The news is telling me that London is going to move to Tier 2 "High" lockdown status at one minute past midnight on Saturday morning. That means no parties inside, I think? I am suddenly voracious. I am scattered to the four winds wondering what sensations I must steal today, before I am stopped.
Matt Hancockface is telling me the number of cases is doubling every ten days. I am now panicking. Perhaps I'm just horny? But, I'm now panicking. Tier 2 means I now have approximately 36 hours to enter and enjoy as many spaces as I possibly can. No, wait. I'll still be able to do that. Just not friends' houses. Wait. Is that right? It's "private homes, and any other indoor venues such as pubs and restaurants," but maybe I can meet people in shops? Or do I just have to go alone to a gallery? That's pretty normal actually. OK. Normal. It might be time to join a support group. I can sit with 14 other people and tell them how panicked I am.
Fuck! The RA's Impressionists exhibition is a) sold out, and b) finished on 18 Oct. Artemisia is sold out until 2025. I could go to Estorick's textile exhibit and pretend I understand textiles. They may serve a lunch.
Thank god for the blog. I miss you.
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| I made a magazine reading spot in the burrow. |