Two metres

If there's one thing the coronavirus has demonstrated to me, it is that not that many people in England know how far two metres is. The queues at Booths are often twice as long as they need to be, not because of their population but their density. 

Supermarket queuing aside, this distance has been fairly arbitrary so far; on the roads and paths, which is where I mostly encounter other people, everyone goes as far apart as they reasonably can. If that happens to be less than two metres,  then there is a quickening of pace and, I suspect, a holding of breath on both sides as we pass.

Still, one clear takeaway from Sunday's cack-handed announcement by the government, which was followed by some shambolic ministerial performances, yesterday, is that we can meet up with a friend if we stay two metres apart. Suddenly, that precise distance is a little more important to me; I want to stay a safe distance apart but no further than necessary.

Dan and I were talking about this, today. I was suggesting that I might meet up with his godfather, Hugo, somewhere and maybe we could each take along our own beers, so that it would at least be similar to the meet ups that he and I would have in the pub once every few weeks. We could have a drink and a chat. 

At this point we were up on the road behind High Casterton and I indicated a bench that might be a nice place for Hugo and I to sit and chat while we drank our beers. Dan was skeptical about the length of the bench, though, and, as he is about two meters tall, he lay on the bench to demonstrate its shortcomings. He was quite right.

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-8.9 kgs
Reading: 'Underland' by Robert Macfarlane