sidewalk scribbling

Autumn came for a short visit this year, strolling along, lightly trailing her yellow fingertips along the tops of trees, painting them with liquid sunshine.   She didn't stay for long though. I guess she had better places to visit.  Always leaves in a huff, as if she's mad about something. Maybe it's Winter that drives her off, with his bitter cold winds that whip the pretty gold orange red leaves off branches, scattering them in crispy colourful paths along the ground where they slowly curl up and die. Winter this year strides in in-synch with the second wave of Covid, followed by what should have been an expected lock-down in England but caught me unprepared. The remains of the First Wave had yet to recede and this Second Wave has already crested and crashed upon us. I remember cheering myself up during the first lock-down on how amazing it would feel once things went back to normal...  How great it would feel to hug friends, to go sit in a cafe and have a frothy ...

It isn't very adorable but so many things about living in times of a pandemic are like surviving the first months of becoming a parent. Like washing your hands persistently.  Like restricting shopping jaunts to the online world. Like not going to the cinema. Like realising how little is actually in your control. Like wondering if life will ever be the same. As tiny and sweet as newborns are, I must say 3 months onwards they get so, so much more fun. At almost 6 months, they are just too freaking edible (I have to say, however, when people say 'enjoy this, it's the best age', I get a bit worried because when did you ever enjoy a situation all the more because somebody reminded you of its temporariness?). I still wash my hands fairly regularly but they don't feel like chipping tree bark anymore. I can't say I enjoyed the utter fragility of newborns either. The gummy eyes, the flaky skin, the red spots, the constant "watch his head, his neck, ...