As I write Emmanuel Macron is speaking to the French nation. Ben is watching while I try and chivvy the children into bed and to hang on to the hope of good news.
It is not to come. The lock down, our confinement, is going to continue here for at least another four weeks. We will be here until 11 May at the absolute earliest and, quite possibly until the middle of July, as some restrictions will continue until at least then.
And I realise that I had foolishly allowed myself to hope. That the lifting of restrictions in other European states might follow here and that we might be on the road again, perhaps even at the beginning of May.
But we will not be. And who knows if we will ever be. The countries we want to travel through, and to, also remain closed or locked down. We have no idea when that will change. Even if we can get to them, who knows if transport will run or our visas will be valid.
I am beginning to allow a glimmer of a possibility of a chance that we may not make it to Tokyo at all.
And I realise that this is a very selfish thought. This decision is absolutely the right thing. The stories coming out of the UK, and indeed our home town, where the ice rink is being turned into a temporary morgue, remain terrifying, as does much of the media coverage here. All we are being asked to do is stay put.
M. Macron has asked us to be calm and courageous, and he is right. There is nothing else we can do or be. We remain well. We remain safe. We are very fortunate indeed.
But for the moment I, at least, am, selfishly, bitterly disappointed too.
I suspect I will wake up in the morning having accepted this and, probably, having worked out in my head a multiplicity of ‘ifs’ that may still allow us to make our way East, perhaps even still overland.
For now though, I give thanks for all those who are keeping this and every other country running. We are all in their debt. I am going to try very hard not to forget that.