Sunny weather is all it takes to turn lockdown into a furlough festival

This week is technically halfterm, but I’ve had the distinct sense of being on a break from real life since late April. Somehow it feels provident rather than downright terrifying that I don’t have much work, freeing me up to spend time with my children.

For three decades I’ve lived with the constant pressure of chores piling up and tasks undone. The horizon’s always littered with obligations, both professional and social. If the year had continued as usual I’d be speed-reading dozens of books for talks at literary festivals, giving over weekends to a succession of birthday parties, preparing for a week-long walk with schoolfriends, while working like a lunatic to keep my household going.

Instead, my life has been cancelled and I’m profoundly grateful. There’s the strangest sensation of your slate being wiped clean. As if the great games mistress in the sky says you can sit this one out.

I’ve no doubt this carefree disregard for practical and economic reality is indelibly linked to the glorious weather. The moment the sun comes out a collective mania descends upon the British psyche. We can never quite shake off the feeling it’s a stroke of temporary, outrageous good fortune, like finding a fifty-quid note wafting down the street; something that should be squandered joyfully here and now.

I feel like I’m enjoying my own back-garden music festival, complete with Spotify playlists sent by similarly Awol middle-aged friends. One temporarily holed-up independent publisher, known for his verve with turntables, sent me a long note alongside his latest compilation of dance music. There wasn’t one mention of the woes of the book trade, with most highstreet book stores closed and Amazon prioritising essential items over novels.

If my hometown of Cambridge is anything to go by, the illusion of being sunnily en fête is widespread. For two months the city was eerily empty, but when I cycled through two days ago the Mill pub was doing a roaring trade in takeaway pints, with drinkers carrying their booty down to the river. Jesus Green was carpeted with picnickers (as it has been for 10 days now) and a gang of young men in their twenties had a car backed against one of the entrances blasting out rap music, ramping up the Party in the Park vibe.

But if there’s one summer pleasure that makes us feel almost Mediterranean, it’s the weather being balmy enough for an outdoor swim. Yes, I know some deranged souls brave winter water, but for most of us it’s sufficient proof of British grit to enjoy a bracing plunge in an early summer heatwave. Vast queues to the coast tell of the pressing need to take a briny dip. In Cambridge I found my way to the celebrated Riverbank Club, where the town’s diehard naturists go skinny-dipping.

My joy was complete when, turning my bike into my street, I heard a melody like panpipes from a lost world: the ice-cream van was back. True, the vendor was wearing a protective face shield and only selling pre-packaged lollies – but he turned my road into a seaside promenade. Children in shorts emerged from back gardens, with a couple in swimming costumes from their paddling pools.

This is a very British triumph of the spirit. We’re in the midst of one of the worst crises since the Second World War, but while the sun shines we’ll revel in our furlough festival.