Even the ice-cream van is silent

Decommissioned ice cream van in Hundon

It was a warm day, and I was already perspiring when, walking the dogs up the road, I noticed an ice cream van parked up behind a hedge for the duration. The poster on its side boasted so many delicious treats: Mint and Choc Chip Magnums and Strawberry dips; lollipops and whirly cones with great big flakes in, dripping with coloured sprinkles. Oh, what a mournful reminder of our lost days, no more to sound its clangy note above the gardens to call us into worshipful line - but I'm getting carried away, thinking of the life we cannot live for what may be many weeks.

I am not fit enough to walk round without stopping. There is a style half way round, where my lungs demand I sit for a while. The dogs generally mull round and amuse themselves during this interlude, and Byron loves to chew grass and root out sticks. He found one today in some thick, young nettles, and pushed his nose in only to leap back with a sudden yelp. It must be the first time he's been stung, and he looked at the nettles with new respect, carefully shunning them as we moved on.

The village is silent and strangely deserted; no one is out, no children playing in the park, no cars on the road. One police car cruised up the road in the distance, a reminder of what it must be like to live in a police state where we may face arrest if we break the curfew.

With Boris still in intensive care, an atmosphere of gloom seems to have descended on the country. One day normality may return, but we begin to wonder if we will make it through, for Boris's condition reminds us how easily we may succumb. With the still increasing death rate, many people won't see the other side of the lockdown, and we can but live day by day, wondering when we'll see the children again, but making no future plans. One day, we will hear the jingle of the ice cream van again and know the nightmare is over.