I’ve been frightened of #livingthedream, the hashtag. At times, it has felt as though the world has wanted to slap us, for having the temerity to celebrate our pursuit of a new life.
Fortune favours the brave, so they say, so here I am, tempting fate, and beating the reader down with clichés. A couple of anniversaries have quietly passed. It’s been a couple of years since we moved to Cyprus, and sadly, also a couple of years since we lost Nero.
We are extremely lucky to be well-placed for coping with the pandemic. Our house has gardens and is in a small village. Limiting contact with the outside world is straightforward. Cyprus got off lightly in the first wave, with infection numbers low and late. Mrs L and I missed it, as she was pre- and post- spine surgery, so we weren’t going anywhere in any event.
The second wave has come stronger, and our nearest city is the national epicentre of the outbreak. We’re in a self-imposed, semi-lockdown - but in comparison to many people, we have it easy. As I was typing, the government has just introduced a new raft of measures, including the mandatory wearing of masks, even when outdoors. That’s dull, but at least the weather is cooling down.
The family has grown, as we foster a wire-haired Jack Russell, whom we have renamed, from Rupert to Charlie. My vote is to progress the foster to an adoption, but Mrs L is more measured about these things.
Certainly, Covid-19 has prompted us to count our blessings. We both have immediate family in the UK, “shielding”, which looks a lot like house-arrest. Our isolation here has become a strength. We could comfortably dig in for weeks at a time, and still get plenty of exercise and vitamin D, without seeing another soul.
Mrs L, Spice, Charlie and I look forward to our third year, even as it begins in lockdown.
