It’s nine o’clock in the morning in the centre of Bournemouth. There should be dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people scurrying about. Running to the shops, running for the bus, running for the sheer hell of running.
Instead, it’s deserted. The buses have been silenced. The background chit chat is gone. Only birdsong and the rustle of squirrels in the bushes remains. And the sound of our footsteps, on our permitted one walk per day. We don’t hang around. Loitering is nigh on a capital offence.
The Mexile 