At 17.40 this afternoon a flight from Cincinatti to East Midlands flew over Crich. I only noted it because it's a long time since I had heard so much noise. It reminded me that there's a world out there where people feel the need to fly from Cincinatti to East Midlands. Where people even know and care how many ns and ts there are in Cincinatti. When we over 70s were confined to our homes it had almost a holiday feel to it, the first time we had no responsibilities since the beginnings of our adult lives. If it was a prison, it was a rather cushy open one. In all the conversations yelled across the road we congratulate ourselves on being isolated into a lovely environment.
When we gathered outside Thursday last week there was a magic in cheering in the darkness along with all the disembodied voices up the road. There was a magic too last night in the twilight of being able to cheer and clap and beat our saucepans with a huge sky above us, horizons sprawling out in front of us and spacious gardens all around us. In fact I thought I might be the only one out there, but at 8pm the sound started up in the village and trickled down The Common, where apparently it's a slightly different time zone. Being at the top of a hill there can be a sense of being above the grimness of this pandemic; but beneath the conviviality we, along with everyone in Crich, are worried about family and friends working in the front line, in essential services, losing jobs and pay, having babies or hospital treatment, elderly parents far from family, children and grandchildren we may not see for months, youngsters missing out on education, family stresses. We are beginning to voice these anxieties. Community is more than shopping for neighbours, it's acknowledging each others' worries and helplessness. The novelty hasn't worn off yet but there are still months to go when our pleasant residence in our open prison may become threadbare. For most people an ugly portcullis descended around their lives, especially in the apartments, tenements, terraces and night-shelters of our cities. We'e enjoying the excitement of Zoom and virtual meetings. In the last 24 hours between us Deirdre and I have sung folk songs with regulars at the Nelson Arms in Middleton, led the Popalong toddlers in a singsong, celebrated a friend's birthday lunch, joined in with a choir, discussed our reading with a bookgroup, and this evening will be meeting with the worthy stalwarts of Sunday night at the Cliff. But it's virtual. Shortly we'll be wanting reality back, with its taste and smells, fast dialogue and its hugs.
But we can appreciate having nature greening the hedgerows and many of us are out in the garden giving it a helping hand. A broken egg on the patio notified me that the birds are breeding in the ivy and in the pond a pyramid of frogs demonstrated positions not in the Kama Sutra. The RSPB keeps reminding us to make the most of our enforced leisure by watching birds. But for me this means pigeons, and now I have time to plot and plan, I feel my long war against keeping them off the bird table may be nearing a bloody climax. I read recently that pigeons are so intelligent that in cities they've been seen flying round roundabouts the correct way. But surely I'm cleverer than that, I at least know to give way to traffic coming from the right. But despite wire and wooden blocks and Deirdre beating at the window with a rolled up Good Housekeeping, they manage to shove the caging aside, perch precipitously on the edge of the table and turn and look pityingly at us. I'm sure I will have enough time now to come up with a really clever plan, but my fear is that greed outwits intelligence every time.