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 Awaken late, it is half past six, and it is light outside. Today is the day of the appointment at the barbers, at half past eight in the morning, so there is time. Take a shower, and on the way back to the bedroom hear the cat calling plaintively from the hallway. She was locked out yesterday.

Let her in, get dressed, and start to look at the news. Realise that the stubble has grown, decide that that should be got rid of before the visit to the barber. Go back into the bathroom, put the shaving cream onto the face, and shave off all those hairs that have been growing for the last two days.

And then back and make coffee. Since the dishwasher failed the chaos in the kitchen has got worse, it is a sordid mess of unwashed dishes now. The coffee grinder is gunged up, take the time to clear it. When that is done, and a slice of buttered toast made up, take a cup of fresh coffee and a slice of toast back into the bedroom, and read a bit more. The British are suffering from delusions of grandeur, they seem to believe that the rest of the world owes them a living. Well, let them believe, they will see if that debt can be collected or not.

Say good morning to the son, he and his schoolmates are doing their schoolwork at night now, it suits them better. They may as well use the lockdown for what it is worth.

And then leave the building for the sunny street, it is warm and bright, and go on up the road to the barbers. This will be the end of the shaggy-haired lockdown monster.