Hope against hope
DURING the first lockdown, I made more vows than a virginal novice in her noviciate. I vowed to learn at least one Goldberg Variation on the ancient Bechstein that presides in lonely silence in the drawing room. I vowed to memorise a sonnet or two, and to pick, make and fill the freezer with wild-garlic pesto. I’d write long-overdue letters and clear the linen cupboard of three generations of long white tablecloths. I promised to edit book shelves.
Well, I made the pesto. If I’m not wracked with guilt, it is because I believe that remorse rarely produces renewal and reform. Those memories returned
