... and now, moving round to the front yard, and what meets one's eye when one opens the front door. Except - this should be filed under (a) escapism (b) falsism. For of course, what one really sees when one opens the front door is an assortment of outside-only footwear; two Amazon boxes decontaminating themselves for 24 hours; yesterday's mail (ditto); and a small heap of plastic wrappers that I drop neatly, after gathering up the newspaper with a trash-grabber stick at the end of a long handle, and then, as it were, filleting it. On a special day, there might even be one or two paper bags of recycling, or an old cat litter container, ready for the masked excursion up the front steps, the dash to the trash cans, and then the shedding of the outdoor shoes, the re-entry, the hand-washing ...
In other words, this is failing, sadly failing, at visual documentary, even though considered from another point of view, it's a perfectly truthful antidote to life under lockdown.
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