Trouble brewing

9 April, in the year of our Lord 2020

Up, and at ablutions a pymple upon my nose, so to the apothecary. The streets again with almost no one, though keeping a few paces distant a figure disguised by eyeglasses, fur hat and gloves despite the clement day, and fabric wrapped around her nose and mouth so tight it did amaze me she could breathe. Presently she spoke and it was my lady Mrs. MacSporran, whom I did desire but it was obvious this morning that I could hazer nada que jo voudrais con all that paraphernalia. She told me I should wear across my face a scarf, and when I ventured why did merrily retort, ‘Well, I would, with a Plooke like that!’ – and chortling on her way. At the apothecary’s a tail of people standing singly in the street, many with mufflers and one kneeling anxious on the cobbles with a six foot measure. Inside only I and the apothecary, a fool. I did request a cream for my nose, to which the oaf made reply, ‘Single, double, whipping or fraîche?’. I made to cuff him round the ear but he dodged and admonished me with ‘Special Distancing’ or some such. I said I had no time for japes like this, to which he did slyly reply, ‘Oh, I think you will find you do, sir.’
  After dinner to the office, where a letter from Whitehall with the seal of The First Lord of the Treasury, another fool, which I was tempted to set aside but did open and read. The change in circumstances of this last few days explained and it did put me in disquiet, for in 1665 the town empty and shops closed owing to the plague, and by December many of such as I knew very well, dead, and I pray God will not suffer the same to come again. I begin to think of setting things in order.

By andywmacfarlane

I am a retired medic who likes messing around with a bit of writing, and friends seemed to like my social media postings of "Samuel Pepys: The Covid Diaries". So I'm having a go at blogging them.

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