Today marks the third month of my confinement in my fifth floor apartment in Paris. As I wrote all those weeks ago, shortly after president Macron declared his ‘war’ on coronavirus, I had adopted a prisoner psychology to see me through what I suspected from the outset would be six weeks minimum of lockdown.
I wasn’t wrong. I’m due for release on Monday May 11th but I can’t say I’m counting down every second with a sense of impatience. Not that I want to stay locked up but I’m not sure life will change that much in the short term once I’ve regained my liberty: no bars or restaurants to visit, no cinemas or theatres open, no sport to watch and no travelling beyond a 100km radius. It’s not going to be a summer of fun. Still, it will be gratifying to go out without first completing a permission form. Not that’s it’s been that bad, certainly not the police state that some foreign commentators have claimed.
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