Once more unto the breach.

Covid-19 has pushed people into uncharted territories. For some it has been incredible, others tragic and menacing. For many, it has just been an inconvenience. But as we start our third lock down, it has proved to be mentally punishing for even the most robust. There is light at the end of the tunnel and much of what we have lost can be rebuilt, and what cannot we will have to learn to hold dearly to our hearts and memories.

This time round, I will be doing my best to check in on friends, family and colleagues to make sure they are OK and not suffering alone. If you are finding it tough, pick up the phone talk, find laughter and look for the beauty in the small things in life. Better still go for a walk or a run (at a safe distance) and share your thoughts with a sympathetic ear. You will be surprised just how many people care about you.

On that note, I will leave you with the rest of Shakespeare's well crafted verse.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

William Shakespeare - (from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)