Confinement . . . Lockdown . . . thing.

My God, it's vague this time in France. The only time I've seen a gendarme was a small clutch of them in a wood doing, I don't know what, BBQ? possibly a drug stake out . . . there are some seriously addicted rabbits around here.

A couple of days ago I drove Mark to the station in Saumur so he could go to Geneva for a gig (slightly further than the allotted 10km) but that seemed to be okay with a attestation for work. I was at that point in a different department - in fact if I step over the road outside our house I'm in a different department; could that be a problem for dog walking? Possibly. 

On the way back from the station I called into a shop called Action which specialises in unnecessary items, which appeared to be open despite the fact that all shops selling unnecessary items are supposed to be closed. I hate the shop but they do have the cheapest ever sofa 'throws' which are perfect for dog grit/soil, general filth as they can be washed and dried in about an hour. Mais quoi! They had covered about a third of the shelves in plastic which was adorned with notices stating these particular items could be bought online. So . . . I could buy: plastic plant pots, hair ornaments, deadly looking sweets, plastic guns, pillow cases, gnomes, air freshener, crisps, pretend bamboo, plaster buddhas, cushions, etc, etc, but not a sofa throw, mugs, a trowel, envelopes or pants. Who decides all this? Are pants less essential than gnomes and air freshener? I would probably say absolutely none of it is essential and that I could perfectly well make do with using an old duvet cover - in fact, I will.

Also, is any of this going to make a difference? There are plenty of people who would or will spend much time fondling tableware in close proximity to each other, same for cakes, shampoo, and meat! the numbers of people hanging over the refrigerated meat section in Super U in joint salivation was quite astounding. Last time I went in there a week ago, all underwear was sectioned off with that sort of police incident tape, now its all untaped - go ahead, feel, compare, choose, loiter . . . in fact the only bit sectioned off appeared to be slippers and towels . . . Maybe they have to do a type of rotation to enable fans of pants or slippers or gnomes or place mats to have their fix. 

I suspect there is no plan with regard to shops, or the government. Right, off to find an old duvet cover.

twenty minutes

While going to the printers yesterday, I discovered the surface of the road I would normally take had disappeared - took a different road to circumvent the huddle of yellow machinery and found myself lost. Lost in Limoux?
How can this be possible? Ezra and I have walked every inch, surely; gaped at every wood-effect door, and neat, gnome-filled garden and wondered who lives in the houses with the untidy, exciting gardens.
Yes, lost. The no-entry signs were confusing: one way streets for no apparent reason. After a bit of hapless car-wandering I ended up at the municipal cemetery. I thought there was only one in Limoux - on the main road, a solid rectangle of ancient stone tombs. I must admit, although being a fan of death-logements generally, I've never been in that one - something to be rectified.
Anyway . . . I parked and went into the one facing me rather than do the rectifying of going to see the other one . . .
Anyway, as I said: twenty minutes.
Time; an odd thing. You can spend twenty minutes faffing, trying to find where they have moved the tinned tomatoes in a supermarket, or glassily watching a game show, knowing it's crap but not being able to move; or sometimes twenty minutes can become stretched, embedded, something your mind chooses to remember.