Wednesday 18th April 1990 was a bright spring day (at least it was in Knutsford where I worked).  It was the Wednesday after Easter, and the morning passed, completely unremarkable, as I sat at my desk working on some aspect of safety or risk assessment for some power station or other - probably Heysham 2 or Torness. At lunch time I went for my usual walk around the block, probably with colleagues, though I don't recall that detail.  Returning to my desk came a phone call to tell me that my Dad had just died, in Northampton General Hospital.  It wasn't a surprise - we had been told six weeks earlier that his prognosis was 4 - 12 weeks - and it wasn't a shock.  It wasn't even, at the time especially sad, because he was finally free from pain, drug induced hallucinations and loss of dignity.

Saturday 18th April 2020 is also a lovely sunny spring day, and it's the Saturday after Easter.  I am sat at my desk in Glasgow, finalising preparation for a Zoom talk about 'Life Events during the Covid19 Pandemic', have a support call to make and  a couple of emails that I need to respond to.  Remembering isn't especially sad, though it is significant.

I have found myself wondering what either of my parents would have made of Coivd-19 had they been alive - and been glad they didn't have to live with this strange new world, which would, I think have proved hugely difficult for them to cope with.

So I pause, and I remember, and I am grateful for my parents, imperfect as they undoubtedly were, whom I loved, and who loved me.