Thursday was up there among the worst days of our lives.

It's taken until today for me to bring myself to write about it.

The root of it all is this damn virus.

Nigel's parents are now very sensibly self-isolating, as per the guidelines.

And there are now more than half a dozen studies demonstrating that "people without symptoms are causing substantial amounts of infection".

So, when we went to collect our stuff from Newark, and say goodbye for the time being (as we don't quite know what our plans are), we felt we had no choice but to observe the recommended social distancing.

Can you imagine that? Saying goodbye in these uncertain times from a distance of two metres? With no hugs, no kisses, only tears?

What a cruel, cruel thing this is turning out to be. We're absolutely haunted by such a miserable parting. But how could we have safely done it differently?

We now have a number of quandaries. The rest of our projected itinerary, of course, is in tatters. But, as I noted earlier this week, we can't get back into Malaysia until 1 April at the earliest (and the likelihood of that date being pushed further into the future is very high, I would have thought).

So do we book ourselves onto a plane while there still is one, with a flexible arrangement in case the entry date changes, or do we make up our minds to ride it out in the UK for a few weeks more, risking not finding accommodation if providers shut up shop?

Of course, Nigel's parents would love us to stay with them. And we would love that too. But there's no getting round that asymptomatic transmission thing. This is why this virus is so successful -- you've spread it before you know you've got it. So unless we tested negative and moved straight in (and tests are few and far between in the UK at the moment), we simply would not know that we were not carrying the virus right into the heart of a vulnerable household. And that would be way too big a risk to take.

So this is the suckiest thing ever...

On the way to Newark, we stopped in King's Lynn to stretch our legs. This looks as though it would be a lovely place to go back to, in happier times. But the mood on the street that day was sombre. Anticipating yesterday's ban, lots of cafes had already piled up the tables and chairs, and stuck "take-away only" notices on the window. We could hear snatches of conversation from the (sensibly distanced) little knots of people we went past. Words like "hand-sanitizer" and "self-isolation" are now on everyone's lips.





On the way back to Cromer, with our hearts heavy and the skies leaden, we stopped only for petrol.

But we couldn't help but notice the daffodils all along the route. They're suddenly everywhere, and their tall, elegant stems and bright yellow blooms seem to proudly stare down winter.

So I'm going to stare down this human winter too. I refuse to despair.

At the end of 2018, when a cancer diagnosis rocked our little world, I quoted Fernanco Sabino's hope-infused dictum: "Everything will be all right in the end. And if it's not all right, it's not the end."

At the moment it's very definitely not all right.

So it can't be the end.

It can't be.

There will be more to this story, and it will be good.