Instead of sheep

I've actually been sleeping quite well. Early on, when this country-shutting-down business began, I'd wake up, hoping I'd imagined it, but, for the most part, I drift off easily.

Should it ever become a problem beyond the occasional Valerian, I could always take Bing Crosby's advice and count my blessings. I have a baker's dozen, at least.

1) I am at home with all the comforts thereof, enough food, and a safe place to sleep.

2) I am with my family, including both daughters, and we all are, at the time of writing, comfortable and healthy. I get the occasional uneasiness when I'm stuffy, sneezy, or head-achy, but opening a window usually is enough.

3) We have electricity and WiFi.

4) Demeter is a two-minute stroll (a one-minute panicked dash) away, and she is reasonably comfortable and very healthy.

5) I can still venture forth and get things for my family and particularly Demeter.

6) We are on a beautiful (unusually quiet) street, and our windows afford views of flower beds, trees, and, up until recently, a steadily diminishing number of passersby -- also the occasional delinquent deer. It's spring, something at which Victoria excels.

7) I am actually hearing more from friends than usual, due to, no doubt, their own senses of isolation, but heck, I'll take it.

8) Marie Phillips, due to her own sense of isolation, is blogging again. I'll take it!

9) These days, we have free access to theatre and ballet, courtesy of the Globe, the National Theatre, and the Royal Opera House, among other sources.

10) I have opportunities to pursue family research, my go-to mental health activity in the best of times and the worst of times. I just demolished a major brick wall in the Resident Fan Boy's side of the family tree a couple of days ago. I did lose some sleep over that - due to excitement. Don't say it.

11) We still have access to take-out from several of our favourite eateries, which we support for entirely selfish reasons.

12) Miraculously, some of my favourite shops are offering limited, and very personalized, service: book stores, stationers, hosery... It's my bounden duty to help keep them open, right? And I'm shopping local.

13) I'm not in Hades. Sorry. It had to be said.

Confination

There must be something reassuring about doo-wap these days.

This is a video edited from the live concert Stronger Together, broadcast on CBC last weekend. It features Michael Bublé, the Barenaked Ladies, and Mexican singer Sofia Reyes.



The performance is a cover of a recent offering by Barcelona trio Stay Homas, who are riding out this thing by making music from their apartment.


A number of Stay Homas fans are calling out Michael Bublé for covering this song, but I notice Stay Homas has sent a thank-you to all the musicians involved, for using the song to raise money for foodbanks.

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!

This notice appeared on the exit door nearest our condo a few days ago.

Oh god. Just what we need.

Victoria does have a rat problem; my Friend of the Right Hand got infested once, and one of our house-sits featured a large rodent, who basically scared daughter into representational drawing.

I'm not sure the Pied Piper is such a good idea, though.

"It's a horror story," I explained, years ago to a future godmother, who was planning a show of the Pied Piper for her drama students. "The people of Hamlin don't pay him, which is wrong, but he revenges himself by taking their children away."

Future Godmother stared at me for a long moment. She was a divorced mother of two, on not great terms with her ex-husband.

"I never thought of it that way."

Best to just keep that door closed.

"I'm not a doctor." "No kidding."

Apparently, Julie Andrews sent Randy Rainbow a message of approval about this video -- via Carol Burnett. That's got to be Gay Guy Cloud Nine.

For all you Mary Poppins fans, who don't mind the occasional cuss-word. (I gather Julie Andrews is one of those.)

The longest time

I don't know if this video is viral, but it's going around.

This is the Phoenix Chamber Choir (and some friends) out of Vancouver, BC, with a clever take on one of my favourite Billy Joel songs. If you can, get the video to the largest view you can manage, to see what the various singers are getting up to.


Here's the 1984 video, a fantasy in which a sextet of men show up at their thirty-year reunion with most of their hair. (Despite the back-up, Joel recorded all the vocals himself.)

A room of one's own

Elder daughter has now been in residence for two weeks. Tomorrow, she will emerge from the sofa corner she's been inhabiting in a modified self-isolation, and will venture into places like the kitchen and the laundry-room.

What has become evident is that, with elder daughter here for the foreseeable future, and the Resident Fan Boy working from home for a similar length of time, and no coffee shops, we really need a working area separate from the living area.

The Resident Fan Boy spotted a notice at our favourite second-hand furniture shop, offering "viewing appointments". He made one, and I shuffled the row of totes, laundry baskets, high-boy, and television stand along the eastern wall of our bedroom, and found a space of just under four feet.

The lady at the shop has been home for about six weeks, and has a case of what I'm going to call "pandemic patter". My mother has noticed it when she calls around for her church. Elder daughter noticed it when having a Zoom chat with a group of Hades pals that lasted three hours. The sun was gone when she staggered in from our patio, where she'd gone for privacy.

Furniture shop lady chatted and chatted. Her daughter's boyfriend has moved in, and while he's lovely, she's wondering if he's ever going to leave. She got yelled at by an elderly man at the grocery store, who charged her with his shopping cart, hands trembling on the bar, and bellowed: "She's hogging the meat counter!!"

We understood the garrulousness, and, because it was a furniture store, we sat down.

We've acquired a charming old secretary desk. The top folds down into a plain table, but contains two deepish small drawers, and little slots that could accommodate cheque-sized envelopes. It might be a great place to store theatre tickets -- if theatres ever open again.

I discovered that the desk can line up to the far east corner of the window, so I can get a breath of fresh air and gaze out past the plantations outside. Our floor is slightly subterranean, so I see the flowering shrubs at eye level and beyond, masked people walking their dogs on the sidewalk.

At seven in the evening, the pots and pans will bang in tribute to the health care workers, and I'll hear the clamour, like scores of distant bells.

Staid and skittish

Continuing on the birthday theme, my birthday, and that of elder daughter, have prevented me from watching the National Theatre's 2017 production of Twelfth Night, one of the productions made available for free each week as long as there's a lockdown in the UK, I guess.


Orsino is played by the impossibly good-looking Oliver Chris, who was posh and funny in the National Theatre's One Man Two Guvnors in 2011 (which was also shown for free three weeks ago, although I saw it in a cinema last November - when you could do that).

I have until Thursday morning to see Twelfth Night, and intend to see it this weekend, as I address birthday cards for my fellow Taureans, and prepare for younger daughter's birthday in early May.

Can I ax a question?

It was elder daughter's birthday today. And I had to accompany Demeter on her eye procedure appointment. All in the middle of a pandemic.

Which means I missed seeing any of BBC's Big Night In.

But you know I can't resist David Tennant. Even with a zigzag hairband.


(The Doctor W.H.O. reference is really quite clever, isn't it?)

Hey, it's my birthday - which means I've got chores

Talk to you tomorrow. (Oh wait. That's elder daughter's birthday...)

Isolation is the key to creativity

So it's the eve of my birthday.

Some years ago - never mind how long - I attended a retreat for Victoria Hospice. The main workshop concerned the Myers-Briggs survey.

The test places you on four continuums: extroverts (E) to introverts (I), sensors (S) to intuitives (N), thinkers (T) to feelers(F), and judgers (J) to perceivers (P). There are sixteen "personalities" based on the combinations of the four letters.

The people doing the presentation were astonished that the nurses, counsellors, and volunteers working at the hospice scored mostly on the introvert "preference". None of us were. Helping the dying requires getting your strength from a quiet place.

Let's be clear here; introversion is not a synonym for shyness; it simply means introverts recharge in solitude, while extroverts recharge in the company of others.

Coming into the present day, it has occurred to me more than once that quarantine and/or self-isolation has to be much tougher on extroverts -- unless they're sheltering in place with those who energize them.

Back when I tested, I scored "strong" preferences on three continuums (continui?), but scored nearly evenly on the feeling/judging spectrum. As a result, when I came across this video, I recognized my two closest matches even before the initials flash on the screen.



See if you can spot yours, if you've taken the test, or guess which one (or two) you might be.

A soft target

This cartoon by Kate Curtis appeared in the New Yorker

When I went to sleep, we'd heard about shootings in northern Nova Scotia. Details were vague: "multiple victims" - no word about injuries or deaths. Something about a guy dressed up as an RCMP officer and driving a car made to look like an RCMP vehicle. By dinnertime, we knew an RCMP officer (a real one) had been killed, leaving her husband and two children to grieve. When I woke up this morning, the number of dead had risen to eighteen, worse than École Polytechnique shooting of December 1989. It's now the worst shooting in Canadian history.

The RCMP in Nova Scotia says the number is likely to rise.

Elder daughter, who trained in journalism in Halifax, has the surreal experience of recognizing the names of the people reporting on this bleak story. She spent four years in Nova Scotia, amid people known for their friendliness and willingness to help. The people shot in cold blood were no exception.

I could be bounded in an eggshell and count myself a king of infinite space

We've pretty well finished consuming last week's Easter eggs.  We can't let them rot, but it's still difficult to destroy the beauty of them.

When we used the marbling technique on the eggs in 2010, they looked like planets.

This year, they look like galaxies.

Something else I stumbled over

A series of errands brought me up into the upper reaches of Linden Avenue. This used to be my regular route; I haven't been here in months and months.

This sign wasn't there then. It's tiny, but I'm sure I would have noticed it.

It does make me wonder what happened to make this appear.

Out of puck

Okay, something's weird with Blogger, so I'm going to attempt to leave a video and flee, hoping that things in the photo archives are back to normal tomorrow.

I was born in Edmonton, Alberta, so you might be surprised to learn that I loathe hockey. (Or not.)

Oh, I did try to appreciate it in the early years of my marriage, for the sake of the Resident Fan Boy, but, face it, it's a violent, shout-y, interminable game.

However, I was born in Edmonton, so I instinctively hate anything to do with Calgary. I think it's something they put in our baby formula.

This video rather perfectly encapsulates the antipathy that Edmontonians and Calgarians feel for one another, right down to their symphony orchestras.



The theme music for "Hockey Night in Canada" strikes anticipation and longing in the hearts of hockey-lovers - and dread and a certain air of resignation into the hearts of hockey-haters. Until today, I'd never heard the whole theme. The Resident Fan Boy tells me that it's because I never hang around for the show-end credits.

The game actually ends? News to me.

Every one of us has all he needs

YouTube thought I'd like this.

I do, but heavens, it's surreal. It is, however, rather like a quarantine scene.

Particularly striking are the final two minutes, as he glides back into meditation. It's a palpable silence, like the Silence at a Quaker Meeting.

Stick around for it.

Broken concentration

Over the past five weeks, time has turned into something like Christmastide, or the summer holidays -- it's moving at a slower pace, yet is way too eventful, despite our state of modified house arrest, where we wash our hands until our knuckles feel like sandpaper, and wipe down switches and devices with rubbing alcohol.

One recent evening, I was getting ready for bed, a ritual consisting of several careful steps, as I divest myself of the day, and set up things I must remember for successfully launching myself into the coming day. This particular evening, this meant setting my FitBit to charge on the computer out in the living room, in preparation for putting it back on my wrist, where it professes to keep track of how well I've slept. I have my doubts about its accuracy, but this isn't the point. The point is, my FitBit vibrates when I have an incoming call or text message; it even tells me who is trying to contact me, if they're among my phone contacts.

My phone, as it happens, was also charging, lying on my bed after one of its "wink-outs". This is something that it started doing a few months ago, I can only conjecture that this is because I've had it for nearly four years, which makes it, in terms of devices, a dinosaur. After winking out, the phone takes about 30 seconds to load back up again, so I set about removing my eye makeup, shoes, and top.

I had just finished brushing my teeth when the landline rang. An 800 number. At 10:30 pm. The nerve.

It was Lifeline, Demeter's emergency service, which detects any movement by Demeter that could be interpreted as a fall. At the same moment, my revived cell phone rang. It was Double Leo Sister, calling from her home 500 miles away. She doesn't call unless it's an emergency; Lifeline must have reached her first when I failed to answer my momentarily disabled cell phone, being unaware of any calls because my Fitbit was charging in another room. I hastily explained that Lifeline was on the landline, and that I'd get back to her, once I'd checked on Demeter. Lifeline was telling me that my mother had fallen, and I told them I could be there in two minutes.

I shoved my bare feet back into my shoes and retrieved my top from the laundry basket. Grabbing both my keys and Demeter's keys, I barrelled into the living to get my coat, as I gave the Resident Fan Boy a quick rundown. He followed behind at some distance as I fled up the dark and deserted street, a dog in some empty house barking at my shadow.

The Resident Fan Boy caught up with me as I pounded the entry code into the front door keyboard at Demeter's condominium building. I told him the stairs would be quicker, and I rushed left, as he turned right to take the elevator anyway. He arrived at Demeter's apartment several minutes after I did.

Demeter was bruised and shaky in her slip. Being a retired physio, she'd managed to regain her feet, and answer Lifeline to forestall an ambulance.

Apparently, her legs had mysteriously given away, and she had folded to the ground. Most of the impact had been taken by her right knee, shoulder, and temple. Her clothes were strewn where she'd fallen, and we improvised an ice pack of frozen perogies, which we applied to her forehead with a damp dishtowel, as she protested gently.

We stayed until she was safely tucked into bed, folding her clothes, and turning off the lights, before retreating back up the block, as I slowed my breathing.

I discovered that in my haste, I'd left my phone on the bed. It promptly winked out once more, as a long parade of texts from my sister came through.

It took a while for sleep to come.

The next morning, Demeter's brow was unbruised, and she was only slightly sore. It didn't occur to me until later, that I had spent the previous afternoon taking the laundry to the laundry with younger daughter, demonstrating how to carefully wipe door handles and elevator buttons on the way, then washing our hands carefully afterwards.

All such precautions flew out of the window when I flew out of the house.

Demeter seems fine.

Furthermore, men of Harlech smell like garlic

I rather treasure the times that I can make Demeter laugh these days.

Twitter had a heigh-day a few days ago with the #dontvisitWaleschallenge, in which "tweeters" messed with travel posters to spread the message about the important of staying home.

Some of them are rather rude; I've actually picked some of the milder ones.

And some of them require some knowledge of Welsh pronunciation.

. . . or a recognition of a particularly funny and sly aspect of Under Milkwood by Dylan Thomas.

I had to explain the last one to Demeter, which is ironic, because she originally explained "Llareggub Hill" to me when I was thirteen.

The devil's playground

This whole "stay-at-home" jive hasn't affected me as much as I thought.  I mean, most of my life is pretty homebody.  (The arrival of elder daughter, who has taken over the living room and, due to a sprained ankle plus her fear that she may be an a-symptomatic COVID-carrier, all of our sizeable couch, may be the deal-breaker.)

In England, pretty well anyone who isn't "essential service" has been under lockdown for about a month now.

One of the strangest - and most British - byproducts of the situation has been the transformation of the television game show Taskmaster into a nation-wide competition for quarantined British families.

The show, which has been on air since 2015, used to centre around five contestants being asked to do something bizarre. I vaguely remember "impress a mayor" being one such assignment.

I was unaware of the direction the show had taken with the arrival of the pandemic, until I stumbled across a YouTube video last week. In that case, the assignment (which had apparently been the second virus one) had been to transform the bathroom into "a great night out".

The following is Task #7, which I tripped over yesterday:


My knee-jerk reaction to watching these is "Golly, some people have way too much time on their hands!"

Then it occurred to me. That's the point.

Pascal pandemic

Our first Easter in this condo:

The Resident Fan Boy donned his suit, and sat down at the computer to sing hymns at the screen during a prerecorded service from the nearly empty cathedral.  Then, in his capacity of church warden, he presided over "coffee hour" via Zoom.

I left him to it and strolled out into the bright sunshine on the deserted street.  I delivered Easter chocolate to Demeter, and she told me that it was snowing in Ottawa and she was so sorry for elder daughter.  The phone rang.  It was elder daughter, asking Demeter to step out on her balcony.

Baffled, Demeter followed me to look down to the front path, where elder daughter stood, having arrived the night before.  Elder daughter travelled across the country, but on the last flight from Vancouver to Victoria, two fellow passengers had come from London -- and one of them had a cough.  She doesn't want to be any closer than six feet from Demeter for the next two weeks.

This Easter wasn't what we were expecting.

But it could be so much worse.

The in between time

When you live with someone who lives on the autism spectrum, maintaining a modicum of rhythm and predictability is key.

Particularly during a pandemic.

So yesterday, I baked up our usual hot cross buns, and younger daughter and I watched Tim Minchin as Judas in the 2013 production of Jesus Christ Superstar. This year, they're more than traditions; they're lights in the dark hallway with no door in sight (yet).

And this year, it's not only pleasant, but imperative, that we decorate eggs. We usually try a new technique every year, but we haven't done marbled eggs for ten years, and Demeter has never tried them.

They look nothing like the eggs we did in 2010, but that's okay. We like 'em.

Tomorrow? No church, but chocolate eggs, ham, and the Easter Beagle. (And elder daughter, but - shhh - don't tell Demeter; it's a surprise, and the next surprise is that Demeter can't hug her granddaughter for two weeks.)

In the faces of our children

I stumbled across this video this afternoon, and curious, decided to view it. To my astonishment, I found myself in tears.



I don't weep that easily. Mothers can't.

Maybe it's because this is sung by mothers, who also happen to be doctors, and they're in danger, trying to help others in danger.

Anyway, I sat transfixed, while the Resident Fan Boy, who does cry easily, sniffled behind me.

(The song "Rise Again" was written by Nova Scotian Leon Dubinsky, who, coincidentally, appeared in Life Classes, one of my favourite films. The Rankin Family recorded it in 1993, and since then, it's been a Canadian standard.)

It's no use

Okay, I've already posted a version of this song a week ago, but this is one with Sting himself, plus Jimmy Fallon and the Roots, all playing with instruments found in their respective homes while in quarantine, so my resistance is low.

In other news, the first person I actually know has gotten sick. She lives in Chemainus, which is about 45 miles north of Victoria. She and Double Leo Sister have been best friends since they both were eleven.

This is getting far too close to home.

Sunday on Saturday afternoon

There were hints on the internet before I went to sleep last night. This morning, there was article after article. John Prine had died, possibly the most famous -- so far -- of the virus victims.

This is probably his most famous song.



Or maybe it's this one:



Prine wrote lots of quirky songs. Most of them were heart-breaking.

This is the one that came to mind when I heard the news:


Small town, bright lights, Saturday night
Pinballs and pool halls flashing their lights
Making change behind the counter in a penny arcade
Sat the fat girl daughter of Virginia and Ray

Lydia hid her thoughts like a cat
Behind her small eyes sunk deep in her fat
She read romance magazines up in her room
And felt just like Sunday on Saturday afternoon

But dreaming just comes natural
Like the first breath from a baby
Like sunshine feeding daisies
Like the love hidden deep in your heart

Bunk beds, shaved heads, Saturday night
A warehouse of strangers with sixty watt lights
Staring through the ceiling, just wanting to be
Lay one of too many, a young PFC:

There were spaces between Donald and whatever he said
Strangers had forced him to live in his head
He envisioned the details of romantic scenes
After midnight in the stillness of the barracks latrine

Hot love, cold love, no love at all
A portrait of guilt is hung on the wall
Nothing is wrong, nothing is right
Donald and Lydia made love that night

They made love in the mountains, they made love in the streams
They made love in the valleys, they made love in their dreams
But when they were finished there was nothing to say
Cause mostly they made love from ten miles away

No cockle shells, either

When life slows down, you tend to notice things.

I realize I'm only speaking for myself; life hasn't slowed down for those in essential services: nurses, doctors, care workers, pharmacists, grocery clerks, etc.

And in truth, being somewhat of an introvert, my life isn't particularly less busy; in fact, I'm bewildered by the frequent complaints on social media of being bored, or of having "run out of things to do".

Really? You have the entire internet at your fingertips, and you have nothing to do? Are you that on top of your housework and home maintenance? I never am. Even if I did get on top of everything, there would still be family research, which is endless.

However, part of my day involves walking with my mother, and since she uses a walker (zimmer in Britain), this takes a while, which means noticing things.

This week, I pointed out a cluster of what I took to be bluebells, and Demeter informed me that there are no true bluebells in North America. These are harebells*, and apparently, despite also being named "Scottish bluebells", they are a BC native plant.

I found this out because I have the internet at my fingertips.

*They look a bit small to be associated with hares, though.

Cuomo-sexual

Fortunately, younger daughter was in the room when I first watched this, and explained that this is a parody of "Sandy" from Grease - not my favourite musical. However, Randy Rainbow can make anything more palatable -- even White House press conferences with the current incumbent.



We're having similar fan-girling with our provincial health officers. Here are two tributes to Dr Bonnie Henry, the chief medical health officer for British Columbia:




Not nearly up to Randy Rainbow's production standards, but equally heart-felt, wouldn't you say?

Ghost of Christmas

This morning, the Resident Fan Boy couldn't go to church for Palm Sunday.

He dropped by the cathedral earlier this week, to collect a few palm fronds from those left out on the steps. He and younger daughter fashioned them into crosses. I found three of them lined up at the base of the computer screen, where the RFB planned to watch the Palm Sunday service, taped last Thursday in the nearly empty cathedral, by officiants carefully staged several feet apart. This was to be followed by a Coffee Hour, with Brady-Bunch squares of individual Anglicans chatting through the monitor in our living room.

It seemed a good time to go out and visit Demeter, who had set her television to the CBC news channel, in preparation for the Queen's Message.

As I walked home, I thought: Deserted streets. Everyone home. The Queen on the television. If it weren't for the daffodils, I'd think it was Christmas Day.

There was a palm cross on our front door.


Do you think the neighbours might misunderstand?

The middle ground

This is probably in a meme somewhere. I don't care.

It was new to me, as I zigzagged between others to maintain the six-foot difference. I chortled out loud.

Actually, the opening lines of The Twilight Zone are indeed, pretty damned pertinent:

It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge.

Doo-di-doo-doo, doo-di-doo-doo....

Don't stand so close to me

I need a breather. I also need space. (Looks like we all do.)

The pharmacy quadrille

It had been an unexpectedly stressful afternoon. We've gone to London Drugs, the boxy drugstore in the Harris Green neighbourhood of Victoria, more than once to pick up prescriptions for Demeter, when she has been unable, due to personal health or the weather, to trundle her walker the ten blocks. Normally, it's a reasonably easy process. We simply provide her name, phone number, and address, and they hand the drugs over.

You may have noticed that these are not normal times.

I arrived to find that the drugstore has introduced a carefully spaced line-up area outside. You enter when the required number of customers have left, and while you're in the queue, you can peruse a whiteboard listing what isn't available.

Inside, there were similar marked-out line-ups for the tills. I fell into the odd quadrille so prevalent these days, looping, backing off and retracing steps to keep the sacred six-foot distance between myself and my fellow pilgrims. The line-up for the pharmacy was also carefully spaced with blue disks with white feet outlines on them. Most people carefully stood on the markers, with the exception of a few men, usually on the younger side. One fellow, dressed inexplicably in capris and flip-flops, on an afternoon with a high of eight degrees, stood halfway between the markers, and stared sideways into space.

The holy grail was the pharmacy pick-up desk, staffed by two rather anxious young women, whose task was to take information, then desperately rifle through several racks of hanging baggies, before returning for payment -- or to tell the unfortunate customer why their order wasn't there.

I was both: Demeter had two prescriptions, one of which wasn't there. It took several minutes to establish this, while I gave apologetic glances at those six and twelve feet behind me. I think they said something encouraging, but they were too far away for me to hear.

So I got sent to another line-up for a consultation with a pharmacist, who disappeared in search of a substitute for Demeter's prescription. I spent the time being grateful that I was able to sit, before being sent back to the original line to pay for the second prescription, which contained tiny irregularly-shaped pills, which Demeter will have to cut into quarters.

Trudging back, I decided that, despite my aching limbs, I would take a route past our old house, because the cherry tree is in bloom, and I have pleasant memories of gazing out our bedroom window into clouds of pink.

As I approached, I spotted what looked like a grey vase with a shiny bronze patch on it.

Then I realized it was a cat, lapping up the late afternoon sun, stress-free.

I resolved to do the same.

I like to be in Llandudno, okay by me in Llandudno...

So, after a run of peaceful nights, I woke up at 3 am, and still found myself awake at 4 am. Grrrrr. I got up, felt my way into the living room, carefully closing the bedroom door so that the Resident Fan Boy, who rises shortly after 5 to prepare himself to work online with his Ottawan colleagues on their time, could sleep undisturbed.

Good thing I shut the door. I went down the Twitter rabbit-hole, and encountered this inspired tweet:

The Llandudno goats are so much better with a West Side Story soundtrack.

(thanks to @AndrewStuart and the Bergamo boars) pic.twitter.com/A71FumsGNa

— David Schneider (@davidschneider) March 31, 2020

I bellowed with laughter, and hastily shushed myself. I'd been following the reports of the Llandudno goats on the BBC News website. They've been known to descend from the Great Orme headway when the winds are high, but they apparently have never come so far into the town of Llandudno before. The people-free streets have emboldened them.

Similar encouraged wildlife have been reported in other parts of the world, including boars in Bergamo in Lombardy, an area of Italy particularly hard-hit by COVID-19.