Guillotine time: can a pensioner catch this thing from the internet?

Brittany, France 

With the exception of Donald Trump, I think we all know that the coronavirus is a serious threat that could result in the end of civilisation as we have known it. But what are we supposed to do?

I am 71 and apparently at risk of death should I fall ill. The trouble is, unless I go about the place sheathed in a gigantic condom fitted with its own wash hand basin, there seems to be no way I can significantly reduce the risk.

I find this strangely comforting. Life, as I always say, goes on until it stops. Yesterday, I shook hands with Eric, from Le Clerc’s lavishly-appointed Éspace Culturel, who delivered our new washing machine, a true cultural artefact in an age of prose – bumping it up our external steps in the rain and then lugging its predecessor back down to his waiting van. We smiled weakly as our hands met. Were we rash? Probably. If we had been more prudent, and socially responsible, we would just have tapped the toe caps of our shoes together.

Other than getting to grips with Eric, I have largely self-isolated, which means doing what I usually do, only more so.  The couple who run our local bar have taken off for their annual spring break, obliging me to watch more television and drink more wine. I like to think that when they get back, the usual suspects will reconvene, my wife and I among them. But who knows? Maybe the place will remain shut for the duration. Meanwhile, I continue to shop in Intermarché, where my one concession to hoarding has been to invest in an extra 12-pack of toilet rolls. Looking further ahead, weather permitting, I hope to attend the village market on Wednesday to stock up on cheese – Italian cheese, that is – and locally made crème fraiche.

What is the alternative? Is the French army about to drop supplies to our house by helicopter, or will Jeff Bezos use drones to deliver us a pizza twice a week? I don’t think so. From what I have seen, all that the local council has come up with thus far is a makeshift tanker, crewed by a couple of workers wearing masks, that sprayed our bins with disinfectant. But maybe there is a lot more going on behind the scenes.

What happens, though, when the gendarmes fall sick and the binmen don’t turn up for work? How long before we all start to go mad and contemplate eating our own legs?

President Macron sprang a bit of a surprise when he decreed on Thursday that families should not visit their elderly relatives, especially if they live in a retirement home. Over 75s living on their own have been advised to stay indoors and, presumably, eat cake.

Next up? “Bring out your dead!”

Schools and colleges are closing down. Sports fixtures are being cancelled. The railway network, previously hard hit by strikes, is now running on empty. Will the local swimming pool be open this weekend? My wife likes to do her 30 lengths at least once a week, but may have to step up her yoga instead.

At least, as David Cameron would say, we are all in this together, all at risk, all more nervous than we like to pretend. The good news is that so far at least we are guarding our sang froid, as the French like to say. Not even the unions – who have had to suspend their by-now-traditional street protests – can blame this on Macron, or the EU, or even China. What is happening is being seen more as a visitation – La Peste in embryo – conforming to a timetable that as yet no one can predict.

At least you can’t catch it off the internet – not as far as I know. When I remarked on this the other day, a friend responded that, just to be sure, he had installed Norton anti-virus on his laptop. Someone else said he had contracted Corvid 18 just to be ahead of the curve.

That’s the spirit. We’ll get over this.  And then we can start talking about the post-Brexit trade deal again. Speed the day.