Wed, 08 Apr 2020 13:30:58 GMT
The beginning of this week feels like the time at a house party where the only beers left have fag ends in them, and the remaining two people with any energy left are sat on a sofa feeling each other up.
The lethargy stages of being locked down are upon us. The prior two weeks felt like the unusual coming together of the never-before-faced and the final days of a summer holiday the year before exams, the last summer when the word responsibility had that whiff of something foul and alien.
People worked. Of course we did. Ingenuity was, and remains critical; how can business succeed when the primary source of whatever its income is has all but ceased? Becoming a solution and offering assistance where possible were the first and obvious steps but, simultaneously, box sets were being devoured. Most of us knew who Joe Exotic is within a few days of our Oysters Cards being as useful as the UK’s response to Covid-19.
Popping open a beer and eating Doritos whilst sat in whatever was worn to bed was beginning to get more, I don’t know, acceptable, regardless of the time of day.
Now we’re reaching the point where patience wears thin. Most people are adhering to the request of our medical professionals and staying home. Other people, who we must assume have developed a tolerance to Coronavirus, lounge around in parks displaying levels of decrepitude that are almost impressive.
The watching of countless films, cooking with bay leaves and a pot of mustard found in Zone six of the fridge and telling everyone on Instagram is growing wearisome. Amusing dance routines aren’t as much fun anymore. The TikTok account that was happily joined will gather dust and Zoom meetings have started to lose there giggly fun. Yes, you want to jump up and down with Joe Fucking Wicks but now, what was so obvious to some (yes, me) is that he is exercises version of Jamie Oliver just with a tongue that fits in his mouth.
This is where the real spirit that we all need to discover is found. The Churchillian/Blitz spirit of ’39-’45 has, these past few weeks, been mentioned often, as is the idea that this is every generation, post second world wars, chance to show that we can be mentioned in the same breath as those who endured the Luftwaffe (only after a decent proportion of the populace have gone through supermarkets like a plague of locusts with the shits, and an unusual desire for packet pasta).
With luck, fortitude and a dose of not being an utter twat, we can all get back to having our faces crammed against a Central Line door, sweating tiny pools of sadness around the armpit and reminiscing about that time when everything so nearly went down the khazi but didn’t because we all did our bit. Now isn’t that a nice thought to get you through these strangest of times?