Total exclusivity

Subject: Total exclusivity 

It's Sunday morning and the streets are eerily  quiet. Cars remain parked on the driveways and on the street, many not having moved for a week or more. It's like living on a film set with the film crew having moved off to a new location only the sight of tumble weed rolling down the street is missing from the desolation of a Western ghost town.
Week two of the self isolating has on the whole worked well so far but one wonders at the already pent up frustrations, no sport on the telly, no pub or restaurant to escape to, only the four walls in a bunch of rooms already occupied with emotionally strained people.
Week one of four or eight, maybe sixteen or even, heaven forbid, twenty four weeks (168 days) now that's something to contemplate.
Of course the economy in the way we know it would have collapsed by then adding another dimension to the conflagration, the health service collapsed, people dying of ailments which prior to the virus would have been treatable but now with doctors shrunk to a skeleton service there's no aid available, the farmers and food producers, short of staff have also largely shut up shop and only the media is there  to remind us of how dreadful everything has become.
Of course it may not turn out so grim but it reminds us how tenuous our grip on life is and how exposed we have come to contagion.
It begins to make Brexit seem inconsequential perhaps, as climate change turns a corner with industrial pollution virtually non existent, the airlines grounded, and the motor car rusting on the drive, there has been some sort of a silver lining. Except of course in China who already back up and running are selling to the world at prices dictated by them and not the USA.

Branson on his island and Abromovich on his yacht will scan the horizon for 'the other' who searching for sanctity from the chaos left behind pose a threat but there's no sanctity with either or others of their clan since this is what money is really for, total exclusivity.