Never have I deliberated so much about whether to go to the pub. “I’m still on for 7pm, I hope you have coronavirus because I want herd immunity,” messaged my friend on Saturday. It didn’t sound like the most enticing offer. I shared my mental micro-calculations about the risk with my boyfriend — which he countered by saying the pubs are still open, I’d been saying I wanted a pint and if we washed our hands and didn’t touch our faces we’d be fine (we’ve been having an extended heated discussion/argument about what is and isn’t paranoid regularly since the virus broke out and it usually ends with one of us going off in a huff, which bodes badly if we have to self-isolate together, or cocoon as it’s been rebranded).
What I’m finding difficult is a combination of a lack of control and uncertainty. I don’t want to “keep calm and carry on”, I’ve always hated that phrase. I understand nudge theory and the hazards of a nanny state but at the same time I would like boundaries; someone to tell me whether doing a trivial thing such as going to a yoga class will turn me into a super-spreader. Despite having a crush on Chief Medical Officer Chris Whitty, I don’t understand how infection spreads and that means everything feels fraught with potential danger. I was relieved when the Government finally recommended we avoid offices, pubs and travelling. Although pubs are still allowed to open, which makes their insurance claims for loss of business more difficult. “It’s open but you shouldn’t go” is a confusing message.
On Saturday, though, I did go. I thought if I was taking my life in my hands at the pub, I’d at least be guaranteed to get a table, but there was no chance of that. Everyone was either in the loo roll aisle of the supermarket or at the pub. And they were all talking about one thing. Coronavirus has infected all conversations in a way that even Brexit didn’t.
“This could be our last drink together for a while so let’s have a last hurrah,” was one strain of chat, along with: “At least in the war they could meet up with other people, let’s cross off the days of isolation and we will look back on this as an odd time we lived through”, “A doctor mate says...” and “Is it paranoid to [insert latest concern]?”
There are moments where no one knows what to say then someone brings up the Arnie Schwarzenegger video
As these conversations continue there are moments of panic where no one knows what to say, then someone will lighten the mood by asking what they should put in the background for their video calls when working from home or show that video of Arnold Schwarzenegger, age 72, in a Terminator T-shirt self-isolating his miniature horse Whiskey and pet donkey Lulu.
The pub briefly provided a semblance of normality but the virus was lurking, literally, on a sign saying “sport has been cancelled so this pub will be showing Coronation Street”. Not quite as exciting as the cup final. No wonder we are all obsessing over scouring the shops for the last tin of beans; it feels like the only action we can take. After some light stockpiling tourism I can report that corner shops have loo roll and if you like less popular pastas you will not go hungry — buckwheat fusilli is in rich supply because pasta snobbery is strong even in a pandemic. What is more painful is that the formerly trivial has become serious and we don’t know how long this will last.
Benita’s ending the race with good grace
I spent an hour interviewing Liberal Democrat mayoral candidate Siobhan Benita last week.
As we ate mozzarella and tomato salad on an outside table at Bar Italia in Soho, we talked about what she’d do if she was elected — including her plans for express bus routes — and how making kind decisions in politics is harder than it sounds.
When she started at the Civil Service it took her three months to feel confident enough to tell her manager that, as the only person in the office who didn’t go to private school, she didn’t understand the notes he wrote to her in Latin — he had just assumed that she spoke it.
This made her determined to attract people from a wider range of backgrounds to politics. But now her plans are on hold for a year because of the elections being postponed due to coronavirus. Benita, pictured, and her fellow candidates have taken this in good spirits, with far more grace than the frustrated journalists who transcribed interviews with them that now won’t run.
Beard bans
A bit of light relief is creeping through. There are videos of self-isolation with dogs on TikTok (I should have got one before this began), Instagram is full of pictures of spring blossom and NHS workers are having to consult a guide to which beards are the most hygienic.
There are 36 different varieties, with formidable names, and only 13 are safe. A friend has spent months cultivating what the chart calls The Garibaldi and has had to trim it down to The Zorro to prevent the spread of disease. The permitted beards are less appealing — you might be allowed in a hospital with the Soul Patch but on aesthetic grounds I’d argue that they aren’t a good idea anywhere else. They are also known as jazz dots or lady pleasers. Eew.
