will be OK!
and here, again courtesy of Jeremiah who just sent it to me, is 
A LETTER FROM F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, QUARANTINED IN 1920 IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE DURING THE SPANISH INFLUENZA OUTBREAK.
Dearest Rosemary,
It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that, he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his sources. The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us. You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand. In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.