It's Sunday morning, so I go for a walk on the lockdown streets. First, down the footpath, crossing a driveway, where a black cab waits at the McDonald's window, blowing white smoke, a masked face peering out. Then onto the avenue, where a glossy sign advertises a mansion for sale, where potted flowers are hanging over balustrades, and moss climbs on trunks. The sun is out but mist brushes against me, like wool. I look at a yellow-painted house. There is a wide-screen TV on the nature-strip. On to Petrie Square and light filters delicately through a stained-glass mural where in a sea of blue Virgin Mary is holding infant Jesus. A rain-drenched copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire lies abandoned on the grass. And at the corner of Alexandra Gardens, a night-globe blinks off; it is seven o'clock. The moon in daylight is a pleasure, even if sometimes I think it is like aspirin in a glass. I stop to read a sign beneath a tree: a bicentennial time capsule to be opened in 2088. There are several people of colour in the park today, which makes it cheerful and warm. Somebody has stuck a red blossom in the hands of a bronze sculpture embracing his lover. Elsewhere, art is serving a long sentence and visitors are banned. And so, one has had her constitutional, and one strolls back, past Charcoal Grill, with menus of rump for takeaway and the music posters now wasted and the golf shop on its last days. Two more corners and I am home. There, my heart is waiting in these pages by the window at my desk.