My first post-lockdown party

France is divided into a red zone and a green zone. We’re green. Green for go. From this morning we no longer need a signed and dated permit to leave the house; we can socialise with up to ten other people at a time; and we can travel up to 60 miles in any direction. In theory we could fill a minibus and go on a beano down to the coast tomorrow.

And in spite of the government ordering bars and restaurants to remain closed, the village beer bar unexpectedly opened for business last Saturday, and the lights were on in the poshest village restaurant where people inside could be seen tucking in. Perhaps, in truth, the delicate decision about when to open the bars and restaurants has been quietly devolved to the local mayors’ offices. Further down the street, a notice fixed to the door of the hair salon says that lovely Elody will have her electric shears oiled and running non-stop from tomorrow morning.

Catriona is demob happy. As I write, she is spread out on the beautician’s couch getting a comprehensive waxing. I’m less sure. Our respective attitudes to these new incrementally reinstated freedoms can be summarised by that memorable exchange between Pooh and Piglet:

‘Supposing a tree fell down, Pooh, when we were underneath it,’ said Piglet. ‘Supposing it didn’t,’ said Pooh after careful thought.

Catriona is Pooh. She thinks that the coronavirus is keeping an eye on the news in order to conform to any time frame set by the French government or colouring of the map. Clarke maintains darkly that the second wave of infections will be even more devastating than the first. Catriona runs a holiday lettings agency. She is keeping positive that bookings from the UK will begin to pick up from June onwards.