Sunday, 29th March
I just spoke to my friend in Lombardy, the epicentre of Italy’s contagion. She is very worried about her elderly father. He has been unwell since yesterday and she cannot get hold of his doctor. They have been living in isolation since mid-February. She describes the situation as nightmarish.
In France, two high-speed trains left from Mulhouse and Nancy this morning, heading for Nouvelle Aquitaine in the West, which has the lowest number of cases. They were carrying 36 Covid patients suffering from respiratory distress. The aim is to free up beds in France’s worst affected North-Eastern region. Here, in Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes, we are gearing up for a peak around the middle of next week, and hospital beds are being freed up to make room for the expected surge.
It is Sunday and I decide to stop reading the news. The kids and I go out to our shared garden to water the plants. Temperatures have dropped, the sun is not out. It is cold. I play football with my son, who teaches me a few tricks. I move fast to keep warm. I will soon be able to add dribbling to my confinement co-lateral skills. My daughter writes a message to the world on the garden’s blackboard: “Meet you here for a coronapéro after confinement.” I can’t wait.