Boris Johnson has caught the virus. I’m not surprised, really. I can’t see him sanitising carefully before and after each contact with other people.
I found out yesterday that I don’t need to self-isolate for 12 weeks, which is fantastic. Less fantastic though, is that a lot of the people on the street haven’t got the message about keeping their distance. I had a go today at one woman who was wandering along, yacking into her phone and pushing a buggy. ‘Two metres, you’re supposed to stay away from other people!’ I shouted. She looked blank. She couldn’t hear me properly because she had buds in her ears.
The virus is making progress; the human race is not, really. The situation in the UK will be awful. People on Twitter are already calling the new hospitals in London, Birmingham and Manchester ‘morgues’. There seems to be an assumption that people will go there to die out of the way. A lot of them will be health care professionals who do not have the correct equipment to avoid the disease. This may all be social media exaggeration, but I doubt it. So far, the government seems to have pretended there was no impending crisis. Now it’s here, there is no way out. Might there have been alternatives? Who knows? Now there’s just very very bad and cataclysm, which is what they’re heading for in the States. I can hardly imagine how bad it will be there: Wyndham might have been able to write it.
As an individual, I am pretty powerless. I have put my teddy and a stuffed toy toucan in the window for #weregoingonabearhunt, and I try to keep my distance from other people in the park. Impossible with 20-something joggers who feel they’re invincible (oh, I remember that feeling! I do! The world was at my feet!) and don’t care who they breathe on. Go out, and sit in the park in the sun, and the world feels so normal, and you pinch yourself and think ‘Can I wake up from this nightmare? Is it really happening?’ and then you go home and the news sites are full of the latest death count.