Please bring rollmop herrings, fine for loo roll
NOT like you to sound panicky.’ A text from my cabaret partner pings breezily from the piste. He’s flying back for next week’s gig at the Crazy Coqs in Piccadilly. ‘They’ve reported a case of the virus in Italy. I hope we’ll get an audience.’ ‘Why worry so? Lombardy is miles away…’
Calm down. My father’s health is so rude it’s unprintable, but he is 90. Over at Swaffham, my mother’s excitement at the unfolding crisis is bucking her up no end: ‘Vera Lynn was on!’ She lacks only the teddy bear and the gas mask.
