9 July 2020
View from the Cotswolds
Lockdown unlocked: As seen from behind the sofa
By Paul Branch
As a young squeamishly diffident child in the late 1950s, I was allowed to stay up late to watch the BBC’s scary black-and-white sci-fi series “Quatermass and the Pit”. After a couple of weeks of nightmares, that permission was amended to still being allowed in the same room as the TV but watching from behind the sofa, only raising my head above the parapet for the milder scenes. My inability to watch high-tension thrillers still remains with me, but has manifested itself into other genres (mutated, you might say), specifically live sport and now Covid-19.
As an example, I just could not bear to watch England scrape across the line in possibly the most nail-biting cricket match of all time: the World ODI final against New Zealand last summer. I can relish replays by the score, knowing the outcome, but the real live thing? No thank you. Similarly with West Ham: after two goal-less, point-less matches in the resumption, and convinced the relegation trap door is wide open beneath them, I’ve been able to follow their subsequent heart-warming progress only via text updates on the BBC app. Their recent relative successes must have been encouraged by the announcement of lockdown easing, whereby they were given tacit permission to occasionally enter their opponents’ penalty area, on condition they presented no danger to the opposition. Clearly they ignored the last bit, as I feared would be the case last weekend with the Grand Reopening of our local pub.
Many of my generation have had the dreaded “underlying conditions” (UC) suffix added to their name, to add spice to our pandemic experience. In my case, and in addition to living with a lady who has issues of her own, there are three: hypertension, mild obesity (but improving all the time with the new-found exercise regime), and age. Those of my generation who claim to be UC-free are probably lying about their age. Given my natural adversity to risk and any unnecessary exposure to it, the lockdown has been something of a haven, a barrier to protect a risk-free comfort zone, where the only reason to open the front door is to recover a box of groceries left on the doorstep by the nice delivery lady, or to accept a couple of harmless but priceless luxuries procured by the nice young couple next door (chocolate seems to figure prominently in these). The only excitement beyond that has been the frequent and thorough washing of hands, twenty seconds minimum, or two happy birthdays (thanks to Boris for that one) or if in a patriotic mood a resounding chorus of God Save The Queen (Jacob gratias).
The initial gradual easing of lockdown restrictions seemed perfectly reasonable at first, coupled with social distancing at 2 metres and the optional wearing of a face mask if venturing out. Then things started to get complicated and dependent on which part of the United Kingdom you were at or wanted to get to. And now we have Boris Bubbles of various shapes and sizes, again requiring a satnav to make sure you’re not on the wrong side of the government’s guidance. It’s not surprising that things have got a bit fractious over schools unable or refusing to open now or in September, with parents not quite sure whether they should be more worried about little Johnny if he catches the virus from one of his school mates, or about granny catching it from little Johnny. Thank goodness Mr Williamson our Minister for Education has taken a caring lead by threatening recalcitrant parents with fines if they keep little Johnny out of school in September. Nice touch that. And Boris helpfully reminding us to be sensible – that includes you, Dom.
The growing irritation between England and the devolved nations is also interestingly unedifying. We are still one integrated sovereign nation, or so I believe, led by Boris who also rejoices in the new self-proclaimed title of Minister for the Union just to underline how joined up we all are. The coordination and agreement between us has been truly stunning, culminating in Nicola Sturgeon refusing to be led astray by another government’s shambolic decision process when it comes to air bridges/corridors whatever, even suggesting at one point entrants from England might need to be quarantined at the border with Scotland. Cue an apoplectic Boris who clearly cannot abide the thought of any such thing within the UK, especially as the border down the Irish Sea with Northern Ireland isn’t really there.
What it’s all come down to is an understandable little bit of confusion both nationally and internationally. England and Scotland aren’t really getting on nicely due I suspect in some part to the previous bit of bother with IndyRef2; England and NI also not entirely happy with each other because of the aforementioned non-existent Irish border; England and Wales not speaking because …. well, they’re Welsh aren’t they? In some of the duller moments of lockdown I try to picture the documentation required for a P&O passenger ferry sailing between Belfast and Stranraer by way of Holyhead.
The international dimension is also fraught, with Portugal taking great exception to being lumped together with the USA, Brazil and other dangerously infectious countries as not worthy of being one of our chosen air corridors, and Japan struggling to understand why we will let them in unhindered (should they wish to come) but they won’t reciprocate because of our still infectious condition. Maybe it’s because we still cling on to bronze medal position in the Covid-19 league table.
Given all the confusion, finger-pointing and wrangling, I personally won’t be venturing too far outside any time soon, at least not until the various viral rates are closer to zero. I’m still very apprehensive – those who have been shielding must be absolutely terrified. I therefore will not be joining anyone on a crowded beach, in a pub or restaurant, shopping in a supermarket or retail outlet, or going on holiday. I have no problem with others exercising their right to freedom, as long as they respect my right not to become infected and the NHS’s not to become overburdened again.
I’m truly sorry that I therefore will not be able to respond more patriotically to the cry to spend spend spend for the sake of the economy, but instead will carry on doing my expenditure on-line whilst peeping occasionally over the back of the sofa to check on the infamous R number. With one important exception: I will be getting my hair cut, come what may.
