Now, where were we?

On 13th March 2020, I checked out of the Springfield Hotel in Holywell, Flintshire, and drove home.

It already wasn't normal.

As the week went on, more reports of people falling sick, football matches, concerts and so on being cancelled, though some were not. On the Thursday night, I commented to a couple of Man Utd fans that the empty stadium their team was playing in had a better atmosphere than Old Trafford.

Still true, that one.

I drove back on worryingly empty roads, no delays through the Midlands, Cambridge, on the M25 or at Dartford, just a clear run through. Dropped the car off and waited for Jools to pick me up from the port.

The car hire places, Avis, closed and never reopened.

The football I was looking forward to were all cancelled, at least until April, it was said. In the end, it was the middle of June.

And so began the first lockdown, though the lockdown would not begin until 23rd March. In Ireland, they had already locked down and St Patrick's Day was cancelled.

Our Government froze.

Then grifted.

I hope the inquiry, and Labour's Minister for Getting our Fucking Money Back (if they win the election) get to the bottom of the lies, grifts and thievery that underscored the pandemic, and that those responsible are brought to justice and made to pay.

Although a new wave of infections is on the rise, I hope that it will be a blip rather than a tidal wave, and we get through another long cold winter, safe and sound.

I am back at the Springfield now. The spa is open, the bar is open, I have booked my dinner table for half six, and tomorrow I go auditing again.

Normal.