April is...

TS Eliot published 'The Wasteland' in 1922, beginning:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

On Radio 4 this morning, it was linked to the 1919 Spanish flu pandemic - which has strong echo's now. 
I see a gorgeous Spring on the way to work - and in my head the cycle of birth is constantly being battered by the current situation and the pandemic. 

Today has been a remarkably difficult day. I cannot say why, but I find hypocrisy hugely galling. My entire day has been taken up having to address an issue which really shouldn't be thrown our way at the moment.